Condoms have been around since the days Cleopatra made Marc Antony wrap his rascal in a dried sheep intestine to protect against Mount Vesuvius Rash. They made a brief reappearance in the 17th century when the Marquis de Sade decided to roll his rod in bacon prior to his romps with livestock. Even the modern age version has peculiar origins. Whatever possessed Alfred Trojan to dunk his erect penis in vulcanized rubber, we may never know. I can only surmise it had something to do with fraternity hazing and a hell of a lot of alcohol.

It is small wonder, that given their questionable beginnings, manufacturers have endeavored to make them more attractive to we consumers. Colors, textures, flavors, hell, they even glow in the dark. Yet, despite the best marketing in the world, men continue to compare them to a raincoat, and women still moan that they disrupt the spontaneity of lovemaking. Face it. Condoms get a bum rap. Well, actually, they get a penis wrap...but you get the picture.

Personally, I am extremely fond of the floppy little rubber guys. Heck. I'll go all out. I LOVE condoms. My reasons, you ask? Disease protection? Pregnaphobia? Nymphomaniac? Nah. Sure, I agree with the medical community that they provide a barrier between you and some pretty nasty infections. As for fear of pregnancy, I am happily married, have three young daughters and a husband who was snipped years ago. And as far as nymphomania is concerned, I will admit that sex with my husband does nothing but get better everytime. And if that means wearing a cat costume while hanging from the ceiling fan while being tickled with ... ... ... Now, what were we discussing? Ah yes, the reason for my condom devotion.

Plain and simple, in a nutshell, you can throw the wet spot away.

Face it, sex is a messy, fluid laden affair, with the responsibility for clean-up generally at the female's feet. I mean that literally. I once awoke at 2am, after a particularly pleasant session with my spouse earlier that evening. As I walked to the kitchen for a drink, I felt something hit my foot. Imagine my surprise to look down and see my husband staring up at me from my sock. Every female reading this knows exactly what I mean, so I offer the following for the boyfriends and spouses who are in need of enlightenment. You see men, the law of gravity holds true for everything on this planet. What goes up, must come down, and what goes in WILL come out.

Think about it boys. When you put money into your financial institution, it does not just disappear. You can go right around the corner to the ATM and out it will come. By the same token, when you make a deposit at the bank of our womanhood, it is not just soaked up by some magical cervical "teller". We become ATM's (All That Mess), so to speak and are reminded of the romp for at least 24 hours after the fact.

As Bambi, 19, a waitress/brain surgeon from Boston describes it, "I go through more underwear the day after sex, than a potty training two year old!" Trixie, 24, a stock broker/super model from New York recounts with horror the time she was in a high level board meeting. "My boyfriend and I had started the day with killer sex. As I sat there interacting with the executive committee of the brokerage firm, I sneezed, and slid right out of my chair and under the table!"

Depending on how long it has been since you last fired your "love rocket", the amount of nuclear waste can be considerable. As Frangelica, 30, a chef/water skier explains so graphically, "My boyfriend and I had not seen each other in two months. I could make an entire omelet from the "egg white" fallout the day after!" How's that for a visual?

Forget about the fact that your "gift" is messy. It can also be a hazard to public safety. Giselle, 22, a debutante from Beverly Hills, is lucky to come from a wealthy family. She shudders delicately, as she remembers that day... "Bronson and I had been making love in the poolhouse. Afterwards, we decided to go shopping and he asked me to leave my underwear at home. The thought excited both of us. Imagine my horror, when from behind me in the mall I heard an old woman slip and cry out, "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!"

The woman quietly settled out of court to avoid embarrassing headlines such as OCTOGENARIAN CRIPPLED BY SPERM SLIPPAGE!, and now resides in a retirement villa in Montego Bay.

So, there you have it guys. Give us a break every now and then. We don't care if it sparkles, comes in designer colors, or has more topography than a map of Tibet. Just put on that little raincoat of love and YOU be the ones to "drip-toe" to the bathroom when it's over. Yes, your pleasure may be slightly lessened, but you will surely earn the love and admiration of our hearts, our underwear, our co-workers and mall walkers everywhere. (Besides, I hear Mount Vesuvius Rash is making a comeback.)

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