The more time I spend with them, the more I feel that condoms are the worst idea man has ever come up with. And no, it has nothing to do with the “feeling.”

I hate condoms because the little Catholic boy in me gets embarrassed every time I have to buy them. He’s not scared of wasting his seed (Sing it! Every sperm is sacred…), he’s scared of someone knowing about it.

I avoid the subject of “them” as much as possible because “they” embarrass me. When people see condoms, they know exactly what you’re doing. It’s a complete invasion of privacy.

My resident assistant freshman year got so annoyed with my stammering, woebegone way of asking him for free condoms he provided that he said, “Why be embarrassed? You’re getting laid. That’s awesome, you moron.”

But that didn’t make me feel any better. If anything I was even more uncomfortable. (He knew I was having sex…gross.)

Even when I think of my RA’s inspiring words, I still approach the cash register, box of phallus wrappers in hand, and get the same scared, bottom-of-my-stomach nausea. More and more I think this is my body’s physical reaction to the embarrassing-but-true reality that I am feeling judged by the clerk.

You probably don’t think about it too much, but the clerk at your grocery store knows more about you than most people. He or she knows what kind of food you put in your body, your favorite toothpaste, and now your sex life (I can only assume that they also giggle about your KY Warming Liquid as well).

It’s too much to imagine they know all of that. Some of my best friends have no idea.

I will concede that the clerk probably doesn’t care about me personally, but still, with all of the talk about “keeping it in the bedroom,” it does suck. Just imagine their thoughts: “Frozen pizza…peanut butter…box of Trojans? Who’s sleeping with this idiot?”

Terrifying.

The only idea worse would be if the clerk were actually depressed about the situation. What if they saw me there with condoms and thought, “Why am I alone?” That’s the type of thing that puts Woody Allen on a psychiatrist’s couch every week.

I worked at a McDonald’s for nine months and, believe me, we judged people all the time. A person with that expansive double-ass (where the front and back are equal orbs) would get ridiculed for hours after they left. I add in the knowledge of that person’s sex life, and I don’t want to imagine the things we’d have said.

My girlfriend asked me about why condom purchasing made me nervous (as I talked her into buying them instead) and, when I was done telling her, she stared at me for about 30 seconds before calling me an idiot. And she’s right. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about practicing safe sex.

But think about this if you agree with her: The clerk at the grocery store has a tattoo on his neck that says “Maddog.”

If you’re OK with that guy knowing about your plans, then buy up.  Then could I just have a couple?

Patrick Duganz