Of Hubris & Condoms

Take Icarus, for example. As you might remember, Icarus and his father Daedalus are imprisoned by the Cretan King Minos for being suspected of helping his enemy, Theseus, escape from the Labyrinth. Daedalus, ever the keen inventor, fabricates wings of feathers and beeswax, for the pair of them to escape their prison.

Daedalus warns Icarus not to fly too close to the water, otherwise the feathers would get wet; nor to fly too close to the sun, lest the wax melt. Poor Icarus allows his hubris at mastering flight to overrule his father’s warnings, and he flies too close to the sun, thus melting the wax which causes the lad to plunge to his doom.

What does this have to do with kink, you might ask? Let me tell you about my own personal flight too close to the sun - involving a beautiful lass, a lovely planned scene, and the object of my demise, condoms.

I’ve been in the lifestyle for almost 20 years. I’ve had countless scenes during that time. Like many Doms, I’ve grown…well, let’s politely call it confident, in that time. In other words, my own mastery of “flight” has caused me to become arrogant. Just call me a modern-day Icarus.

Months ago, I connected with someone new to kink, who was here exploring. We began talking, building chemistry over the months we conversed. We planned a light scene as an introduction to some of the kinks she was most interested in exploring. We negotiated carefully, including a long litany of acceptable and unacceptable kinks. Tucked in that spreadsheet (you know, because I’m a data geek) was a note that she had a latex allergy.

The next night, while doing my weekly grocery shopping, I grabbed a couple of boxes of non-latex condoms in my cart – just in case our scene turned sexual.

Now, normally, in my Domly Dommiest Dom mode, I carefully plan everything in a scene. Lighting. Mood music. Scents. Review of limits 8 times until I have them memorized. Safe word/motion reviews 20 times. If it is a new play partner, I buy new equipment and test it to make sure it works properly. Planner, extraordinaire. I gleam, I shine, I plan better than the Operation Overlord staff.

Until I didn’t.

In my life, I have no idea how many condoms I’ve put on. Does anyone actually count this? I sure as hell don’t. Regardless, it isn’t difficult, right?

Or so I thought.

Fast forward to our second play session. I have everything planned down to the latest detail. We have a wonderful scene that ends up with her ankles bound to her wrists, a blindfold over her eyes, as she lays on the bed. I’ve teased and tortured her body long enough. It’s time for us both to find some relief - or to continue the analogy, freedom from the prison of pent-up sexual frustration.

I move to the side of the bed, where on the nightstand lies the two boxes of not-so-carefully selected non-latex condoms. I open the box, tear the package open and pull out the condom. I stare in disbelief.

Now, for those of you uneducated folks out there (like I was!), non-latex condoms are made of several alternative substances, depending on the manufacturer and model. In this case, I’d chosen lambskin. Now, if I’d been the planner I thought I was, I would have bought additional ones, pulled one out and made sure I understood the nuances.

I didn’t. Damn that hubris.

What stared back at me looked like a congealed mass of snot someone blew out of a nose. It did not resemble the condoms I’ve used time and time again. Now, I should have been prepared. I wasn’t. I fumbled, I attempted to untangle it. I failed miserably.

No problem. This is why I bought extra! The boy scout in me beamed at my level of preparedness. In hindsight, I should have realized I was already flying too close to the sun.

So I pull another out, expecting a different result. Silly me. The second tangled mess quickly follows the first into the trash. No problem. I caress my partner’s leg to let her know I am still there, in reassurance. I reach for the second box, now (finally) sensing that perhaps the sun is a little closer than it should be. Not only is the wax melting, but so is that all-important bloodflow to the nether regions.

Now, the second box is made from a synthetic non-latex material. Surely THESE must be like the condoms of which I am familiar. My confidence restored, along with my erection, I rip open the box and pull out one of the condoms – which doesn’t unroll around my member. I chuckle at the ludicrous situation, as I begin the plummet to the cold sea below.

My partner, plugged into my vibe, opens her mouth. “Everything ok?”

It is a pivotal moment. To confess my ignorance and seek her help, or maintain the plummet to the sea and hope to pull up at the last minute? With a shake of my head, I pull off her blindfold.

“I need your help. I’m having trouble with the condom,” I hear myself saying, feeling like our roles have just reversed and I am the newbie. In my version of Icarus, I belatedly have come to the realization that I've gone from soaring too high in my hubris, to plunging in free fall toward the unwelcome, cold waters of certain failure.

I help her out of the bonds, the scene all but stopped, and lay back on the bed, allowing her to place the condom. She grabs the last lambskin condom and I hear her tear the package open. A moment later her voice echoes in my head.

“What the hell?” Perhaps Icarus isn’t the only one getting too close to the sun. “It’s all…tangled.”

I chuckle in response, feeling slightly better.

I hear the condom hit the trash, striking the top of the pile that is starting to resemble a mini Apex landfill.

I silently tabulate the results so far. Down to our last two strikes.

I feel her hand stroke my cock, helping to elevate my “confidence”. I pull out another condom and hand it to her. Icarus flaps his wings once more, putting some distance between the certain death of the ocean. Except, that’s not what happens.

“I can’t get it to unroll,” come the words I was dreading. Perhaps the sea would win after all. My head sags into the bed. One more chance.

I reach over and grab the last condom. Five down, only one left. It is time for the final beat of the wings, to see if we fly over the wall of the prison, or end up drowning in the sea.

I tear open the package and ensure that it unrolls properly before handing it to her, holding my breath. With the final flap of wings, this Icarus slips over the walls of the prison and into the sweet, delightful freedom that lies beyond, mostly humbled and somewhat awed by the experience.

Author's Note: I deliberately left which partner this was out of the writing for anonymity purposes.