Birth Control, Sex Control

I’m into it. I’ve been advocating for it. I’ve been conscientious - I’ve made my fair share of Facebook statuses. Birth control.

Anything to protect my precious physical form, to ensure that guy you barely know from the bar doesn’t become half the genetic code for the single most transformative instance of your life, to provide stable relationships with enough time to build stable homes to raise stable kids, or to stop having them - fuck there’s already too many.

Some people just don’t want kids. For now, forever, - whatever. Mostly anyone without some serious religious hang-ups, scruples, or a supreme misunderstanding of the human body can find some communion in the need to facilitate a safer brand of sex.

As we learned in those awkward and tender moments from health class - somewhere between condomed bananas and the one smug kid who had the foresight to bring in a cucumber from home - birth control comes in many types.

But this isn’t a fucking after school special. You know your shit. So I’ll cut to the chase: I’m talking about the pill.

I moved to Ireland last year, and when I thought American men were pretty crafty about getting around condoms - I’ve never been so impressed by the sheer magnitude of disbelief the little plastic thing could conjure on a freckled and disgruntled Irish face.

In Ireland, abortion isn’t legal. Consequently, most girls elect to take the pill, because any birth control failure and unexpected pregnancy warrants what I call the ‘ferry of shame’ - a boat ride to neighboring England where everyone sleeps around happily and calmly because of legalized abortion. Because that’s what pro-choice people do: rampant orgiastic sex with little to no regard for consequences. Obviously.

So, never missing an opportunity to not get pregnant, I decided why not give it go. A little extra security never hurt anyone. I haven’t gotten knocked up yet. That’s a plus. But I have experienced a few symptoms that affect both myself and my men (plural for the sake of anonymity...blissful, blissful anonymity) in ways that I find fairly disappointing.

I was expecting the abrupt mood shifts - I could recognize that and ignore anything I knew was ridiculous. Hormonal anger feels different. It’s easy enough to quell. I expected the weight shift. Thankfully it was in the downward direction, even though it could have gone either way. As you can imagine, this quite pleasing to be honest.

It was the decreased libido that took me by surprise. Now, I’ve had a dirty mind since I could think, and pretty soon the body caught up. My sexual appetite has never wavered, faltered, or subsided. I am a machine. It’s like an extreme form of the female equivalent to emasculation. Defemination, if you will.

I guess this can be read as a sort of disclaimer, that everyone medication has its positives and negatives and that you should always be fully aware of what you put in your body, pills or dicks alike.

When I go a few days without sending out my booty call feelers or tuning into quality internet pornography - when I go to sleep unsatiated and not wanting satisfaction only to wake up content instead of goddamn ecstatic, I wonder what kind of zombie pills I’m putting in my body.

The point of the pill seems circular (duh) - and I wonder if it’s not just Sex Ed’s last laugh. A cure for any of my unladylike stirrings, screaming abstinence from a chalkboard, tearing the voracious sexual spirit from my loins and holding it front of the class for all to see. She’s not doing what she’s supposed to be doing.

At what cost, I ask myself - will we finally get a pill without these side effects? What is the happy medium? How can I have my fun without worrying so much about my health? Looks like we're back to where we started, almost as if these trials didn't have a point at all. Once again, the only solution is the good old fashioned rubber. Wrap it before you tap it is probably the only tried and true lesson to be gathered here.

KGazm | Elite.