I don’t know if Trojan still uses “Ribbed for her pleasure” as a condom advertising slogan, but they used to. But was it true? Do ridges on a condom really give her more pleasure?
It turns out that all the way back in 1998, an intrepid reporter by the name of Mark Leigh wondered the same thing. He decided to test the theory with his girlfriend, but she was dubious. He required an extended campaign of wheedling, but finally, he cajoled her into an erotic-research frame of mind. This comic article in the long-lost “webzine” LeisureSuit.net is his less-than-conclusive report on the matter:
Annals of Sensitivity: the Ribbed Issue
“You want to use my pussy for a Pepsi Challenge?!?”
Allison said this loud enough to make the waiters at the intimate little bistro I’d picked out just for this proposal blush. And they were French.
“Shh. Just, just calm down for a minute. Don’t Dworkin-out on me there.”
This was countered by a blank stare. I could tell my Vichyssoises was getting warm.
I was to determine if the human vagina can actually differentiate between the ribbed condom and the regular. I’m usually of the belief that the Big Companies are always out to screw us (condom companies perhaps a bit more literally) and will go to any ridiculous length to expand their market share. Soap companies realize that hair is important to many clean people–they invent shampoo. Most of us don’t have the lab technologies at our disposal to conduct research. And no men can really, really know what she’s feeling down there. My obligation to you, the reader: either to expose the myth, or to hop around shouting, “My God it actually works!!”
I figured Allison would support my lefty-anti-corporate-up-against-the-wall-muthafucka endeavour. I was wrong.
That evening was spent loveless, and each attempt I made to plead my case was shot down under cries ranging from personal embarrassment to patriarchal perpetuation of mystifying and thus disarming the female orgasm. Concerning the latter I argued that the sheer mystery of the female orgasm likened it to the much sought after, respected and worthy alternate planes of existence from the game Dungeons & Dragons that could be found neither by map nor magic, but through non-traditional means of navigation. She said only, “God, you are a boy.”
Weeks passed. My deadline loomed. If ever I tried to bring the experiment up, always umbrella-d by bridging a so-called gender gap, hit I was by a sideways glance. Anger and resentment were dropping by for weekend visits. Finally, a warm day. A walk, a midday beer, a black & white movie. We stopped at a druggist’s. I needed some Right Guard, Vitamin B-12 and dishwashing liquid. Allison made her way to the feminine sections. Before her stood a vast array of cleansers, douches, wipes and shields.
“You see what we women have to go through?!?” she pointed out.
“There’s enough material there to justify an amendment.” I countered. She smiled. On the shelf next to all this-Condoms. I was feeling, forgive me, cocky.
“Hey, whaddya say we give it a shot, huh?”
She gave a crooked smile. Would it make me happy? I said it would. Fine. I approached the counter with my goods, including a small box of Trojan Ribbed Condoms.
As we entered my apartment and took off her clothes, Allison offhandedly commented that I should have picked Sheik . . . she always preferred Sheik. I’m a pedestrian guy–I work with Windows, drink Coca-Cola, and use AT & T. I’ve only used Trojan condoms. Allison and I have been dating for two and a half years.
Back at the ranch, I disrobed, ignoring the ghosts of the legions of fantastic Sheik-wearers Allison has known throughout the years. We looked at one another in a sexless manner: this was science.
“I need to get the control condoms.” I rustled through my sock drawer and pulled out a half empty box of plain ol’ lubed up non-ribbers.
“Why have you got those?” she asked.
“This was the last box I bought . . . before you went on the pill.”
“Yeah, but, like, I went on the pill when you still lived at Columbia. Why did you bring that with you, you didn’t need it anymore?”
“I took everything from my medicine cabinet, threw it in a box marked ‘Medicine Cabinet’ and that was it. I hardly thought twice about it.”
She stood silent for a moment, her eyes not betraying a thought. Finally, “Am I right in thinking that everything in your ‘medicine cabinet’ box was quickly put in your new medicine cabinet once you moved here, with the sole exception being this box of condoms, which somehow managed to find its way to your sock drawer?”
She had a point. I don’t know why I put them in there. Maybe, subconsciously, her suspicions were correct: they were there to be kept in secret. But I had never cheated on her, nor did I intend to. But maybe there was a part of my brain, the very core of my masculinity, that worked on auto-pilot in the hopes that I may one day break free of my monogamy. And if I did, I would be ready for myself.
“Allison! I don’t–Th-the-they’re there because they’re there. They’re probably so old that the spermicide has turned to crust! Can we just do this and get it over with?”
“Words every woman wants to hear,” she said as she sat at the foot of my bed.
“Well, I’m dedicated to my craft. How many guys will purposely wear a rubber if their girlfriend is on the pill? Now get on your knees. I’ll have to enter you from behind, so you can’t see what I’m doing.”
“I can just close my eyes and picture Antonio Banderas as usual.”
“Ha ha.”
I had her on her knees, ass up in front of me, legs apart, and entryway poised at an angle of least resistance. Despite all the arguing, this was, and shall always be, a sight that quickly gets me . . . attentive. I rolled the first condom on, a ribbed one. I called out, as cold and clinical as I could, This is Exhibit A.
I entered her, and I immediately had two somewhat conflicting thoughts. Having not used a condom in over 18 months I was horrified in the intense drop in sensation. We in the AIDS generation rationalize depriving ourselves from the near-Roman sexcapades our older cousins had in the 70s with thoughts like–“Condoms aren’t that bad, you can hardly tell the difference.” Well, even though they’re handy in containing the mess, I can say, right here and right now, that you sure as shit can tell the difference.
Now, that being said, the second more Ralph Kramden thought I had was–Hey! Why doesn’t someone market these to guys with pre-mature ejaculation troubles?
I continued poking her, repeating, as sensually as I could “Exhibit A, Exhibit Aaaaaaay.” After a few minutes, she started getting into it, and she quietly started calling back, “Exhibit A.” There we were, cooing to each other, “Exhibit A.” I figured this is what Marcia Clark and Chris Darden’s love life was like. Then I pulled out, snapped the condom off, placed it back inside the wrapper (I’m particular about getting germs on my bed), ripped open a regular condom for Exhibit B and rolled it on.
“Okay, here comes Exhibit B. Are you ready?”
“Oh, I thought you were done.”
“What?”
“Well, I’ve got my head down in this pillow–”
“Well I’m not done! How could I be done? Am I ever done so soon?”
“Um . . . after a few beers . . .”
She sat up and faced me, and I scrambled to hide the condom wrappers so she couldn’t see whether Exhibit A was ribbed or not. Eventually she retracted her previous statement, after I cited countless precedents of intense masculinity, however she handed me this line about having to “warm her up” now that the “moment has passed.” This was all total gibberish to me, but I complied, and I spent the next little while kissing and rubbing her. Finally we got worked up to where we were before.
“Now,” I asked, “do you remember how Exhibit A felt?”
“Huh?”
“Exhibit A. I’m about to give you some Exhibit B, but you need to be able to compare it to Exhibit A, and that was already some time ago.”
“Whatever, j-j-just, come on already.”
“No! No, ‘whatever!’ What do you think I’m doing this for, my health?”
“Gee, I don’t know, a lot of guys like to have sex with their girlfriends.”
“A lot of guys who use Sheik condoms!”
Again, sitting up and facing me. She shouted, “Just what the hell does that mean?!”
I stared at the ground and mumbled a little. She persisted, what’s wrong, what’s the matter, why am I upset? I go mumble mumble Sheik mumble mumble condoms are better mumble mumble I never use Sheik condoms mumble mumble.
“So I prefer Sheik condoms. Is this the end of the world?”
“Do you prefer Sheik condoms or the cock that goes inside of them?”
“Don’t be gross.”
“What woman prefers a condom?!? Maybe you’ve got fond memories of past Sheik shags. The condom brand itself has no bearing in a woman’s enjoyment level!”
She countered, “What do you know from a woman’s enjoyment level!”
Once more, I named very specific and precise dates, places and scenarios to prove the contrary. And did so until she saw the error in her prior statement. And spun that the comment was made more in reference to my current interest in ascertaining female response to ribbed v. non-ribbed condoms. I nodded in acceptance.
We kissed and rubbed again for what seem like hours. Once worked up, and quite well I might add, she assumed the position. I entered, with a new Exhibit B, the old one not having survived all the tumultuous . . . ups and downs.
Exhibit B I reminded her. She huffed and puffed in agreement, playing along and trying her best to remain scientific, getting into it and saying things under her breath like, “Uh-huh, Exhibit B. Yep yep Exhibit B.” It was around here when I realized that Exhibit A, the ribbed rubber, didn’t really get a fair shake. I decided to extend my experiment to include Exhibits C and D, which would be another non-ribbed and ribbed respectively, changing the order just to see if she’s really paying attention. I hope you’re taking notes. And . . . Jesus . . . I’d better do this quick.
I quieted her down, and as quickly as possible unsheathed myself and tore open a new control condom. I noticed now, with three different condoms’ worth of lubrication over my member, that it is very difficult to roll anything new on. I panicked about taking too long. I really, really did not want to spend another twenty minutes kissing her. I forced the thing on and stretch my skin down my shaft. Painful. I told myself that once I got back inside of Allison the problem will right itself, like jumping in the pool with burning hot feet.
I was mistaken.
I poked her without any real rhythm or manner, and blurted out, “Okay, this is Exhibit C. Whattaya think of that?”
“Uh it’s great.”
I threw in a couple of long, slow thrusts, to make sure she got the point and repeated, “Exhibit C. That’s this.”
“Uh-huh. Got it.”
I tore open a ribbed for Exhibit D, and wiped all the spermicidal slime off on a T-shirt from the floor. I spent a brief anxious moment wondering what kind of germs could possibly be on this shirt, then I tossed it over to my open laundry basket. I missed, and then I had to decide whether or not to let this dirty, filthy shirt lie around in the open air or get back to the business at hand. I chose the latter.
I channeled my nervous energy from the stray shirt into giving Exhibit D a good show of it. A really good show. Allison and I were at our best. Great wailings of “EXHIBIT D” heard from both of us. The neighbors must’ve thought Court TV and Playboy had their signals crossed. As the deal looked like it was about to close for both of us, I recognized that this experiment had somehow mutated into good sex (which, as we’ve discussed, is not in any way an isolated event, but something, nonetheless, not to ignore). I got very depressed about wasting my upcoming orgasm trapped here inside a condom. Suddenly, a thunderbolt.
I exclaimed, “Exhibit E!” and tore the offensive latex from me. From condom to nothing . . . it’s like going from black and white into color. Letterboxed. Exhibit E, free and easy, I admit, does not last very long.
Exhausted, I crawled off the bed, put the shirt in the laundry bag, and asked, “So . . . whaddya think?” Oddly enough, this is not the first time I’ve used this phrase directly after sex.
She thought for a moment, then, “The best were Exhibit B and Exhibit D. Equally.”
B and D? Let me think. That’s a ribbed and a non-ribbed. I frowned and told her that they were both the same type, so we could conclude that there is no real noticeable difference. I am happy in my work. Then she adds, “Of course, there are so many other factors . . . technique, level of interest, buildup . . .”
Again I frowned. I have let my readers down. The experiment has no real scientific merit. Except for one thing . . .
“One thing I can say for sure,” she says, “the worst was that Exhibit E.”
