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Lynn Harris

You know how those contraindications on prescriptions never apply to you? They're always like, "Do not use if you are under the age of seven, have ever had scurvy, can succinctly explain the designated hitter rule or actually made it through the last season of the X-Files."

That's why I'm glad I read the fine print about the Pill. "Do not use if you have a family tendency to develop blood clots." I do. And that's why I am the only person I know who uses a diaphragm.

I love my diaphragm. I love it because - especially considering its formidable power - it is adorable. Dusted with baby powder, it sits like a smooth sandy scallop, or a giant floury orecchietta, inside its square plastic box the color of, um, pink yarn booties.

I love my diaphragm because it makes me laugh. I cannot take it out without thinking of this Sylvia cartoon that cracked us up in high school, something like, "Don't throw that old diaphragm away! It can be re-used as … a doorknob cover! A rain hat for a cat!" Remarkably, this was back when we still wondered how the hell you made out without bonking noses and believed that Gigi Willis was the only senior who'd had sex.

I love my diaphragm because it's old school. Creepy Norplanty things that play foosball with your hormones? No thanks! That's me, skipping gaily along wearing a Kotex attached to a belt. Tra-la!

And I love my diaphragm because it is hot. No, I have never experienced any Porky's slapstick where the little bugger pops out of my hand and Frisbees out the window…right into the hot guys' shirtless volleyball game! I just goop it up, fold it like a samosa, ploop it in, and I'm off to the races before my boyfriend can say "Is that a scallop in your pocket, or …?" Often long before - and that's the hot part. Did you know you can ploop in that kitty rain hat up to six hours avant le deluge? My boyfriend does. So sometimes I D-up before dinner, just in case - and just to keep him guessing. If I were on the Pill, see, he'd know he could have me anytime. But this way, he never knows if I'm walking around ready, really ready, ready as Gigi Willis, to get busy. Mystery plus safety. Aww, yeah. That's what really gets my blood flowing. Which is good considering my family history.

Lynn Harris is the "Dating Dictionary" columnist for Glamour and co-creator of

Mary Vulva

I come from a family where sex is not talked about frankly, unless it's in the "sex can ruin your life" vain. My parents aren't fundamentalists or anything, but they just don't have an incredibly open-minded view about their children having sex. Which is fine, since I don't have a really open-minded view about talking to my parents about sex. (I am, for the record, old enough so that it's no longer necessary for me to have talks with my folks about sex, drugs, smoking or drinking.)

The first time I broached the topic of birth control with my mother, she reacted negatively, so I assumed that while her lips were saying, "I don't want to hear about this stuff from you," her heart was saying, "I don't want to hear about this stuff from you, but just be safe."

I first went on the pill in college, with my first long-term boyfriend. We were together six months before we went ahead and took the plunge. I made him wait before I got on the pill and got it working before I let him do me, so I've always had a very pragmatic, businesslike approach to birth control. I was extra careful if I had diarrhea, had thrown up or was on antibiotics.

I got my first pill from my college gyno, who bore a resemblance to Isaac Hayes. He was black, deep-voiced and seemed to have an appreciation for "getting' it on." It was called Alesse, and I didn't trust it because it came in this tiny white pack instead of the familiar circular clicky dispenser. Also, it made me insane. I cried almost every other day when I was on it, and I don't even cry at funerals.

So, I switched to Ortho-tri-cyclen, which was nice and familiar except for the fact that over the past few years, it's had the tendency to give me periods that last for two weeks. This is merely disgusting, not painful, so I just deal with it.

That first boyfriend enjoyed bareback sex, and since we were monogamous, I went along with it. My current boyfriend though demands the use of condoms, and here's where I probably diverge from every other sexually active person in the universe: I prefer sex with condoms. Maybe I'm just not that sensitive a gal, but I really can't feel the difference. Plus, given the option of having mucusy, stinky, warm, neverending cum dribble out between your legs and not, I'll take option two. My sheets are thanking me for it, too.

As opposed to the neat and cleanness of those patches or those weird little tubes they stick in your arms, I don't' really mind the cumbrances of the pill or condoms. It just sort of makes you appreciate that sex is something you've got to be responsible about.

Although, I would propose one thing to the birth control makers: Make girls and boys get a fertility test before they become sexually active. If I spent all this money and time on these pills and rubbers and it turned out I couldn't get pregnant anyway, well, I'd be pissed.

And sad, I guess, too.

Mary Vulva is a pseudonym. She doesn't want her mother to yell at her.

Tracy Weiss

My method of birth control? Conceited assholes I meet in midtown bars. One look at light blue button downs, black pants and Kenneth Cole shoes three seasons old and I'm dryer than the stale crumbs at the bottom of the Saltine box. I hate how they pour out of lounges at 3am on the first snowy day starting snowball fights or talk about impromptu theme parties in college. Look at me, ladies…I'm whimsical…fuck me…I'm so spontaneous.

It's this impulsiveness I both admire and fear. See, I worry about the men. Yes, you. Those who are so excited about finally having sex with someone real, not just that old school Kathy Ireland poster, that you forget about one little detail: condoms.

You can't fuck everything with two tits, a hole and a heartbeat anymore. During those decades, love without the glove MAYBE results in a shot of penicillin. In today's world, you die. You could need AZT every day of your life! And who has that kind of cash? This whole safe sex thing is more of a financial matter then a health issue. I know there are guys out there saying, "Tracy, you are a dizzy cunt, I know the rules…my woman's on the pill." Fellas, name your first born after me…you cannot trust some random bitch you've known for a month to take her pill on time. I applaud those in HIV-free monogamous relationships that ride bareback. It enables you to bust a move (and a nut) any time and any place. But the rest of you? I can't remember where I put my wallet. And I am smarter than most of the girls who would fuck you.

Think about it. It could get expensive. You have to take care of a kid until they're old enough to sell into slavery. Hell, maybe I'm wrong and you guys know your own business. Who need condoms when you have prayer? The "please god, I'm not ready to be a baby daddy" method really works.

Who needs condoms when you have a credit card? Abortion as a method of birth control that doubles as a creative date is really underrated. Forget the bed and breakfast getaway. An abortion is a super bonding albeit expensive activity. If you're counting your pennies, a great date doesn't have to break the bank. Grab a wire hanger and go fetus fishing. See if you catch yourself a big one.

Don't get me wrong, I like to jump into the sack probably MORE than the next gal, but its simple economics, gentleman. The opportunity cost of your 11 minutes of ecstasy versus an empty wallet-- shell out the $8.99 for the box of Durex and make us both happy, huh?

Tracy Weiss, New York City newbie and consummate bar star, believes that strippers can be crack whores with flabby asses as long as they have a nice pair.

Jennie Dorris

Girls from my high school went on birth control because they had "bad periods." We knew this because the town's pro-life newsletter would contact the local pharmacists and run lists of the teenage girls that went on birth control. "Bad periods" were an okay excuse. "It helps clear up my skin" was a bit weaker.

In 11th grade a girl's parents sued the school when she volunteered to put a condom on a model of a penis. The parents won, and we were no longer allowed to have sex education classes and no free condoms were allowed in our hallways.

My friends were part of Baptist churches. We would go there and have "True Love Waits" programs. I learned not to dress in a way that tempted men. I learned not to move beyond peck kissing, because at any time I could end up becoming one of the pregnant girls writing into the minister saying, "I didn't think it could happen to me."

Buzzwords around my high school were "the death spiral of petting." They closed the local center that would watch the children of high school girls, forcing them to drop out. Amidst all of this, my high school grew to have the second highest pregnancy rate in the nation.

I started to love my period. Every month it came, I would stare at the brown-red smudges self-righteously.

I got a boyfriend, and inevitably moved down the death spiral of petting. I would freak out about semen stains on my pants, and ministers I confided in would tell me I was going to become pregnant, or deserved to be.

They would not allow a movie theater into town, because it could show R movies. Make-out happened in the movies. They built a white picket fence all the way around the town, keeping whatever happened on that petting spiral out.

I bought Spray-n-wash to get the embarrassing stains out of my clothes.

And I grew, through all of it, to love my period more than my god, to know that the chunks and pain of my body leaving itself was the sort of confirmation that I was winning and escaping the guilt. Our god was our Santa Claus, and the most important thing was to not get caught.

My god ended up being my menstrual cycle. That's the way of the Bible Belt.

Jennie Dorris is the prettiest thing in Colorado. She is also publisher of Knot Magazine.

Amy Blair

I have found that the only 100% effective form of birth control is to date gay men. Case in point: I, personally, have never dated a straight man in my life. And, in almost twenty-six years, I have never once had a baby. If that's not living proof of the effectiveness of my method, well, I don't know what is.

I actually stumbled upon this birth control method by accident. The men that I've been with have certainly presented themselves as straight-in the beginning. However, by some fabulous stroke of luck, a few weeks into every relationship, I've found out that I'm indeed dating a gay man. Every. Damn. Time.

Now, I'm a pretty liberal-minded chick. I can handle a drunken admission of an "accidental" man-on-man blow job that happened years ago during an "experimental" phase involving just the right combination of Mad Dog 20/20, youthful exuberance, and cocaine. But when those "accidental" blow jobs are happening while you are passed out in the next room, well, you come to realize pretty quickly that you are without a doubt dating a totally gay man.

Don't get me wrong-I'm not complaining. The perks of exclusively dating gay men go beyond effective birth control. It's a proven fact that gay men are more attractive, more fun, and smell better than straight men. Not to mention, Lord knows I don't need any babies.

Of course, Planned Parenthood is not yet promoting this method of birth control. But unless you see yourself on the fast track to dirty diapers, saggy breasts, and stretch marks, gay boyfriends are a surefire way to ward off the wee ones. And let's face it, the clean apartments, good shoes, and designer drugs that come with the territory don't hurt either.

Condoms break. The pill makes you fat. IUDs, diaphragms, and cervical caps are just plain disgusting. So if you don't want to get pregnant, take a tip from one who knows, and get yourself a homo and a Judy Garland CD. After all, you're only young once.

Amy Blair is one of the naughtiest women on the planet. When she's not dating homos, she's busy at work looking at Craig's List.