The Birds & The Bees….

I came across a Haitian Proverb once that said something to the effect of, “Better Rags than Nudity.”  I’m with the Haitians. Nudity is not my thing.

I once entered an adult video store in search of “little person” porn as a gag gift for the birthday of one of my closest friends.  I clearly overestimated my maturity in this mission as immediately upon entering the store, I stood mouth agape, among the aisles of edible underwear and anal beads and began to hyperventilate.

I stared in shock and awe at all the patrons shopping as real consumers.  I had assumed people only shopped in places like this as a joke, but the couple intently discussing the durability of a leather whip suggested otherwise.  Hadn’t I seen them arrive in a mini-van?

I immediately dropped my gaze and headed to the counter for assistance.  The store clerk gazed upon my Banana Republic clad person questioningly for the briefest of moments before pointing toward the back of the store and advising that the “fetish related films” could be found in that general direction.

After stammering on about having no fetishes whatsoever until she gave the “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” look, I ultimately purchased a video called, “Itty Bitty Gang Bang” and made my exit….quietly praying that the details of this purchase would not be reflected on my credit card transaction for all of financial history.

I have also never seen “Boogie Nights,” because the idea of having to sit in a room with anyone, even just myself, while the giant penis of Mark Wahlberg, prosthetic or not, swings into view, is not something I care to endure.  Who the hell wants to see one of those they aren’t married to or otherwise involved with?  

The first time I visited a gynecologist, I cried throughout the entire exam.  To this day, annual visits to the gyno fill me with such anxiety that I spend the weeks leading up to it Googling whether or not I should remove my socks, or wear them (summer months), if I should try to carry on a conversation with my doctor and if it’s weird to make eye contact during the breast exam.

For all of my nudity related hang-up’s, I would like to thank my mother who gave me my first lesson in sexual intercourse via a live demonstration.

Ten seconds after my parents divorced, my mother was back on the market with a vengeance and extremely low standards.  It seemed the only criteria for a long term relationship were a collection of AA sobriety chips, an addictive personality and psychological volatility equal to, or worse, than her own.

First up to the plate was Ron from rehab.  I don’t remember much about him other than he looked a bit like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, he had a cat named Cat that once got stuck in the refrigerator for a whole day and he lived in an apartment in Cleveland.  Oh yeah, the first time I remember meeting him; he was having sex with my mother.

At the time, we had not yet moved out of the home my parents had shared and I had awoken in the middle of the night and  made my way down the hall to what had been my parent’s bedroom.  As I opened the door, the first image I saw was that of a naked ass doing something ungodly that did not look familiar.

“Mom?!” I shrieked in sheer panic.

The ass leapt off my mother and did a Greg Louganis right into the wall and onto the floor.

In shock and horror, I ran from the room, down the stairs and out the door where I made my way to the side of the garage and into the doghouse where my dog Skeeter was sleeping.

As I curled up with Skeeter wishing I could somehow purge the scene I had just witnessed from my memory and contemplating calling my dad for help, my mother leaned down and poked her head into the opening.   The ass was standing behind her.

“Hey, get out of there and come back inside, we need to discuss this” my mother said.

“Who is that?” I asked pointing at the ass and shooting him the stink eye.

“This is Ron, we’ve been dating.”

Hmmm, so this is what dating was? I thought to myself as I crawled out of the doghouse and slowly made my way to the front door.

I had always thought dating meant you went roller-skating, or to the Prom.  But really dating was nakedness and bumping uglies?  Yikes! That could not possibly be true and if it were, I would never date.

When we got back inside, my mother formally introduced me to the ass stranger.

“Ron is my boyfriend. I met him while I was away for treatment and we’ll be spending a lot of time with him.  He’d really like to get to know you and your brother.”

Erm, hey. How are you?” Ron said as he extended his hand.

First, there was no way in hell I was shaking that hand, who knew where it had been?

Second, how was I?  Really?  Hmmm, let’s see.  I had just awoken in the middle of the night to find my mother, doing something totally disgusting, (and probably illegal), with a stranger I had seen naked before I even knew his name.  Not so great Ron, but hey, thanks for asking!

Fourth, who goes trolling for dating prospects in rehab?  I mean come on woman!  Isn’t the point of rehab to conquer drug and/or alcohol abuse?  Shouldn’t that be the only focus?  It’s not a singles mixer for Christ’s sake!

A long pause and awkward silence commenced, during which time I stared Ron up and down with my best, “I hate your guts” glare.

I sighed. “Mom, I don’t understand this. It looked gross and I want you to promise you will never do it again.” 

I catch a flicker of panic in Ron’s eyes.  My mother smiles at him reassuringly before turning her attention back to me.

“Well, it’s something grown-up’s do when they’re in a relationship.” 

It.  What is IT exactly?

I stare at her as I begin to formulate questions.  Why was he grunting like that? I thought those parts were only for peeing? Does the butt have an ulterior motive too?  

Before I could ask the first of about a million such questions swimming through my mind, she smiles at me and says, “Now, give us both a big hug before you head off back to bed.”      

Moral of the story….My step-son just turned 13 and THANK GOD, I’m just the step-mom.  Therefore, I am required to have no part in any conversations involving anything that happens south of the border.  Also, my bedroom door is always locked.

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