When I first moved to The Big City from Small Town USA and found that I could indeed walk into a sex shop and buy love, the person who probably most shared my newfound glee, was my sister. She would visit, we would grab lunch, see a movie and then go shopping for a new toy. My mom would hear of these trips and giggle and change the subject without really changing the subject by talking about that one time that that her mom, our grandmother, found herself at a naughty lady party and took off her glasses so she couldn’t see anything.
Narrowly saving her soul, I’m certain.
Finally the day came when my mom and my sister would join me for lunch and a movie and shopping. With full bellies, we rolled into my favorite store and went our separate ways to look for our next, one true love. Twenty minutes later, we are meet up at checkout and as my sister and I tuck away our plain brown wrappers, we ask mom where her’s was.
“Well. I just didn’t see anything that caught my attention.”
Hmm.
We interrogate her all the way back to the car, which was parked several blocks away near the restaurant. Finally, as we near the car, she admits, that well, there was one thing. But it looked like they were out of stock and she was too embarrassed to inquire about it.
My sister and I turn and drag her back to the store, assuring her that the three of use will walk up to the counter as a group and say that we are curious if they have any more in the back and the clerk won’t know which one of us it’s for.
We walk in, march up to the counter, one daughter on either side of our mom, united as a family, and my sister and I announce to the clerk, probably in voices a little too loud:
HI! We wanted to know if you had any more of the little battery operated eggs in back. It’s For Our Mom.
No need to point out which one is our mom. She’s the one that looks like a slightly older version of us, just curled up in a warm fetal ball of red flushed skin on the floor between us.
The clerk restocked. Mom paid. We walked back to the tune of hysterical giggling from my sister and I and the lyrics of “YOU GUYYYYSS!! JJEEEZZZE!” from our mom. It was a simple song and repeated innumerable times between the shop and my car.
We still perform it once in a while while recounting this story.
Once in the safety of the car, my mom’s curiousity got the best of her. She started asking to see what we bought.
So there we sat, at a stop light, in my little toyota something-er-other with no air conditioning, my mom in the passenger seat, examining my sisters new blue-green water proof vibrator with a cute little sea monster face on it, when something drew our eyes to the truck idling next to us…
…where a guy sat, within arms reach, window down, looking at my mom with a “How You Doin’?” smile.
Queue the screaming, and the giggling and the poor defenseless vibrator being thrown with much force over her head into the back seat and safety of my sisters lap, where I’m assuming it lived out the remainder of it’s days.
Amazingly enough, this was NOT the last time my mom went to a sex toy shop with us. It was, however, the last time she asked us for help at a sex toy shop. I’m also fairly certain this was the last time she ever fingered a vibrator in public.
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