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I’ve always considered myself a fairly brave individual, adventurous, & daring…often to the point of utter stupidity.  You don’t believe me? Ask my friends about our last European trip, I had to do a fair share of B&E to actually get to see some of the sights that were closed to the public–it’s a historian thing.  It’s not like that opportunity comes every day, not when I have an ocean to cross & there were a fair few ghosts of the past I had to see with my own two eyes.

In case you were wondering, getting out of The Pere Lachaise Cemetery after hours is super easy, especially when security has cottoned on to your presence.  It’s scaling that wall to get in that is the hard part.

But despite my ego, I’m spending tonight hiding in the basement.

When you move back in with mom & dad, certain things are bound to happen, especially when you haven’t bothered to unpack under the hopes that you’ll be moving out as soon as possible.  The chances of these things happening are greatly increased when you label your boxes humorously instead of rationally.

I never thought it would really matter.  I’m not exactly domesticated. I can pack & unpack in a single day.  I own lots of books, camera gear, lighting equipment, computer bull shit & really not that much else.  So who cares if you have a good time labeling your boxes?

Left Socks, Jimmy Hoffa, The Missing Link, 10 Inch Black Rubber Cocks, Lost Car Keys, Waldo.

It doesn’t really matter, not when all the boxes are going in the same place.

Or at least it doesn’t matter until your mother wants to learn how to use Skype & suddenly you’re ripping through your boxes to find web cam & microphone that will work with their late ’90s laptop.

Mom was lecturing me about a gross & inappropriate since of humor when she went silent mid sentence.  “What are these for?”  She asked as she pulled my handcuffs out of a box labeled “Used Condoms.”  I was trying to think of an obvious & believable lie when the riding crop & ball gag followed.

I would have so rather she caught me jerking off.  That would be easier to explain.

It’s hard to look your mom in the eye & explain that the girl that was almost her daughter-in-law was a submissive.  The girl she had welcomed into her home & hugged, the girl that was a culinary arts major & used cook mom her favorite low country dinners really enjoyed being tied up & spanked when she fucked.  She was a seriously kinky girl, but in my defense, I didn’t know that until she brought it up seven months into our relationship.  By then there was no backing out, not when you were dating a girl that was that much fun.

It’s not like it’s an every day thing, or even a life style thing.  But there are more women out there like my old fiancee than you’d think, & it is fun from time to time.  Why have only vanilla for the rest of your life, especially when there are 31 other flavors to work your way through?

You can’t exactly look your mother in the eye & tell her that the girl you lived with for two years, the girl you proposed to after you went to see the Blue Man Group together was part of the greater Chicagoland leather community.  Being the straight forward & honest would certainly raise two many questions.

No one wants to find themselves in a situation where their mother looks at them blankly & asks “what is BDSM?”

Unfortunately, when your mother is holding a riding crop in one hand & a pair of handcuffs & a ball gag in the other, I don’t care who you are, you are going to be flustered.  That’s really a nightmare scenario.  It’s a bad dream that has horribly entered into reality.  When you’re flustered, when you are that mortified, you don’t make much sense.

So mom looked at me blankly & asked, “What’s BDSM?”

The entire situation would have been so much easier to deal with if she would put the shit back in the box.

“You know that book I gave you?”

Stop.  Rewind.  Let’s go back about a year.

I was on a lay-over in Orlando with the Dave (feather not dot) when I had passed Fifty Shades of Grey at the Hudson News Store.  I’m a patriotic American, & as such I feel that it is my civic duty to take the time to read the books that the unpatriotic Americans take the time to ban.  I’ve read some really good books using patriotism as an excuse, but Fifty Shades was certainly not one of them.

It’s actually one of the few books that I just couldn’t bring myself to finish.  I got to the part where, out of the fucking blue, Christian picks up the phone in his office & starts talking in airplane gibberish & just couldn’t bring myself to read any further.  Banned or not I wanted that steaming pile of shit out of my apartment, so I gave it to mom when she picked us up from the airport.  It seemed like the appropriate thing to do.

Present day.

“That dirty book?”

Yeah mom, the dirty book,  So then I got into my old fiancee &, in a state of panic, maybe confessed a little more that I meant to, certainly more than I ever wanted to tell my mother.  “She was really a sweet girl mom, I swear.”  Or at least she was until she cheated on me, but I don’t hold it against her, I got revenge without even raising my voice.  I simply sewed a red “A” on her favorite leather jacket & then calmly moved out.  It was a sweet vengeance, a thoughtful one, she had always loved Hawthorne.

“Girls actually do that?  Do they enjoy it?”  I think the situation would have been more tolerable if she was shocked & horrified instead of curious.  Curious meant questions & all I wanted to do was run away screaming.

I slowly backed out of the basement, ran to my car, & hid out at the library.  I read my way through a copy of Letters From the Earth that should probably be in a museum.  It was a 1962 First Print & the library had destroyed it.  Fucking shame.

So now I’m hiding in the unfinished basement & I’m still embarrassed.  The sooner I get a job & move out the better. I will never, EVER, be able to look mom in the eye again & I hope to god she never runs into Jen.

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.

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