Rants, Feelings & Opinions

That Moment When Your Mom Finds Your Dildo

November 30, 2015
PetraCollins2

I left high school with much to be desired in the sex department, and a dildo as a parting gift. Then came a sexual awakening. And then… well, you know where this is going. Words by Misha Scott. Photo by Petra Collins.

My high school boyfriend and I had the relationship of a middle aged married couple. We were a watery sexual cocktail of incompatibility and inexperience, too young to realize that using horrifying phrases like, “Let’s spice things up” at 17 is an indication that something has probably gone horribly and irrevocably wrong.

In one of our particularly long dry spells, my boyfriend heard about a local “Tupperware party for sex toys.” (Yeah, it was a small town. There wasn’t a lot to do.) Sadly, my sexual shame in high school was far too intense and confusing for me to actually go to something like this (I once worried that I was “slutty” for holding hands with two boys in the same night) but my bf was all gung-ho, like the personal cheerleader for our sex life. A friend of a friend was organizing this sex toy shindig, and he got a catalogue from her. He thought it might be fun to start using toys during sex, and just wanted to figure out what I liked. I probably said something awful like, “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

And then I had a large purple dildo.

In retrospect the dildo seems like a strange choice given that our relationship already had one perfectly functioning dick. Maybe it was because I was about to go away to college and he wanted to send me off with a penis that would always feel like it was partly his. Or, more likely, our knowledge of sex toys was so limited that the dildo won out by virtue of being the only instrument we could both a) name and b) say confidently that we knew where it went.

I was not crazy about this dildo. I didn’t know what to do with it, I had no idea where my G-spot was (thanks for nothing, sex-ed). We tried incorporating the vibrating part during sex, but to be quite honest it felt needlessly overwhelming to bring a second penis into bed when I barely knew what to do with the first one.

It boasted a “whisper soft” motor which, when being used in a room less than 20 feet from your parents, turned out to be closer in pitch and volume to a small lawn mower. Whenever it came near me my vagina got so nervous that the vibrations felt like the clitoral equivalent of being hit repeatedly on the funny bone with a jackhammer. Sadly, after a few half-hearted attempts at sexual adventurousness, I put the dildo out of its misery and into the deepest corner of my underwear drawer.

In college a lot of things happened. My boyfriend and I broke up. I located my G-spot. I became a feminist. I realized that I love sex. I got like way better at blow jobs. (Or at least I think I did. I’m still not 100% clear on what makes a blow job truly great but I started at least acting like my technique was something that had worked well in the past which honestly I think is half the battle). I had my first simultaneous orgasm. Someone told me my vagina was pretty and I realized he was right. I came during sex without using my hand. I 69ed successfully. I got my first UTI. Followed by my second, third, fourth, and fifth UTIs. Found out that cranberry juice is not actually a cure for UTIs. Seriously just go straight to the fucking pharmacy. Oh and also I learned some book shit or whatever.

Then one post-sexual-awakening Spring Break I came back home and my mom recruited my help in cleaning out my bedroom. “I tried going through your clothes but I don’t know what you want to keep.” She pointed to one of the drawers. “I think you might have some bras in there that you can still wear.”

You see where this is going.

I would have given most of my savings account to see the look on my face when I felt that rubbery, slightly squishy, unmistakably phallic contour nestled amongst my high school unmentionables.

My brain instantly exploded. Mom has clearly been in this drawer. Has almost definitely seen and quite possibly actually touched my dildo. My mother has probably touched my dildo. Shitting Christ balls fuck. We can never, ever talk about this. Will she notice if I throw dildo out window. Yes. Definitely yes. Need other plan. Any plan. Can possibly stuff dildo in sweatshirt pocket incognito? OK. Done. Right now there’s a dildo in my pocket. Of course there is—how in the fuck were you expecting this to turn out.

I literally just couldn’t. I made some excuse and went to the garage and wrapped the dildo in an old t-shirt and put it in the basket of my bicycle like some kind of weird penis shaped pet. I rode three miles into town. Past the verdant fields of newly planted hay. Past the grazing cows and baby horses. With my dildo. I rode to the town dump. Waited while an old man in his Ford F250 unloaded what seemed to be the past two years of trash. Good liberal that I am, I paused briefly to consider whether dildos are recyclable. And then I said a short goodbye: I’m sorry our time together was not more enjoyable. It wasn’t you. I just had a lot of hangups when you came into my life, you know? For what it’s worth, I’m glad you were my first.

And then I no longer had a large purple dildo. I rode home in time for dinner. To date, this incident has not been addressed in our household.

Fast forward several years and one failed relationship later. I now have neither boyfriend nor dildo and it feels like an appropriate time to revisit at least one of those items. So on Friday I Yelped “best sex shops in Los Angeles” and texted all my most sex-positive friends. (Related: why has Yelp not developed a feature that allows you to search something you want near something else you want, i.e. “sex shop near ice cream.” This feels like a gross oversight.)

We drove to a bougie part of town and parked in front of what looked like a very nice Olive Garden. There were Christmas lights in the trees. With the help of a kind woman with a tongue piercing named Paula, who reminded me in a weirdly comforting way of my favorite aunt, I picked out something classy, discreet, and not aggressively penis shaped. I realized I finally knew exactly what I wanted in a vibrator and this was it.

Afterwards we ate absurdly priced ice cream with fancy AF flavors like ‘olive oil and goat cheese’ and ‘buttered mashed potatoes with gravy’ (not a joke) and I felt like I had grown up somehow. Then I went home and came like four times.

Misha is a 25-year-old filmmaker in LA. She loves feminism, avocados, and reading one-star reviews. She hate war and polyester, in that order. Read her previous article for Slutever, “Honest Tinder Profile,” HERE :)

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