Rabbit Mother

Your mom wouldn’t use the words “dirty slut” in public conversation. Your mom wouldn’t boast about “giving it to your father last night” with your friends at the dinner table. Your mom wouldn’t be able to identify anal beads if they were lying on a counter in a sex shop. Your mom’s no fucking fun.

Your mom wouldn’t enter The Pleasure Chest in the West Village with her two, twenty-something-year-old daughters and offer to buy each one a vibrator. She wouldn’t pick up penis candy necklaces and packets of gummy boobies with childlike fascination and glee. She wouldn’t hold up a pair of edible undies and proclaim, “I tried these once. Too sticky.” Your mom wouldn’t be caught dead holding a seven-inch, pink “rabbit” and she certainly wouldn’t turn it on to watch it rotate or compare its size and shape with that of the other jelly cocks on display. She wouldn't be amused by cards adorned with hard dicks or fifty flavors of super lube. Your mother wouldn't instruct knowingly, while pointing at a string of red plastic pearls, “you shove ‘em in, and you pull ‘em out.”

I’m not saying my mom would.

I’m not saying she wouldn’t either.