oh, THAT meredith.
This little lady is a Twitter superstar and I couldn't imagine the social media and blogging world without her. She's so special (not in THAT way), in a fuzzy, sweet, drink too much and DM you from Twitter jail special. When I was stressed and frazzly and moving to Portland, she sent me cookies. Literally. Not cyber cookies or something. She sent me a tin of yummy yummy cookies. I think they were shortbread with rosemary. They were amazing and you're jealous.
And when this lovely lady finally started her blog, I woohooed like no one has ever woohooed before! She's a rock star. After you read her highlarious story, go follow her on the Twitter and subscribe to her blog. Doooo iiiiiiit.
My mother's always told me she'd know if I did something wrong or bad or out of line, even if I was convinced it'd never get back to her. But I had experience on my side, having gotten away with more minor infractions than she'll ever know.
And yet. When it mattered. She knew.
I was 17. He was 19. We’d each sorta had sex -- or at least started the process too fucked up to actually get anywhere – but were still bumbling virgins, when it came down to it.
For the life of me, I can’t remember how we met – which, frankly, isn’t that much of a surprise, since I’ve been losing my memory for months – but surely it must’ve been through friends. He’d dropped out of high school, gotten his G.E.D. and gone to work in the gas station near my house. Which was very badass, grownup and hotttt with extra emphatic Ts.
And ooooh, was I over the moon for John. I knew I was smarter than him, I knew more and wanted more and would reach farther than he’d ever dreamed. But I was smitten, completely, and convinced he was my future.
As, of course, I convinced myself with every boyfriend. No surprise there, either.
Around the end of our second month together – an impressive wait, you know – we decided -- in what was probably my most mature conversation to date – it was time. We. Were. Ready.
This, of course, also coincided quite conveniently with a week-long trip my parents were taking, leaving me all alone in the house with the pets.
No idea where my siblings were during this trip – having five of them makes it oddly perfect we were alone. Hmm. No clue. But in retrospect, thanks, y’all!
And no, sorry, Andy’s forbidden me from writing you erotica – I KNOW, SHE’S SO AWFUL, IT’S LIKE SHE DOESN’T EVEN WANT YOU TO READ THIS! Ahem. – so you don’t get any of that story.
But suffice it to say, it was amazingly tender and shockingly good – despite our complete lack of experience and racing nerves.
And it set off what I like to call my love affair with sex. By which I mean I’m a big fan. Biiiiiig fan.
John and I spent that week rolling around in bed, learning about each other and ourselves in all of those trite ways you’re imagining.
And by in bed, I mean in my mother’s bed.
Go ahead, groan. I know; it was a terrible idea.
But the rest of the house was full of twin beds! I was actually convinced at the time that we’d fall out of bed if we had sex in mine – my understanding of physics hasn’t really improved that much since. Shut up.
And so, after six bliss-filled days of being officially a grown-up – ‘cause that’s what sex does to you, you know – we washed Mama’s sheets, remade the bed and sent my new lover away to return home for the first time in days, sure I’d just gotten away with everything that meant anything.
My parents returned from wherever it was they’d been and I tried to hide what I was sure was the heavenly glow of a newly sexed woman – or, you know, actual teenage contentment. They told me about their trip, unpacked, did laundry and went to bed.
The next day, in the middle of a routine conversation – where my mother shoots mundane questions at me and I answer absently – directly after “How were the dogs while we were gone?” and “School ok?” she asked, “How was your first time having sex with John?”
I. Was. Dumbfounded. My heart skipped, my lungs deflated, my stomach hit the ground.
Once my voice returned, I didn’t even try to get around it. I stammered out, “How did you know?!” and sat down, hard.
She asked again how it was and then if we’d been careful.
I blinked, breathed and braced myself.
“It was good. We were safe. Can I go now?”
She laughed again, but sounded slightly annoyed – I was certain she was mad.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad. Don’t be stupid.”
I then hightailed it to John’s, relayed the story through tears, hiccups and staggered breath – until he pointed out that while maybe I hadn’t gotten away with keeping anything a secret, I wasn’t in trouble – I wasn’t some kid that had to be punished for breaking a rule. I was, in fact, an adult, being treated like an adult, by another adult, who happened to be my mother.
If there was any growing up that happened in the entire experience? It was right there.
For years after, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how she knew. And even more strange, while I was never punished – though severely warned of consequences – she remained slightly annoyed by the whole affair.
I asked her just recently what had tipped her off, and ooooh, it was ridiculous.
I’d made her bed incorrectly, in a way apparently anyone could’ve seen, with the duvet at a ridiculous angle and pillows tossed willy-nilly – but even better than that, I’d left an empty condom wrapper smack in the middle of the shelf of the headboard, for all and sundry to see.
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