“Oooh this one looks discreet.”
My mom held up a hot pink vibrator. I was 16 years old and instead of going home to do homework or grab a snack like any normal teen, our mother-daughter outing consisted of going to the Love Boutique. I knew in my gut that none of this fell under the guise of “normal parenting.” She wanted me be the self-possessed, precocious young lady that she has spent years cultivating. Still very much a virgin, my eyes widened at the extensive array of sex toys that lined the dimmed store. Picking up a tiny silver bullet, my mom nodded her head in agreement. She was my constant companion and I never wanted to disappoint her, so I remained silent as she took the device that I was so nervously clutching onto.
While my friends were envious that I had been blessed with such a young and attractive mother, I loathed being in her presence. Yet, I was addicted to her in a way I couldn’t shake. The rest of the world thought I was the luckiest kid this side of Santa Monica Blvd. to have my mom as my best friend, while I viewed it as a nasty curse.
“You’re going to need some lube for that one,” her soft South African accent instructed. Keep reading »