In light of today’s events and what now may be on of my favorite stories. EVER. Well, there is the pigeon story, I’ll get to writing about that one soon. I’ve decided there ain’t no shame in the solo sex game.
I’m not ashamed to admit I have a tickle trunk. A safe place to hide my pleasure pistols from curious teenage minds. My house isn’t one that is on lock down; I don’t fear my children rummaging through my things, or stealing money from my wallet. Although I do want to save them the embarrassment of coming to realize their Mom may use a battery operated, somewhat creepy looking, silicone sex toy(s).
Therefore away the toys go, to their resting spot when not in use. Now, before I delve deeper into my adventure in silicone embarrassment. I would like you, the reader, to understand, I am not embarrassed in the slightest when speaking of my forays on pleasuring the pink fortress. Masturbation is natural. Besides, I’m not the only one who does it, and I don’t believe in taboo subjects.
Now that we’ve cleared that up let’s get back to the story at hand.
With a little bounce in my step, I woke this morning to the fragrances and sounds of spring. The sun shining softly on my pillow and the DUST glistening off every surface in my bedroom. Quickly my OCD kicked in, and I found myself in the throes of spring cleaning my room. The thought of dust (which is virtually dead flakes of skin) creeps me out in a – I’ll wear your face like a mask – kind of way. Consequently, off I went to make my room sparkle in a not so allergenic fashion.
When I clean, I find myself moving furniture and truly getting into the grit of it. Something strange happens inside my slightly OCD mind as the need to remove any and all dirt consumes me. At times, this issue has had me stuck between a heavy dresser and the wall wondering how I squeezed myself into the spot in the first place. This morning was no different, there I was, my five foot four and ____ lb frame ( you didn’t think I was going to tell you how much I weigh did you?), dragging my hefty king size bed to an entirely different wall in my room. And with the final push into exact linear placing, I came upon a shoe box. The shoe box where the deceased delight gadgets lay in their final resting place.
You may be asking yourself, why would she keep these happiness-hook-ups if they don’t work anymore? As I opened the box to see some dear old fetish friends, I questioned this myself. However, I don’t have an answer, other than, possibly I am worried someone may see these in my trash and think, is she running a porn business in her basement? Anyhow, I found myself looking through the box and thinking of the good times, Mr. Purple, Lady Loves a lot, Crab-finger Climax, Driving Miss Daisy, Octopus Oscar and a couple more I never bothered to name, and I once had together.
Because my kids are in school, I left the box open on my bed and went on to tidy up the rest of my room; this is the moment my doorbell rang.
I am not a fan of uninvited guests. Often my doorbell will ring, and if I haven’t been informed of your visit, I may hit the deck as if I am being shot at, and crawl across the floor in a soldier-like fashion. At the very most I will look through the peephole, roll my body noiselessly along the wall, grab my dog and give him the – if you don’t be quiet you will never get another treat again – face. Not always an easy task when your dog is built like a tank, nonetheless he seems to understand my need for complete silence.
As with anything I do have exceptions to this rule: I will answer the door if, one, you are a friend, I see tears, the pee-pee dance or money in your hand. Two, if you are the Purolator guy.
Today it happened to be the Purolator Girl, and she was holding a package. I opened the door, (who doesn’t love receiving packages). When my doorbell rings, my dog usually knows the keep-quiet drill, but will always accompany me to the door. As I was discussing the package, which unfortunately was for my neighbor two doors down, Hank the intrusive pit bull decided he needed to get some love from our guest and pushed his way through the door onto the front porch. With a proud wag of his tail, he walked himself over to the Purolator Girl for a pet on the head. As she leaned down to pet his head, he dropped Mr. Purple at her feet and sat boastfully in all his glory showing off my SEX TOY.
Just as I noticed what he had so proudly laid before her, she bent over, and unassumingly picked it up while saying to him, “What have you got little buddy?” Needless to state, when her eyes fixed on what she found wrapped securely in her hand she dropped it like it was an envelope full of anthrax, giving Hank the opportunity to snatch it once again while arrogantly showing off what he believed to be his new chew toy.
Let me tell you, the vision of a dog furiously shaking a purple dildo back and forth in his mouth is one thing, having it happen while a delivery driver is standing there witnessing it, is a distinct kind of embarrassment in which I don’t have the words to articulate.
While I tugged at the dildo dangling from my dog’s mouth, my face practically turned the same shade of purple as the toy. With an awkward smile, I desperately tried to clarify the situation, hoping she understood I DO NOT give my dog sex toys as chew toys. To be fair I don’t think she cared, nor do I think she has a tickle trunk. (This situation made it abundantly clear). Instead, I was given a look of disgust, as she backed herself off the porch and walked towards the house of the rightful owner the package. At that point, I felt the need to shout from my porch, “No, you don’t understand, he took it from my broken toy tickle trunk.” It didn’t go over well. I’m unclear what her flailing arms were gesturing, but it was enough to stop me from shouting from the porch. The walk of shame has nothing on this walk back into my house.
Surely I will be the brunt of a water cooler story at her particular Purolator Branch, but hopefully, I don’t have to worry she reports me to the SPCA’s, dog sex ring involving purple sex toys, division. I truly do not want to have to explain to another human being why my dog had Mr. Purple in the grasp of his jaw.
I’m not sure at this point who is more traumatized, her or I, but I do know there has been a lesson learned here. I’d rather have people look through my trash and think I’m making porn in my basement than have them believe I permit my dog to have my old silicone joysticks as chew toys.