The Secret Life of Couples

If I read one more of these lists of things you’re not “allowed” to do in front of your significant other, my head is going to explode. Or my insides, if I follow the ridiculous advice they offer, since then apparently I’d never be able to fart ever again. If you have never farted or peed in front of your live-in significant other, I seriously question your relationship. Or perhaps just your ability to tell the truth. Because, COME ON, there is no escaping certain realities.

Recently, I have been seeing more and more of these ridiculous “listicles” floating around titled things like “15 Things You Should NEVER Do In Front Of Your Boyfriend” or  “Things Married Couples Won’t Do In Front Of Each Other – Even After Decades” or “10 Gross Things Not To Do In Front Of Your Boyfriend.”

Let’s forget for a moment what bullshit it is that they all seem to be aimed at WOMEN, basically teaching/threatening them that they can’t keep a partner if they don’t present an attractive enough air of mystery. Let’s try to forget that thread of sexism for now, and actually just look at what terrible expectations they’re creating for both men and women.

These lists are often disguised as a guide in how to “be respectful” to your partner, or the importance of “keeping romance alive” but that’s total crap. I would be willing to bet they are written by mostly single people, or people whose average relationship lifespan is about 3-6 months. Because anyone who has been in a long term relationship and actually lived with that person will have run into basically all of these taboos, and probably blown by them without even thinking about it. So why is no one writing about THAT?

I have decided (and I’m sure Gil is gonna be totally thrilled about this) that I’m going to debunk some of these common “never ever” relationship commandments with examples from my real-life, awesome as shit, cohabitation situation with the man of my dreams. Good thing he doesn’t embarrass easily. Buckle up guys, here we go.

Thou shalt never, ever, ever, ever, under any circumstances poop in front of your significant other.  

I am going to call bullshit on this, pun definitely intended. I mean, I don’t actually want to see Gil poop, and when he forgets to light a match and I’m not expecting it, our bathroom can make my eyes water. But let’s be real – we live in a small condo with ONE bathroom. If he’s indulging in what I call one of his “luxury poops” and is taking foreverrrr, I will for sure pop in to grab whatever it is I need. If I’m sitting there minding my own business and he really needs his contacts, he’ll come in and snag them. News flash: we still want to have sex with each other. Like, a lot. We understand what happens in there and that we are humans with human bodily functions.

Tonight, he even gifted me with one more example. I hadn’t been feeling hot today and Gil knew it. He was in our room with his headphones on playing video games. As I walked through our room to the bathroom, I made a comment to him about the leftovers from dinner. I thought he caught the whole thing and I went about my business, closing the bathroom door (because I suppose we should have SOME boundaries). A full 5 or 10 minutes later, Gil bursts in without even knocking to check on me, literally scaring the shit out of me. As he was playing his game, he started thinking that maybe he hadn’t caught the tail end of what I was saying and that I was sick and needed immediate assistance so he decided to just barge in and make sure I wasn’t dying. Not sure I completely follow the logic, but I’m pretty sure it’s sweet. I think.

Thou shalt never fart or belch in front of each other.

I mean, seriously?? So if you live in a small space with that person, you are supposed to actually put on shoes, and pants, and a bra, and go outside to fart? That fart or belch is going to damage your fragile little relationship so much that you have to go on a field trip to relieve yourself? Sorry pumpkin, you’re not gonna make it to forever.

Gil told me once about how when we were first dating, he would actively hold in his farts, to the point that it was really uncomfortable for him, and when he would finally get in his car to leave, he would just unleash hell on that poor upholstery.  When I asked him when he felt comfortable enough to start letting them rip (because honestly, I can’t remember a time when he didn’t) he said it was immediately after we starting sleeping together. Once we’d gotten that intimate, all bets were off. And that was within the first couple weeks of knowing each other (sorry Mom) so I can’t imagine how he could have continued much longer without doing serious medical damage.

At this point, we both fart freely in front of each other. And yet, we still want to see each other naked and go down on each other. How crazy. I actually have pretty strong feelings about this whole farting in front of your significant other thing… you can read my whole theory on it here.

Thou shalt ever speak of the shame that is menstruation. Or cramps. Or yeast infections.

Obviously this one is aimed directly at the ladies, and the logic behind it (usually from female writers, which bums me out) is that it’s gross, and no man wants to hear about it. That “place” is supposed to be a special, wonderful playground for him and if you tarnish it with the idea you might be a human woman with human woman issues, it’s not going to be as appealing to him. If that’s your approach to vaginas, you should just buy a fleshlight or save up for one of those real dolls, and call it a day. Real lady vaginas have things going on up in there. And if I’m miserable and grumpy because I’m expelling part of my uterus in a bloody mess, or have a yeast infection that won’t quit, then yeah, I’m going to tell Gil. Because then he’ll probably make me tea and ask if I need ibuprofen, cuz he’s awesome. Because healthy couples support each other.


As a side note, I don’t understand how you can possibly have a fun, adventurous sex life if you think this way, because in order to try new things you really do need to completely trust your partner and be OK with all the different bodily functions that can happen. And guys? You really need to get over it if you aren’t comfortable listening to any of this. Because first of all, you should be a caring human being who wants to help take care of the person you love and help make her more comfortable if possible. And second of all, the more you understand about a woman’s body, the more able you will be to actually please that woman, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but orgasms are a pretty important part of my relationship.

 Thou shalt never, ever, allow your partner to see you removing any of your unsightly body hair. Do that shit in private.

Another one that is targeting women in particular. On not one of these lists have I seen a “never ever” commandment about men shaving their face. But you gotta wax your upper lip, or pluck your eyebrows, or shave your bikini line? Lock the door and hide the evidence after you’re done. He wants to enjoy the finished product, but wants no part in understanding what went into it. Kind of like eating hot dogs.

OK, story time. Once upon a time, early on in our relationship, Gil noticed the hairs on my chin (thanks for that, PCOS). I usually wax or pluck them, but it’s not really at the very top of my priority list. He started referring to them as my “little beard” – lucky for him I have a sense of humor. So when he asks where I’m going as I head out the door to the salon, I tell him I’m off to wax my eyebrows and beard. Now he pretends to be sad when it’s gone, staring wistfully at my newly smooth  chin. It’s entertaining for both of us.

And another thing… I would not hesitate to trim my lady garden in front of him either. He’s intimately familiar with the area, so I don’t see how actually seeing it being trimmed could even be a blip on the radar.

Thou shalt never bring up past sexual partners or, even worse, discuss your…. number.

Oh for fuck sake. Really? Are we that insecure? Are you not being an adult and having a conversation about your sexual history and STD screening before you hop in bed together? Gil and I know about each others past – it was never awkward, or even one specific conversation that I can recall. I know which of his exes he’s still friends with, and he knows I whored it up in college after my brother died. We talked STD’s on our third date. Jealousy is just not a part of the equation, and there is no need to try to protect anyone’s feelings. It’s life. It’s what made me who I am, and what made Gil who he is. Why wouldn’t we share that with each other?

The reality is, laying yourself out raw and vulnerable to another person is one of the scariest, most exhilarating experiences a person can have. To be completely, unapologetically yourself in front of the person you love, and to have them embrace all of you (flaws included), is a rare gift. Gil and I dropped our bottom lines pretty quick – we talked religion and kids during our first lunch, which I wasn’t even sure was a date. By our official first date (which turned into a whole weekend btw) we had shared even more.

So what are a couple of burps or period cramps between people so close to one another? Why would we care about that kind of trivial shit? I care that he’d protect me against anything, and that he sees the beauty in me even when I don’t. I care that we support each other in our life decisions and know we can count on each other no matter what. Opening the door while he’s pooping to grab my phone doesn’t change any of that.

And for any of the people writing those articles who actually DO believe in what they’re writing, I feel sorry for them. Because putting up those ridiculous walls and expectations means you’re spending more time trying to hide who you are, instead of actually focusing on sharing yourself with your partner and just living. I mean, relationships are hard – you better have a partner who is all in. And life is too short to walk outside every time you need to fart. Seriously.

I’m A Ball Woman

I met up with 2 of my favorite people last week for a girls’ night. Six years ago, this would have involved low cut tops, tight pants, boozy nights out, and battle cries of “Let’s get slutty!!” reverberating off the walls. Now, it means we get together and order take-out, look at pictures of Melanie’s new baby, and Natasha turns into Martha Stewart and bakes decadent desserts. Like Bob Dylan said, the times they are a-changin’.

One thing that never changes though – the conversation always turns to sex. It seems inevitable when the 3 of us get together that we wind up in detailed conversation about the craziest shit. And we wouldn’t want it any other way. Thank god Melanie isn’t one of those people who can only talk about her baby, and our conversations haven’t been toned down in any way. (Neither has she for that matter, and for that we are all grateful.)

But I digress – we were talking about sex.

Screw the stereotype that men talk about sex more than women or the antiquated idea of “locker room talk” – most of the women I know love to talk about their sex lives more than any of the men I know. And I have news for you, guys – we share detailed information with each other. Detailed. Information. We’re in the trust tree, and if you can’t talk to your best girlfriends about nipple clamps or sex-induced UTI’s  or what went wrong the last time you attempted anal, who CAN you talk to?

So I was asking about Melanie’s sex life after the baby and the conversation turned to our partners’ specific preferences. Melanie has never been lacking in the boob department, but now that she’s breastfeeding her cups runneth over. Like, a lot. They’re huge. And she was saying how her husband has always been “a boob man” and now that she puts Pamela Anderson to shame, he’s enjoying them even more. That’s his “thing” – the visual of her tits just does it for him.

This of course led into me sharing that it’s the reverse in my house. Gil appreciates my G cups, sure. They never want for attention. But he is “an ass man” through and through. He can’t get enough of my butt. And can I just say, there is plenty of it to go around. But for him, that’s the visual. That’s the thing that really revs his engine. I would even tell you that if I could get a silicone replica of my butt made for him to snuggle with (or whatever) when I’m gone, he would be all over it, pun definitely intended.

big butt apple

It got me thinking though, it’s so common for us women to categorize our male partners as either “ass men” or “boob men” because so many of them really have a distinct hot button, but there is no equivalent the other way around.

It’s not like Gil is sitting around with his friends saying, “Yeah man, Courtney appreciates my dick but she really can’t get enough of my balls. She’s totally a ball woman.”

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I AM a ball woman. But I’m also an ass woman, a lip woman, a tongue woman, a strong hands woman and a deep brown eyes woman. There is not one aspect of him that turns me on above everything else. It’s all a package deal.

When Natasha or Melanie are talking about their hottest sexual encounters, they’re not telling me things like, “Oh, I was in heaven with his balls just bouncing above my face. I almost came just looking at them.” I mean, good on ya if that’s what does it for you; whatever gets you to the big O is a win and not something I would judge – trust tree, remember? And the sight of our men does certainly turn us on. But I don’t think it’s the same for us in a visual sense when it comes to one specific body part, which is really interesting to me.

I know it’s different for every person and every couple, but it’s the term, “He’s a _____ man” that has become such common vernacular in our society. When Melanie tells me her husband is a boob man, I don’t bat an eye and I immediately understand what she’s talking about. If her husband turned to one of his friends and commented that she was totally a scrotum woman, I think he’d definitely get some very confused looks and a thorough grilling.

Some would definitely argue that it’s a sign of how much women are objectified and looked at as “things”, while the same is not really true of men. And I suppose I would agree with that to a certain extent. But for me, at the end of the day it is so nice to have a partner who is so vocally and physically expressive of his appreciation for my body, I don’t mind it one bit. I guess I don’t find that kind of objectification to be a problem if it’s coming from the person I love. Quite the opposite actually – I revel in it.

I’m fortunate enough to have a partner who is constantly telling me how beautiful I am, and how much he loves my body. One who walks into the kitchen just to grab my ass, or try to slide down my yoga pants if he can get away with it (he totally can). As someone who has really struggled with my weight over the last few years and who is still at odds with my own body and self-acceptance, I could not ask for anything more.

So maybe I should be objectifying HIM a little more, and start commenting more on how good his butt looks in his pants, or reaching over and giving his balls a little squeeze when no one’s watching and reminding him how much they drive me wild. If it’s as much of a confidence boost for him as it is for me, then shame on me for not doing more of it sooner.

I feel an experiment coming on…

Truly Madly Deeply

I don’t know for certain, but I have a feeling that not everyone gets to experience earth-shattering love in their lifetime. I know there was a time in my life (not too long ago, in the grand scheme of things) that I thought I was going to be one of those people. And while it was kind of a bummer thought, I didn’t really know what I was missing so I wasn’t all that concerned with it.

I was having semi-regular orgasms and was pretty pleased with where my life was headed. And then one day some drunk groomsman at a wedding started aggressively making out with me on the dance floor, and everything changed.

I mean, I’m not trying to brag (she types as she’s clearly getting ready to brag) but I am the LUCKIEST girl in the world. I met someone I fell madly in love with, and who I keep falling madly in love with every day. Like truly, madly, deeply. (sigh…. remember Savage Garden??)

Anyway, it’s what prompts me to write emails like this for no reason:

I hope you know how much I love you. It’s probably not even healthy. I love you so much your farts don’t even really bother me that much even though I pretend like they do.

I love you so much that I don’t even care if my career falls apart, because you know what? I’d still have you, and you’re so supportive and encouraging that I’d figure a new career out. 

I love you so much that even if you lost your dick in a tragic logging accident, I would still want to be with you. Because you have a wildly talented tongue and fingers like a god. And you’d still have a smile that melts my heart. And I’d still have a vibrator, so we’d be ok.

I love you so much that if I had to choose between ever having a Diet Coke EVER AGAIN IN THE HISTORY OF MY LIFE and you, I would always totally choose you.

I love you so much that sometimes I just sit around and think about how much I love you. How I actually feel like a more complete person since I met you. More daring, more beautiful, more alive.

I love you so much because my life and my future got so much richer once you showed up.

I really hope that everyone gets to experience that kind of ridiculous, overwhelming, shout from the rooftops, life-changing kind of love at least once in their lifetime, but I don’t think everyone does.

So on days when he leaves out the tortilla chips AGAIN and I bite into a stale one, or when he’s blasting his YouTube videos while I’m  trying to work, or when I’m in a particularly irritable, bitchy mood for no reason at all (shocking, I know) I always remember that. Not everyone gets that kind of love. And I stumbled into it somehow, on a dance floor. In a bar. After a wedding. Go figure.

So I guess that means the suffocating farts and his affinity for hyper-gory, terrible movies (think “Hobo With A Shotgun”…  yes it’s real, and yes, I’ve seen it) are just a small price to pay. I’ll take that deal every day of the week.

How To Evaluate Your Relationship Based on Farts

My boyfriend farts in front of me ALL THE TIME.

And when I say he farts, it’s not just a delicate expulsion of gas… no, he full-on RIPS ASS, and frankly, I think he takes pride in it. And he doesn’t just fart on the other side of the room… no, he does it in bed pretty much every night. And like clockwork, I tell him how disgusting it is and that I hope he shits himself one of these times as payback.

Real People: Headshot Caucasian Young Adult Woman Holding Nose O

My more recent response to this behavior has been to start farting in front of him – frequently and aggressively. It bothers him so much, which just makes me more determined to continue doing it. Any time I fart, he will immediately stop what he’s doing, stare at me with steely eyes, and say in a flat voice, “Get out.” To which I just laugh and fart again – if I have it in me.

I ask him all the time, “How come it’s OK for you to fart but not for me?” to which he inevitably replies, “Because I’m A MAN. It’s OK for me. But when you do it, it’s disgusting.” Double standard much, eh?

Seriously though, before you get all offended on my behalf, you should know he’s totally kidding (well, mostly kidding) when he says stuff like that. It’s just become part of the dance of our relationship at this point. Romantic, huh? But it got me thinking.

You can’t scroll through Facebook anymore without seeing some article or post out there that offers a specific lens from which to view your relationship – usually for some evaluative purpose. Well, forget those. I have figured out the ULTIMATE barometer for relationships. Farts. It’s farts. I’m sure of it.

So allow me to lay out for you the stages of a relationship and what they mean based on farts. You’re welcome.

Stage 1

No one farts in front of each other. This is the beginning of a relationship, and you are both still trying to only show the best version of yourself to each other, and farting is not part of that equation. This is obviously much easier to accomplish when you aren’t spending the night with each other yet. This is also, apparently, a very difficult stage for many men. Gil informed me many moons later how miserable those first few weeks were, trying to hold in his farts around me all the time.

Stage 2 

He farts in front of you. Now, I apologize for the sexism here, but let’s be honest… the men usually fart first. And it usually happens once he thinks he’s “landed” you, ladies. Which, incidentally, is usually around the time you start rolling around naked together. At least, that was the case for us. As soon as we started having sex, he started farting. Not DURING sex mind you (although let’s be honest… it happens, but we’ll get to that), but at the same time chronologically in our relationship.

This means he’s comfortable around you, and that is a good thing. Or maybe more accurately, he believes farting will no longer jeopardize his ability to get laid. In this stage, although the men are farting, they are usually just doing it as a necessity and not typically as some type of twisted game or to trap you in the most foul Dutch Oven you’ve ever experienced. No, no, that comes later. Trust me.

Stage 3

You fart in front of him. This one is actually a bigger deal than you might imagine. As a general rule, women are typically more self-conscious about things that have to do with their body than men are. Which is silly, but doesn’t stop it from being true. Usually, by the time the woman in the relationship starts farting in front of the man, she’s gotten emotionally comfortable. There is a level of intimacy that goes beyond just sex – she now believes the relationship is solid enough to survive her farts. That she will still be lovable and sexy and desirable, even if she lets a stink bomb drop. She no longer has to leave the hotel room during a weekend getaway to fart in the hallway.

And actually, I’m adding an amendment to this stage – it’s also usually when she’s comfortable enough to poop in his general vicinity. I don’t mean an open-door dump (that’s just bad manners and definitely Stage 7 behavior, which I’ll explain in a minute) but rather on that same weekend getaway, she can poop in the hotel room bathroom instead of going all the way down to the lobby to handle business.

giphy (2)

Stage 4

You both fart for humor. At this point in the relationship, you are already intimately familiar with each other’s body parts. Someone has peed in front of someone already. You’ve probably had a sex mishap or two as you try new things. You can now laugh it off if you sneeze while riding him and a little pee comes out. It happens. You’ve reached the point in your relationship where you laugh instead of getting embarrassed. So now farts become joke fodder. You can openly tease each when you rip ass, and sometimes do it on purpose just to get a laugh. This is the stage where farting during sex is a total non-issue and even adds a good amount of humor into the mix, which usually just makes things better. Caveat on this one though… farting during ORAL SEX is never OK. Just… no.

Stage 5

Farting becomes competitive. This one may not apply to all couples, but it certainly applies to us. And I suppose this is the stage where things could go south quickly if you aren’t fundamentally compatible. This is the stage in which you try to outdo one another with your farts. In this stage, you have probably at one point endured a Dutch Oven at the hands of your beloved. If you’re unfamiliar, Urban Dictionary defines it as “The act of trapping a person under bed covers after releasing vile ass fumes.”

As I mentioned earlier, Gil seems to wait until he’s in bed with me or standing right next to me to let the biggest farts rip. Case in point: I am sitting on the couch writing this and he was at the kitchen table. After sitting there for 15 minutes or so he walked over to the living room to get something and farted DIRECTLY in front of me before heading back to the table. Oh, game on buddy. Just wait until you want to spoon tonight.

But this works for us, because we both find it amusing at heart and our farts are filled with laughter, not malice. Once you are farting maliciously, your relationship is in trouble.

Stage 6

You develop a 6th sense for their farts. At this point, you know everything about the other person… there are no big surprises left. Which is not a bad thing. It just means you are intimately connected on a whole lot of levels. You’ve spent enough time together to really understand how the other person operates. As my friend Melanie put it, once you’re with someone long enough, you can not only tell when they’re hungry before they realize it, or exactly when they’re about the come, but you can sense when they are about to fart. She calls it a “fart tell” and she figured out her husband’s awhile ago.

This is the type of intimate understanding of another human being that drives the dating industry machine. People want to find their match – the person who is going to understand them at their core. Be careful though… because from here it can be a slippery slope to Stage 7, which is where romance goes to die.

Stage 7

Farting has become the tip of the disgusting iceberg. If you slide into this stage, I can tell you that your relationship is probably in jeopardy and you need to re-evaluate your choices. This is a world where farting is the least of your troubles. Where you don’t even close the door when you poop. Or you leave nasty, skid-mark streaked underwear all over the floor. This is when you’ve reached a point where you can’t be bothered to keep up with personal appearance anymore, and you just don’t care about impressing the other person at all.

I’m not advocating that women need to wear a full face of makeup and a corset every night, or that men shouldn’t be able to lounge around the house in boxers all day on a lazy Sunday. A healthy relationship is one where you can be yourself, and be vulnerable and flawed. But in order for a romantic relationship to function, there still needs to be ROMANCE. And I think the longer a couple is together (especially after you throw stressful jobs, kids, and finances into the mix) the more effort it can require. So if you find yourself in Stage 7, check yourself. Take a step back and really evaluate things.

Try to remember those early days in the relationship, when you went through the trouble of waiting until AFTER you dropped her off to fart in your car on the way home. Or when you always shaved your legs for him and casually went outside to “check something” before you farted. Remember the romance of holding in your farts. Because while it’s in no way realistic in a long term relationship to ACTUALLY hold them in, it’s a reminder of a time when we did go out of our way, even gastrointestinally, for the person we love.

So fart away my friends, but don’t ever stop going out of your way for your significant other, and finding ways to make them feel special. That’s what really matters… we can always crack a window or light a match for the rest.

Image via Giphy

My Mom Caught Me Masturbating

My mom officially knows I masturbate. Well, she has probably known that for a long time… we are pretty honest with each other and there have been enough slightly awkward jokes over the years to really bring that point home. Plus, who DOESN’T masturbate? To those who say they never have, I’m not even sure how to wrap my head around that. Please, do it tonight. It’s amazing.

Anyway, she knows, and has known for quite some time and we have the kind of relationship where we can talk about sex and it’s not weird or awkward. But let me be the first one to tell you… even if you have the kind of open relationship I have with my mom, nothing prepares you to be caught going to town on yourself with your Magic Wand. While having phone sex. Oh, did I not mention that part? Let me set the scene for you.

The story takes place about a year and a half ago. I was recently back in my own condo after having lived with my parents the month following a rather painful shattered ankle and subsequent surgery. I was so excited to be on my own again, and have some real privacy – when you are sleeping on a recliner and can’t move on your own, privacy takes a back seat. I should probably mention at this point I was seeing someone who lived in Maryland, and with me being in California, we were very, um, verbally expressive with each other since physical contact wasn’t on the table.

So I had reached a rather frustrating crossroads and desperately wanted to be in my own room, spending some quality time with myself. And my vibrator.

With that in mind, I announced my decision to go back home and my parents helped me pack up and get settled, with the agreement that my mom would stop in to check on me regularly and help me out with cooking, cleaning, etc. All the things I still couldn’t do while on crutches. And she already had a spare key so that made things easy. Are you starting to see where this is going?

One evening, we discussed having lunch at my condo the next day, but since my mom works different Weight Watchers meetings, she wasn’t sure when she would be available. We left the conversation with what I considered soft plans – I assumed she would call once she knew if she could make it. And when 2:00 rolled around and I hadn’t heard from her, I figured she wasn’t going to make it. And I got a call from Maryland. What’s a girl to do? Take a break from work and catch up with the East Coast, that’s what.

So there I am on my bed, pants strewn somewhere on the floor, “catching up” with both Maryland and my Magic Wand. Bedroom door open, since I’m in my condo alone and closing doors behind you on crutches is a real drag. And it was good, let me tell you. Weeks and weeks of build up and frustration finally coming to a head. Literally. I was so close I could taste it when I heard a noise that sounded a lot like my door opening. I froze, my lady boner disintegrating instantly. And then I heard the distinct sound of my door closing and my mom’s voice.

To be fair, I had just chastised her the day before for ringing the doorbell before coming in – I had a broken ankle, did she think I was going to get up and come answer the door?? Apparently she had finished up with her meeting and had taken our conversation to mean we had lunch plans for whenever she finished up and remembering my comments from the day before, had just decided to let herself in without knocking or ringing the bell.


None of that was consolation to me as my orgasm dissipated and the mortification of the situation started to wash over me. OK, so she came in the back door of the condo which doesn’t have a direct view into the bedroom at least but I was fully naked from the waist down, spread eagle on my bed and flustered from the lack of blood in my brain. And still on the phone with Maryland, who, I’m fairly certain hadn’t missed a beat on his end.

The logical next step here would have been to call out to my mom, tell her I was naked or changing, or ANYTHING else. But instinctively I tried to avoid the horror that is your mom walking in on you like that, so I sprang out of bed, leaping across the room to close the door, forgetting for a minute that I had a broken ankle. I remembered mid-air though and essentially tucked and sprawled to protect my ankle from any contact, and laid myself out across the floor and into the door, slamming it closed with my head essentially, phone still clutched in my hand. I screamed in pain or panic or both, and I could hear Maryland on the other end interpreting that as a sign of orgasmic bliss and an invitation to join me.

And my poor unsuspecting mother is now pounding on the door, demanding I let her in since she can hear me howling on the floor and is convinced I’ve fallen and hurt myself again and is probably mapping out the fastest route to the ER in her head. And I’m just babbling at this point and can’t put together a cohesive statement. At some point I hung up the phone and rolled away to let her open the door. So there I am, naked on the floor, bawling, with my mother asking me what the hell happened, trying to figure out why the fuck I’m on the ground.

As she is peppering me with questions, I’m trying to stop crying long enough to form sentences and I just didn’t have the wherewithal to even lie. I probably should have. But through a strangled breath I finally gulped out, “I WAS MASTURBATING! I’M SORRY!!”

She laughed. I mean, how could you not? Once she realized I wasn’t really injured and hadn’t just cracked my head open or broken another bone, she laughed her ass off. I wasn’t quite so ready to laugh about it. I was still naked and had a broken ankle, so I had to ask my mother to bring me some pants so I could get dressed and really assess whether I had hurt myself while hurtling my body across the room.

A few minutes later as we were sitting on the couch and had determined the only thing that was injured was my ego, my mom just looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I wish I could tell this story to everyone. It’s so funny.” Thanks Mom.

I’ll tell you one thing though… she ALWAYS knocks before coming in now.