A mother’s love.
You know that chat you have with your parents? As in the sex one – usually people only have to deal with that minute moment of enforced awkwardness, however some have to deal with the gay chat – as in, are you gay son? Or in this case, are you gay daughter? Casey told us a bit about her mum’s lesbian suspicions.
I never learn not to talk back to my mother. The repercussions usually include the absence of my phone, internet, and all connections to the outside world. I thought that once I was legally an adult I would be free of these ridiculous motherly antics. Apparently I must wait until I’m a legal adult living beneath my own roof in order to function as a decent and respectable human being.
“Can I use your computer?” My mother’s voice echoed off the living room walls and into my room. Oh hell, I whispered to myself, I could be in for a world of shit in just a few short moments. What pictures did I have saved on my computer? What porn had I looked at? What homos had sent me raunchy emails? Of course, since it was apparent that it made me nervous to hand my beloved laptop over to my mother, she took it upon herself to look through my internet history and through each of the pictures in my gallery. Not that I have any pornographic pictures, really. Just a few of me in fishnet thigh highs, and two amazing shots of Anna Nicole Smith making out with some chick. No big deal, right?
“Why do you have naked pictures of Anna Nicole?” My mom asked.”Cos she’s hot.” I said. This probably was not the best choice of answer. “Are you a lesbian?” She inquired further. “No.” “Then why are you looking at naked women?” My brain fought tirelessly for the proper selection of words. “Cos they’re hot,” probably wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “It’s art,” I said, instead.
She also wasn’t thrilled that my recent google searches included ‘fat ugly ghetto people’ and ‘old bald dudes’. Of course she didn’t realize that these were not fetish searches. These were searched for sheer entertainment value, completely hilarious in my sick and twisted head. Apparently, ghetto people and bald dudes do not exist within her ‘funny’ criteria.
“If you’re a lesbian,” she scolded, why don’t you just tell me? I sat in silence, sifting through possible replies. “…Cos I’m not a lesbian…” seemed like the most appropriate response. To be quite honest I wasn’t aware that normal girls didn’t think Anna Nicole was hot. Maybe I am a lesbian. I mean, if Angelina Jolie hit on me, I probably wouldn’t turn her down. Is that like, a total lezzer thing to say??
I’m not particularly attracted to women, but then again I’m not particularly attracted to anyone, at all. My mother just seems to mistake my asexuality for lesbianism. I was having a discussion with my best homo, Justin, about how I don’t particularly care to have incredibly long make-out/heavy petting sessions, and my mother suggested that perhaps I try kissing a girl, because otherwise, something is severely wrong with my sexual drive. For the record I don’t particularly care for long make-out sessions with women either.
A few weeks later my loving mother’s voice echoed into my room again. “Casey, I’m going to a party on Saturday. Can you make a toga for me?” For some reason my 42 year old mother requesting my aid in toga-making didn’t strike me as odd. Probably it should have, but I simply responded, “Sure.”
I headed downstairs so that we could shop for toga supplies. I was not about to project-runway a toga out of some overused dingy white sheets from our linen closet. Also, my aunt was the only person in our family who owned a sewing machine, so most of the work would need to be completed at her house.
“Did you remember to leave me the earrings I want to borrow?” She asked.
I hadn’t. And the earrings she wanted were lost somewhere in my disgustingly messy room. When I pleaded with her to take me home, she denied me, and began to wonder whether I had porn or narcotics hidden somewhere she might find them. The only porn she might find was porn I had written with my own hand, which may or may not be more incriminating than the latest issue of Playboy. At least she would have her evidence confirming my lesbianism.
She grew angry. “If you don’t tell me why you don’t want me in your room,” she snapped, “then I’m taking your phone.”
“FINE!” I screamed. “FINE.” The hand I held the needle in grew shaky and I preferred to look at the semi-finished stitches in her toga than into her face. “The reason I don’t want you in my room is because your earrings may be located somewhere near my vibrator.”
“THAT?!” She yelled, “THAT IS WHAT YOU WERE WORRIED ABOUT?” This was not the response I had expected. She had not asked whether it was a strap on, she had not wondered if I had used it while having impure thoughts about Angelina Jolie or Piper Perabo. In fact, she seemed entirely unimpressed.
“I’m going home.” She said, and collected the pieces of her toga.
I returned home two days later, to find that what had happened was actually much worse than I had originally anticipated. If my daughter’s vibrator was on her bed, I would have thrown her blanket over it. Or perhaps pushed it over the side of the bed with a shoe.
Not my mother.
I found my vibrator laying neatly inside my bedside table. “EW!” I shuddered. “SHE TOUCHED IT!”
words Casey Fischer
photo Jules Andre Brown