PSA Of The Day: You Should Always Practice “Safe Sex”

I was recently riding in the car with my friend when her husband called, and they began having what I call a “normal” conversation: “Hi, how’s your day? Yes, I turned off the sprinkler…” and so on and so on. All very normal. Then my friend openly blushed and then giggled and whispered into the receiver, “No, I think it’s all gone but I can stop at Target and get more.”

I didn’t think much of it. I mean, they could be talking about anything– detergent, foot fungus cream –the sky is the absolute limit at Target. Besides, I was trying hard not to listen in on their conversation, but it’s hard when you’re only sitting two feet from each other.

Anyway, it turns out I didn’t have to speculate on what they were talking about because she told me as soon as she hung up the phone. She leaned over to me and very giggly said, “Hubby asked me if we have any more Astroglide at the house.”

And I’m like, WHAT?! I found myself scooching closer to the door. Had she not been driving 70 mph, I might have opened the door and jumped out into oncoming traffic.

And I thought, OK, I love you, but T.M.I.

Because, FYI: I don’t want to hear about your sex lube useage unless you have found a way to make wine out of it. And then, I still might be a little leery about drinking it. But of course, I would.

So later, she and I were talking about it again on the phone and laughing and I thought about my own perverted sex life. About five years ago I was given a “personal massager” as a gag gift, but found no logical reason to throw it out–so I didn’t.

When we moved a few years later, my mother and MIL came over to help me pack and headed for my bedroom closet. A wave of nausea and a flash of heat came over me when I realized said vibrating rabbit massager might be cause for concern/humiliation/embarrassment beyond belief/stroke or cardiac arrest–and that was only ME!–so I distracted them. I pointed them in the direction of the kitchen while I picked up the phone and called my girlfriend. Here was the awkward, but totally necessary conversation.

me: Um, yeah. I need a favor.

friend: OK

me: It’s rather delicate–and kind of embarrassing

friend: You need me to come over and hijack your vibrator so your mother doesn’t find it, don’t you?

me: (baffled and bewildered) How did you know that’s what I was calling about?

friend: I just moved, remember? I had my sister do the same thing for me.

me: (relieved) You’re the best.

friend: Put it in a plastic grocery bag and meet me in your driveway in 10 minutes.

Tragedy averted.

Now, as my kids get nosier and nosier, I’ve had to be more strategic with the adult accoutrement. So I convinced Hubs that we needed a safe. For some bizarre reason for which I have no logical explanation he agreed with me and bought one. This has done nothing but invoke more curiosity. I’ve been asked a million times–”What’s in the safe? Is it money? Is it gold bars? Is it our college fund? Is it our christmas gifts? Ooh, i know, it must be jewels and diamonds.” What do they think we are, pirates?

I roll my eyes every time one of these idiots says something like this. I even caught the two older ones trying to break in there by trying to figure out the combination. They’ve tried EVERY number they think it might be–my birthday, our phone number, my pin number on my cell phone, their birthdays, yada, yada.

I warned them that if they don’t stay out of our private things, they will be shipped off the boarding school. So far, they’re not buying it. And luckily they haven’t figured out the combination to the safe. They could be in for the shock of their lives to find two adult movies and a vibrator (OK, two vibrators). There’s no money, no gold bars and certainly no diamonds in there–although I think one of the “actresses” in one of the movies is named Dusty Diamond. So there you have it. There are diamonds in there after all.

Anyway, I’m quite sure no one will ever crack the code because it has no personal meaning to any of us. Oh, Hubs meant for it to be something related to one of us–my birth year.

When he told me it was my birth year and I asked him what that was, he said 1968. I made a face and said, “Have we just met? Exactly how old do you think I am?”

He said, “What? That’s not the year you were born?”

“Um, no. That would make me two years older than I am.”

“Hmm.”

And so, that’s it. We’re sexual perverts who store their sex aids in a safe. There. I said it.

But! You won’t find my ass buying Astroglide at Target. That’s what porn shops are for, duh.