Vibrators et. al.

I like to think, despite having hit the Big 50, that I'm not totally out of it. But maybe I'm deluded. I subscribe to fab.com: daily email alerts to specials on groovy independent design items. Mostly funky kitchen stuff, tee shirts, jewelry, furnishings. But yesterday's selection included a firm specializing in beautiful vibrators. Okey dokey. No problem. Except there was this vibrator that I just did not get. Meaning, no, I didn't buy it, but also, I just didn't understand it. It was shaped like the profile of a hand flashing the peace sign. So, umm, two fingers. . . I dunno. . . I"m so confused.

Vibrators in general confuse me. Does that make me a Bad Person? A Failed Sexual Being? Uptight? Clueless? See, a mechanical thing is, well, mechanical. Uniform. Constant. These qualities do not seem to me to be the best suited for physical pleasure. Maybe I'm weird, but the thing is. . . . I vary. Sometimes a slow gentle touch, sometimes a vigorous  approach .  . . the days change, the moods change, the needs change. So . . . a responsive human finger seems much more efficient.

All of which has gotten me to thinking about masturbation. Would I be a different person had my mother not assured me that masturbation was sinful and that God frowned on it? If I hadn't sat in church and when Rev. Witte said that on Judgment Day all our secret sins would exposed--like a movie running in front of the world--I just died inside, thinking of me and my pillow, on this giant global screen?

I was determined not to do that to my kids. When Owen was little, he liked to wear these colored long underwear sets that I got from some organic kids catalog (when you called to place an order, there'd be all these babies crying and half the time the woman taking the info--yes, yes, this was Way Back Then Before Online Shopping--would say, "oh wait a sec, have to switch to the other breast;" it was a Very organic baby catalog company). Owen liked these sets because they were soft and comfy, no itchy seams or tags, and he could pull them on himself and, best of all, he could be Robin Hood in green, the Red Power Ranger in red, a Ninja in black, etc etc etc.

All of which was fine and fairly cheap and Owen was adorable; the only problem was that the long underwear did allow him very easy access to Down There. And goodness, he enjoyed getting to know Down There. So I developed this mantra: "That is a Bed and Bathroom Activity." See? No judgment, but also doing my job to socialize my kid: Look, baby, you can't be doing this in public.

And on the whole, it worked. Owen's all grown up and he does not pleasure himself in public. But there was this one day . . . my then 16-year-old niece Anne was living with us for the summer and serving as our summertime nanny. She had taken Owen to the video store (remember those? before Netflix? you'd wander around and around and around, and there's be all these movies, and you couldn't find anything you hadn't seen or he hadn't seen or that you both wanted to see?). There they were, little Owen, teenaged Anne,  in line. Anne looks up and the two guys about Anne's age at the cash register are giggling and snorting. Nothing too unusual in that, but then one of the boys looks right at Owen and say, "Go for it, man!" Anne looks down and there's Owen with his hands in his pants. Without missing a beat, she says in a loud, firm, loving voice, "Owen, that is a Bed and Bathroom Activity!" At which point the boys behind the counter practically pass out with laughter and Anne turns brilliant red and wonders how many different ways she can make me suffer.