When I was in high school, I had an exceptionally lame midnight curfew. My parents really liked my boyfriend though, so they said he could come in and watch TV, but we had to be in by 12. Fine by me because this also meant we didn’t have to squeeze our loving into some cliche high school backseat of the GTO romp when it was 4 degrees outside. We could do it on the nice warm couch at my mom’s house.
She didn’t love that by the way. We had several near misses and several of her Catholic-like sobbing breakdowns before I finally got “the talk” and was instructed I couldn’t have sex in her house. Or something like that. I don’t know because I wasn’t really listening. I was plotting how to get craftier at actually having sex, and spent the rest of that relationship trying to avoid getting caught.
All the boyfriends who came and went after that and my mom never let any of them come into the house or, gasp, sleep over. Until X. We went up to Gloom and Doom’s house this past summer and they let us sleep – not only in my childhood room, in an upgraded (read: non-twin) bed, but together. I still wouldn’t let X touch me. At 36, those 17 year old days were still haunting me. The worst thing ever was to get caught having sex by one or both of my parents.
Friday night I went to X’s house and we went out to eat with Number 1 and Number 2. They were in their usual rare form, and camped out on the couch to play video games when we got home. So X and I, who had been having text-foreplay for most of the week, ran upstairs to do some work on my old desktop computer and fool around. We ended up ripping our clothes off and jumping into bed, but not before Sammy wanted out and Thora wanted in and with the door opening and closing and dogs going in and out, we finally got down to business.
When it was all said and come (heh) I got up to see if Sammy was pacing outside the door waiting to be let back in. He wasn’t, so I crawled back into bed. X was like, “Did you lock the door?” I said, “No, I’m going to get up again in a second and call Sammy because I’m sure he’ll want to get back in.” The heat was roasting us like smores so we had all the covers off. Then I heard a scratch at the door and figured it was Sammy.
Number 1 busts the door open, says, “Hi. Um. Bye.” And takes off. Uh….
So, in case anyone is doing any math right now, I spent exactly 36 years and 3 months trying to avoid getting caught by my mom having sex until she finally decided to stop caring, now at 36 years and 9 months, I’m back to getting caught. By a 15 year old. Damn it. Six months is way too short a window.
The reason for Number 1 coming to the door was because Number 2, true to form, hit his head on something. X went up there to see how he was and give him some ice and he said, “Don’t touch me! Number 1 told me what you were doing! Wash your hands!”
When we were out on Saturday night, I said something to X like, “Where are we sleeping tonight?” And Number 1 made the air quotes and said, “sleeping” under his breath. Damn it to hell! Maybe he just wants to call my mom so they can listen in on my phone calls, and read my diary.