Especially sex. I adamantly used to insist that mom had gotten laid exactly once during a torridly brief tryst with my father. But a lady has every right to take care of her vagina, and nowadays I mostly try not to think of mom getting her cranium slammed into the headboard when I was 13 and first became aware of tawdry doings in my childhood house.
So when our conversation careens towards all things nude and sticky I try and maintain an adult composure.
“How are things between you and Meredith,” asks mom.
Having reached the nether regions of young adulthood – four months into a government contract, a two bedroom apartment and a car I successfully got rid of by selling and not crashing – I still have no shame about letting my mother pay for my lunch. I scan the menu quickly and select the second cheapest vegetarian item.
Mom doesn’t touch the menu. Despite her bottomless offers of food and beverages (non-alcoholic implied), glib one-word answers are not an acceptable form of repayment. Especially when it comes to sex.
In addition to giving decent advice in select disciplines, mom can always sense when I’m not getting laid.
I’m completely unaware what’s giving me away; everything about my outward appearance is stunningly average. Beneath my jeans, apparently, is a reek of desperation. I shift and cross my legs in slight embarrassment. Mom continues to stare wordlessly.
“Meredith is fine,” I finally say. “She’s been really busy with work lately and she’s been feeling run down.
“Work,” I say again with useless emphasis.
Mom is satiated enough to finally pick up a menu, buying me enough time to consider how I am going to proceed with this conversation.
“I haven’t seen her in a while,” she says, poring over salad combos. It’s not a question, and I have no idea how to answer a point blank statement based entirely on vivid disappointment.
I haven’t seen my girlfriend in a while either.
The waitress comes and mom engages her in a round of excruciating small talk, which has become a bald-faced headfirst plunge into flirting. In my current state of No Boners Being Attended To, I can only assume mom is doing this for my benefit. Then again, having been a widower for nearly a decade, she’s likely got boners for days.
Or maybe mom is rubbing it in my face how easy it is for the rest of the world to jump in the sack with anyone they damn well please. It’s also a good piece of advice on sex, which is a surprising thing coming from my mother.
“Do you think it was too soon to move in together,” asks mom, once the waitress bobs away from earshot.
Meredith and I had been canoodling for precisely three months before I moved into her apartment to fill the space of an unexpected roommate vacancy. It’s a situation that can also be described as peachy. Mostly. Meredith is barely around anymore other than to change and use the shower to shave her legs for god only knows why.
Mom likely knows why.
“You know,” she says, “you can always move out.”
“Why would I ever move out?” I reply icily. Just because mom gives the best advice doesn’t mean I have to listen to it.
“You can always move back in with me,” she giggles.
I snort and wave a napkin in the air in defeat.
Come on. Move back in with my mother after having completed a university degree and a diploma and successfully integrating myself into the workplace, along with all the trappings and furniture of a functionally-sputtering adult?
It’s good advice.
The price is right and mom does have cable and central heating. The walls have just been painted – I helped her narrow her choices down to an arresting shade called “shadow play”.
But even if it is my mom’s brilliant plan on breaking me and my shitty girlfriend up it doesn’t come with a contingency plan for getting me some new lady play.
After all, a gentleman has every right to take care of his boner.
Since mom has me so nailed down I consider asking her if she can sense if Meredith is getting laid or not.
“Ask her yourself,” mom would say.
-Photo taken from Flickr user “Morkai79” – Creative Commons.