IT HAPPENED TO ME: My Super-Religious Mother Found My Vibrator And We Had to Talk About It

“I thought you were a virgin,” she said. I told her that I was still a virgin and then the questions started to get weird.
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Publish date:
December 23, 2014
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Tags:
vibrators, moms, embarrassing family

I was never a typical 21-year-old and always considered myself to be a bit of a late bloomer. I was somewhat interested in guys, but I was so focused on my career goals that men were just kind of secondary.

I was also raised by a very strict, religious mother who instilled “no sex before marriage” so deeply in my brain that it became second nature. Even now when I hear the song “No Flex Zone,” I sing “no sex zone.”

It also didn’t help that I lived in a tiny mountain town and all of the men there looked like they were straight out of "Duck Dynasty." It was the type of town where girls got married at 17, had babies at 18, and an exciting night on the town was getting saved at church.

Needless to say, I went away for college and landed at American University in Washington D.C. When I returned home for summer break, I found myself in a bit of a pickle. I was horny -- like super horny -- and I couldn’t shake it off. Having sex with one of the locals wasn’t an option and I was tired of feeling myself, if you catch my drift. So I began the search for my first vibrator.

Being a virgin, I had a difficult time finding something that would work for me. I felt like Goldilocks except I was shopping for rubber cocks. The first one that I put in my shopping cart was too big, the second was way too big, but the third one was just right. It was an inconspicuous little thing. In fact, it was shaped like a seashell. I immediately began the checkout process and just as I was about to hit “complete” I was hit with a pang of anxiety and mortifying scenarios flooded into my mind.

“What if your parents get the mail? Will the package look like it has a sex toy in it? What if they ask me what I ordered?” I freaked out. I tried to think of a way to assure that I’d be home when the package arrived, but with my work schedule that just wasn’t possible.

So I did something that I thought was just brilliant. I drove to the next town over and purchased myself a P.O Box. I knew that my parents only went to the post office in our town, so I felt safe and smart. I quickly went home and ordered my shell. When it arrived in the mail, all was well in the world. I didn’t get caught and I was the proud owner of a vibrator.

My mother was always the type of person to burst into my room unannounced, so I made sure to hide my new toy in an embroidered case underneath my bed.

Flash-forward a couple of months: A serious and unexpected illness turned my entire life upside down and I ended up in the hospital. After major surgery and one week in the hospital, I was back home and much to my surprise (terror) my mother had cleaned and re-arranged my entire room.

I felt conflicted and nervous. I was grateful she had taken the time to clean my room but I was also freaking out: Where’s my vibrator? Did she see it? Would she open my little embroidered case?

Thankfully I was pretty drugged up, so most of my worries were temporary and quickly forgotten. My mother and I never had a girl-talk type of relationship. We didn’t share dating stories and we certainly never talked about sex. In fact, just the thought of my mom knowing about me doing anything sexual gave me the shudders.

A few nights later, my mother came into my room and told me that she needed to talk to me.

“Oh Jesus,” I thought, “What did she find? Is she going to lecture me? God please grant me a pass this time, I just had surgery for God’s sake.”

As she sat on my bed, I could see concern and disappointment in her eyes. I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation. “Charlotte, when I was cleaning your room, I found your thing,” she said.

I can clearly remember saying, “Oh God,” and hiding my face under my blanket. I knew that she had found more than dust bunnies. I also knew that I was in for an awkward and bizarre conversation and there was no escaping it.

A month or so before this dreaded conversation, my mother sat down on my bed and had the same look of concern in her eyes. Apparently, she’d been out and about and stopped to drop something off at the post office. Not the post office in our town, but the post office the next town over.

Did I mention that there were about ten black people in our entire area? So everybody knew everybody and everybody knew my entire family. While at the post office, a loud-mouthed postal worker with an accent stronger than Paula Deen came up to my mom and asked her if she was there to check my mail.

“What do you mean?” my mother said.

“Oh, your daughter has a P.O. box here. I thought you were here to check it for her,” said the loud-mouthed Paula Deen look-alike. My mother smiled and composed herself and saved all of her questions for me when she got home.

As she sat on my bed and quizzed me about why I had a P.O. box, I felt like I had been super glued into a corner. Not only was I pissed at the idiot at the post office but I also had to figure out a quick lie. My mom began to accuse me of ordering drugs through the mail. I almost laughed out loud, but I restrained myself and assured her that I wasn’t ordering drugs. I’d never even smoked a cigarette for goodness sake.

Then before I knew what was coming out of my mouth I told her that I needed the post office box in order to qualify for more financial aid for college. Somehow, she bought the story and left my room.

Back to the dust bunnies…as I lowered the covers down from my face, my mom was still there staring at me.

“I thought you were a virgin,” she said. I told her that I was still a virgin and then the questions started to get weird. “Then why would you need this? And do you put it in there?”

I looked my mother dead in the eyes and said, “I have needs, mom.” I really thought that my firmness would have been enough to end the conversation but it wasn’t. She still wanted to know how and where I used this “thing.” So I tried to explain to her that I didn’t insert the shell I just used it on my “area.”

Somehow, and really I don’t know how, she had no idea what I was talking about. It’s at this point that my memory starts to fade. Either I ended the conversation or I completely blacked out and went into weird conversation autopilot. After what felt like hours, we finally stopped talking about the vibrator. Just as my mom got up to leave, she turned around and looked at me with the most serious face and said, “That’s what the P.O. box was for? Wasn’t it?”

For years, my mother held the vibrator discovery over my head and threatened to tell my dad anytime we had a disagreement. Blackmail is powerful, people. I also never got my vibrator back. I always wanted to ask my mom what she did with it but I have a pretty good feeling that it was doused with kerosene and burned under the moonlight while my mother sanitized her hands and sang hymns.