Keepin It 1 Hunn'ed (Percent Mystery)

The older I get, the more frequent are the random thoughts about who my parents really are. I know what kind of young woman I am, and I’ve been present for the visible parts of my parents’ lives at least since their mid-20’s. What a parent shows, at least back in the day, could be FAR different from who they are when with their friends, out of ear shot, at a club or behind closed doors. I’m curious what parts of me may be like a NEXTEL direct connect to the people I come from.

I think I might be cured of such curiosities now though. I had the great [dis]pleasure of having a “real” conversation with my father not too long ago. Somehow the mention of the Vagina Monologues took me places with him that I was not prepared to go. The protective railing dropped off the sides of the bridge and left me standing on shaky boards with nothing to stop my fall into jagged rocks below. It wasn’t his mention of the word “vagina” that churned my dinner in my stomach before I finished cooking it. My analytical father, NOT actually seen the Monologues, has assumed that it focuses in the wrong way on what women have done or can do with their precious purses. And he’s pretty positive that the end result is snatches snapped shut against the men in their lives.

I too have never seen the Vagina Monologues, though I meant to try to check it out, but assumed that it was supposed to be empowering for women to speak truthfully about the pain and power of the (excuse my English) pussy. It’s the scene of many a splendid, scary, sordid, stupendous, and shameful thing for many. To be able to stand before an audience, mono, and logue about your kitten’s personal experience--be it/they good, bad, and in between--sounded like a power move to me. My father, on the other hand, decided it was a Terri McMillan moment with women waiting to exhale fumes against men, leaving them holding the cleaners for inaccessible pipes. It was an issue that, as a man, he clearly felt passionate about. In that instance I was given a peak to my father as a regular man who likes to get his off just like the next cat. My mouth got all hot and began filling with saliva, like just before the vomit makes its exit. Thanks, Daddy, ‘preciate ya!

As though I hadn’t suffered enough, the conversation mutates and somehow I’m listening to my father discuss “tools” in the bedroom. He gave his consent for couples to experiment but “not with Sprite bottles.” His mention of tools led me away from his words and to a film reel of my own trips to toy shops for the fun of it. As a realist (preferring my penis attached to a man), I haven’t done too much experimenting with additions to my playground. Still, my father left me feeling guilty for even crossing the thresholds of these dens of filth. I immediately launched into silent prayer that my other line would beep (click, whatever), or the battery would die on my cordless. I rebuked my further questioning of who my parents are beneath the titles Mommy and Daddy and begged to have them reinstated as Mary and Joseph.

Yeah, right.

I imagine one of my parents was an Ethical Slut and the other perhaps a Polished Hoe. I also imagine I’m some hybrid version of who they once were, and then some, since I’ve spent more time single. Just know that I don’t define either of those words in the scandalous ways that you may or even that my parents might if they knew I was applying such adjectives to their good names. And if you know them and tell, well, their names haven’t been locked in to either concept. This is all just speculation.

Anyway, I left the call of the opinion that, like Daddy said, keepin’ it real is sometimes too revealing and everything doesn’t need to be told. I like having a little mystery around my parents, and if I had children my transparencies would be on an as needed basis. And I can’t imagine a situation that would EVER call for me to say, “Son/Daughter, Mommy used to get it IN!”

Notagoodlook.com

Watch me move.