All right, so how do I begin?
Begin at the beginning, a very good place to start, right? Although I find it difficult to believe there will be any singing nuns at the end of this fucking story.
Why didn’t I listen to my grandmother and become a nun? I could’ve been a good nun. Well, aside from that doubting in higher organized religion and not being sure in the man upstairs stuff…but I digress.
Saturday started pretty much as it always does, I went to work. I worked. It was moderately boring, but I had plans to get off early, meet up with someone, see a movie and maybe hang out.
Well I got stood up, but I did get to see Twitch and Valium, which is always good, and I got to bum a movie off of them. The movie, Dot the I, ended up not being anywhere near as good as I wanted it to be, and then I had to face the prospect of being without reliable transport downtown all alone.
So I started feeling sorry for myself. Now, these are easily conquered things. I gathered myself up, I brushed myself off and I pretty much said, get the fuck over it, and I hopped on a bus. Now, I did call everyone I know in a desperate attempt to try and hook up with a buddy and maybe meet for some dessert and company. Sadly, it was a huge freaking bus ride and an algebra book for company for me.
But I did make it home, in one piece, but happy to be home, feeling if not popular and shiny, at least filled with the comforts of having a nice safe home filled with happy thoughts, good books, my loving three kittens and…wait, there were only two kittens greeting me at the door.
I don’t immediately panic. The kittens are not like dogs, they don’t always run to the door when I come home, but they usually greet me at the door. Also keep in mind I’m already feeling a bit dejected and having one of the cats not be there for me at that moment seemed HUGE, instead of it seeming like an oversight, it seemed a rejection. I go searching for kittens.
The two (Fate and Mischief) that greeted me at the door go with me. This is concerning. If there was no problem they would simply flop in the regular flopping spots and not worry about their missing brother. Perhaps he is in fact missing. I check the couches, no Chance kitten. I check my bed, no Chance kitten, the food bowl, the litter box, the library, no Chance kitten.
Now I am actually concerned. I open closets. I open every closed door. I begin to search in earnest. I open cabinets and drawers. I look under beds in every bedroom. Which is when I find problem number two. There is a pile of raunchy repugnant printed out porno under my son’s bed off the internet. I really have no time to think about it just yet as I’m searching for the cat. I gather it up, fold it up, and put it in my back pocket to deal with later and head back downstairs.
The Chance kitten is not in the house. I’m certain of it. I have opened fresh cat food, I have called and meowed for him, and he has not come out of hiding. I take a calming breath, and I think back to all the advice given to me in the past by Kash, the woman that gave me the kittens to begin with, should something like this happen. First, think of the last time you saw the cats, gather something that smells like you and put it on the doors.
While I’m gathering something that smells like me to put on the doors, and racking my brain to think of the last time I saw the cat, it occurs to me that the only time the cats go outside is to roll in the garden…they are truly indoor cats with access only to the garden. I climb over fence wall to one side, then the other, no sign of the cat. I then realize that since I’ve not seen the cat since I got home, perhaps mother saw him when she was home before she left for her night shift, as she is feeling better and is allowed back to work.
She answers the phone at work and tells me she was working in the garden and he might be in the shed. I open the shed and out shoots the dirtiest, angriest, happiest to be free Chance kitten. He runs straight to the house, eats, drinks, takes a poo, and then proceeds to purr against my thigh and explain to me the indignities of the shed.
First crisis averted.
Second crisis begins.
I still have a pile of wadded up repulsive porno in my back pocket that I found under my son’s bed. There are many many many many many many many things that can happen now, and none of them are good.
In fact I can’t think of a single thing that can come out of this situation that could possibly be good, end well, or be well. So I can tell you what I did and you can feel free to judge at your own leisure because I know what I did was wrong, because I can’t think of a single thing that would’ve been the right thing to do…not one single thing.
First off, this stuff was vile. The kind of porno that if it had been my boyfriend that had been in possession of the stuff we would’ve had a fight, a big ugly accusatory fight that would’ve had lots of hurt feelings involved. Now, since it is my son, and on one hand I’m like YAY what a normal stage of development I’m so thrilled he is developing sexual urges, and on the other hand the female part of me that is just spitting mad is furious to see the images he is developing sexual feelings towards, I can only say, I was at a total loss as to how to move forward.
I knew that I couldn’t talk to him about the stuff I’d found. There was a level of shame he would feel. There was no way I could say I found these things without being snooping mother, no matter how I found them. I also knew they weren’t going back. I wanted desperately to have a talk with him and know that he would know what I was talking about when I said ‘It is okay to have the feelings you have, but it is not okay to not have those feeling without respect’.
These are huge concepts, even for men twice his age with no disabilities.
So I was pretty sure what I wanted to do was destroy what I’d found and replace it with more respectful stuff and not confront him about it all. Which isn’t usually my style. I’m not passive about much, but I didn’t want to shame him, confuse him, or upset him.
It seemed like a stupid idea, and all you need to move forward with a stupid idea is someone else to agree with you, so I called The Boy’s dad. We talked. He pretty much agreed that given The Boy’s comprehension level as far as human interaction goes, he was pretty sure that any kind of talk other than the ones we’ve already had about the basics in the birds and bees department is going to confuse him further. He also came to the get rid of raunchy crap from under his bed and replace with tasteful stuff and not bring it up unless The Boy asked questions.
So we’d both reached the same conclusion. I shredded the computer porn, and quite possibly the most uncomfortable shopping expedition of my entire life, since shopping for my training bra, began.
I went out at eleven o’clock at night, with my ex, to a porn store, to buy tasteful, respectful pornography, for my son.
There is not much that compares to the indignity of having to go to not one, but two porno stores at eleven o’clock at night with the man that fathered my child and broke my heart on more than one occasion. Two stores because the first one no longer carries paper pornography due to the high theft rate of said item, and then when you get to the second porno store you have to discuss with the man that you broke up with over lack of sex in your own relationship the merits and flaws of the porn you are looking at.
Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover the situation.
Standing there, discussing the fact that I would rather go with the retro stuff because it had less bondage and silicone I realized I have indeed become queen of the pariahs. I had in the course of one Saturday been stood up, blown off, and I was probably breaking several social laws by providing my son with porno at that very moment. I was standing there with a man that had considered me unfuckable during our relationship discussing pros and cons of porn as though nothing was amiss.
I came home with my retro pack of porno; I hid it where The Boy’s stuff had been. I’m sure I’ve ruined him for life, but I’m doing the best I can, and that is about all I can do right now. Hopefully he won’t torture any bugs, kittens, or children because of some fucked up thing I did to him in his developing years.
All I need now is a tiara and I am truly Queen of the pariahs.
I have no idea if I’ve done the right thing. Just like I said to begin with, I have no idea what the right thing would’ve been, but the next time you see me on the bus, I’ll be the one with my head hung low and the tiara settled atop my head, perhaps askew, but definitely there.