![]() ![]() ![]() I guess I’ll find out once she reads this.Making of resin sculptures. Anything that makes a woman as happy as the Rabbit made Charlotte, I hoped my mom still had in her possession. ![]() But then-I don’t know-I felt kind of sad. At first, I was relieved to see the Rabbit was either gone or more properly stashed away. In fact, a couple of years ago, I slipped into her bedroom and, lowering myself to the floor, peeked once again under her bed. I no longer freeze when she asks me about a certain guy or when she asks those awkward questions while we’re watching a movie. Not only that, she was an owner of THE RABBIT.Īs years went by and I began to have my own sexcapades, the dialogue between my mom and me gradually opened, and I’d like to think it was partly because of my little (five-inch) discovery. There it was, in all its pink glory, the holy grail of Sex and the City-the Rabbit.Īll I could think was, “Why a Ziploc!? You pack my sandwiches in those!” The glass had been shattered. When I saw what was inside, my stomach dropped. Curious, I reached for it and pulled the plastic bag toward me. While searching the floor of my mom’s bedroom for my missing Thera band, something under her bed caught my eye: a Ziploc bag strangely hidden in the shadows. I was determined not to acknowledge that my mom was sexual in any way. Sometimes she missed a reference to an explicit act in a movie and asked me what it was. She’d ask me after one of my dates if the boy I went out with was a good kisser, and I’d just shrug. But when it came to real-life sex, my mom and I never spoke about it, unless you count the “be safe and choose wisely” talks that routinely occur between a mom and her teenage daughter.Īs far as I was concerned, my mom was asexual. Carrie had become a heroine to me: smart, free, and totally imperfect. Without flinching, we watched Samantha blow the FedEx guy, Miranda get jizzed on at an orgasm seminar, and Charlotte use a roll of stamps to test the functionality of her husband’s penis. Something so cute and pink and magical could only be fictional, right?Īs I got older, about 13 or 14, my mom and I began to watch the later seasons together. One episode from Season 1 particularly stuck with me: “The Turtle and the Hare.” It’s the one in which Charlotte, initially averse to the idea of sex toys, gets hooked on the vibrating “Rabbit.” I didn’t really know what the Rabbit was, just that it was the source of Charlotte’s newfound state of perpetual bliss. I inhaled one episode after another the way Carrie feasted on cupcakes from the Magnolia Bakery in Greenwich Village. But whenever my mom left me alone, I’d pop in a Blockbuster VHS and eagerly watch Carrie, Charlotte, or Samantha’s latest sexcapade. Of course, as a nine-year-old, I wasn’t allowed to watch the show when it first aired. To get the real dirt, I had two options: A) Alyssa, the delinquent with flaming red hair who lived across the street or B) HBO’s Sex and the City. Sure, my mom kindly presented me with an illustrated edition of Where Did I Come From? when I was in elementary school, but even then the booked struck me as wholesome and G-rated. Growing up as an only child, you don’t have any siblings to give you the nitty-gritty details about sex. ![]()
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