***Caution. Proceed at Own Risk. This post is a graphic over-share of the Redneck life.***

It is no secret I have become a big collector fan of battery-operated toys. I may or may not have a wide assortment of various tools of self-pleasure at my disposal and an unending supply of batteries with which to operate them with.

Don’t judge me peoples, my husband is never home. Ahem.

To be honest, it was my husband who started the collection for me. He would tell me he was going grocery shopping and come home with a paper bag filled with treasures from a kinky store and smile and laugh when my mouth hanged open in shock and protest.

It took my husband a lot of constant persuasion and many bottles of wine to build up my liquid courage to even take one out of it’s packaging. For a long time, those plastic fun toys were kept tucked away in his sock drawer, mocking me whenever I put his laundry away.

I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of using a stimulus to engage in sexual activity. (Stupid me.) I had a hang up about it. I wasn’t that type of girl. Sure, I could get tattoos and pierce every known part of my body, but dude…a dildo that vibrates? What the hell is wrong with your ten fingers and tongue I’d ask him when ever he brought the subject up.

Then one night, too much mommy juice had been ingested and my husband sensed I was ripe for the pickings. You might say he surprised me with the soft buzz of a mechanical toy and you might say I was forever converted. 

My husband created a monster.

Since then, my um, mouse clickers have found a drawer of their own and may or may not be regularly used in our sessions of marital mattress dancing.

(My apologies to my mother-in-law. But just so you know, if you are still reading this, your son is very talented. *Waggles eyebrows.* You should be proud. Wink.)

Boo and I have even learned to put the dang things away after having the kids ask why there is a purple plastic penis in the bathroom sink.

Who says an old dog can’t learn a new trick?

This past Christmas, as I was wandering the stores of the mall, wracking my brain wondering what to buy my husband that would knock his socks off, I passed a local kink store where a group of horny 16 year old boys were standing by the opaque window with a sign that said YOU MUST BE 18 TO ENTER and daring one another to see if they could walk in the store unnoticed.

My first thought when I saw this rag tag group of boys was holy shit! These kids aren’t much older than my own darling Fric and Frac!! I’m so buying chastity belts and locking my kids in their rooms till they’re 40. My second thought, once I erased the lame motherly reaction from my brain was, hmm, wonder if they have anything interesting in there.  

So I pushed past the group of boys crowding the entrance while totally winking at one of them, because neener neener, I’m legal yo, and I can buy all the disturbing kink crap I want, (I’m at the height of maturity I tell ya) and I started perusing one sexually disturbing aisle of kinky toys after another.

There is a reason I never go into these shops. I am, for all my dirty talk, a prude. Some things are just best left to the imagination and what the hell does someone need a six-inch round, 18-inch long dildo for? And just how big a cooter does one need to use something like that?

(Please refrain from actually explaining that in my comments yo. Better left wondered about.)

Just as I was making my way out of the store while hoping and praying nobody I knew would be walking by outside and catch me coming out of the pervert’s delight, a small stand of colorful boxes caught my eye.

Laughing, I grabbed a box and giggled as I paid the bored, pimpled twenty-something cashier and smiled at the thought of Boo’s reaction when he opened his stocking stuffer Christmas morning.

Turnabout is fair play, and for all the toys he has bought me, I figured it was time for one of his own.

Christmas morning finally arrived and with the children ripping through their stockings like they were in a race, my husband leisurely started examining the contents of his stocking. I watched as he laughed at the book I bought him, cooed over the video game I surprised him with and rolled his eyes at the requisite soap, socks and toothbrush we give each other ever year.

Then his hand pulled out an unfamiliar package. I could see the puzzlement in his eyes as he wondered what the small box was. The kids had now finished flying through their stockings and were patiently waiting for their father to finish his so they could rip into the loot underneath the tree. Time seemed to stand still for the two of them and they all but chomped at the bit to get to the good stuff.

Boo did what he always does, which is to torture them by slowly unwrapping the unfamiliar present while drawing the moment out by trying to guess what it was.

The kids, knowing their father could not be hurried no matter how badly harassed, gamely played along as I just grinned, knowing what was in store for him.

Smiling, he had the tape carefully peeled off and he opened the paper when he realized what exactly his present was. His smirk was suddenly wiped off as he quickly bundled the little box back into his stocking and looked at me like I grew devil’s horns.

The kids, dying with curiosity, hounded him wanting to know what the present was. I laughed into my coffee and watched him squirm and try to think of something imaginative that wouldn’t make them even more curious.

“Um, it’s just razor blades,” he lamely replied as I snorted and whispered something about him being a chicken shit.

All in all, he recovered fairly well after receiving his very first cock ring.

After all the presents had been opened and the kids were busy examining their new found treasures, Boo and I shared a laugh over his reaction and then started cleaning up the Christmas mess. I never paid any attention to where put his new pleasure toy, I just assumed it had made it’s way into the drawer with all of our other naughty bedroom items.

Fast-forward to last week when my daughter was cleaning out the family bathroom and Boo was riding herd over them to make sure the house was clean for our American houseguest.

My daughter was under strict instructions to clean the bathroom properly, not half-assed like she normally does and that included straightening up the bathroom drawers she had littered with sparkle dust and pink eye shadows.

I was at the other end of the house supervising her brother straightening up the video games when I heard Fric call for her dad and me.

Wandering out of the bathroom she held a familiar looking box in her hand. Apparently, Boo had forgotten about it and just put it away with his new soaps and toothbrushes.

“Um, Mom? Dad? Where do you want me to put this?” Fric asked as she was staring at the box. 

Time stood still. Boo and I both realized at the exact same time what our innocent 12 year old daughter held in her tiny little hands and a look of horror crossed his face.

“Give that to me,” he half-snapped, half-persuaded as I just stood there frozen, thinking about how much it would cost in therapy bills to erase this scene from everybody’s minds.

Fric looked at her dad, then over to me, and then duly handed it over. A look of relief washed over Boo’s face as he tucked the small box into his pocket and told her to get back to work.

I tried to make eye contact with Boo but he was lost in his own maze of disturbing mental images and was silently wishing to fall into the earth at that very moment. 

Just as Boo and I turned around to get back to work, Fric popped her head out of the bathroom and asked the question no parent ever wants to hear their child ask.

“Dad, what’s a cock ring for?”

A split second of stunned silence and then I couldn’t help it. I doubled over laughing. The look on Boo’s face was priceless.

He stood there gasping for air like a fish does when out of water and tears started to streak down my face.

“Never mind and get back to work,” he barked while his face was beat red. That’s when he shot me a dirty look that all but blamed me for corrupting his children’s innocence.

Fric just looked at her dad and then the light dawned in her little brain.

“Oh, I get it. It’s like those other toys Mom has in the drawer. Ewwww,” she grimaced and then went back to cleaning the bathroom. “You guys are so gross,” I heard her mutter.

That was it, I was done. I couldn’t help it. I belly laughed. Boo, however, did not. He grabbed his jacket and growled, “It’s not funny Tanis!” as he stalked outside to hide in the woods.

Apparently, us old dogs still need to learn a few tricks. While our children are rapidly learning every one in the book.

Meanwhile, Boo is working double shifts to pay for his own damn therapy bills.

Good thing I have a few toys at my disposal.

Wink.