Don't mind the ropes, Mum.

My mother, the incredibly accepting and wonderful person that she is, is by nature, quite a straight laced and conservative lady. This has resulted in some interesting conversations over the years the most recent of which was a request to remove my silver hot pants complete with purple rubber vagina stitched to the front of them from above the entry to my kitchen because “It’s embarrassing when I have to explain it to your Grandmother when we come over.” It’s like a figurehead on a ship…in my kitchen. Meant to ward off evil vagina spirits and wish safe passage upon all those that travel here or something. 

Through fits of laughter I politely declined. It’s an award winning item of clothing with sentimental value after all. First place at a ‘Homemade Super Heroes’ party for a sparkly spandex ensemble complete with fake vagina stitched to the front of my hot pants, one on the end of a broom handle as my sceptre and voila; Cunteato, absolutely counts as award winning. Besides I’m sure Nanna knows what it is, being an owner/operator and all, so no. No I won’t. 

Anyhow. 

I was helping my Dad install a new oven and whilst I was working to undo a tab with a screwdriver the treacherous little bastard slipped and, valiantly, my knuckle leapt into the path of the oncoming oven housing. One “oh shit” moment later and I’m bleeding quite impressively all over the place. Cue me wrapping my hand around the cut and holding it up while Mum is handing me paper towel and asking where my medicine cabinet is.

…shit. 

The only medical supplies I have are all kept upstairs in my room with all the other…supplies. Relief washes over me as I remember there is a tiny one in the pantry with Band-Aids and some Dettol. I direct her there while I run upstairs to go wash out the cut. Thinking “HAH! Here’s my chance” I dart into my bedroom to grab some saline solution, steri-strips and gauze. Well, that’s what I would have done had I remembered that I wasn’t really in a position to grab much of anything as both of my hands were occupied with trying not to bleed everywhere so all I’d managed to achieve was kicking open the door. Well fuck, at least Mums not… 

“What are yo…oh” 

…double shit 

“Ahh just ignore the ropes and the belt and the meat tenderiser looped through the belt, can you pass me some solution, strips and gauze please?” 

Mum begins to reach for them but hesitates. We’re both a little caught unawares. Oh well, can’t stop now, finger’s trying to abandon ship. 

“Yes, no, that’s it. They’re in the box below the belt with the tenderiser, next to the cane and the chain flogger…and the crop. Yep, the white box with the drawer, yes that one, next to the box of needles. No, you’ll have to move the scalpels out of the way to get to the gauze. Great now let’s leave here and go fix this finger shall we?” 

Yep, this isn’t a big deal, everything is fine. My Mum is digging through my kink cupboard…everything is completely normal and fine and there’s nothing strange about this at all and there is absolutely not a shelf of dildos and lube and harnesses just above your head. Normal weekday evening right here. 

To her credit not another word was said nor jibe made throughout the rest of the evening while we were cleaning it or when we realised it was worse than first thought and we were off getting stitches and tetanus shots. Wheeee! Shock is such a wonderful gift sometimes…for us both. 

...Bet those pants aren’t looking too bad now, are they Mum?