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* * * Finally it's time to leave for my aunt's place down south.

" I stuff the last bit of dick-shaped plastic into the bottom of the recycling bin.

There is one big market that sells everything from pork chops and blankets to liquor and vegetables.

It's a yuppy-ish Southern town, chock full of pink popped collars with an undercurrent of blue-collar workers. "Darling," I say, mildly mortified with a frosting of condescension. I think we have to let that dream die here and now." He is prowling the aisles, neck craned forward like a slender dinosaur. If they do sell it it's in the like, shame cabinet in the front with condoms.

My mother had packages arriving by the armful every damn day. If my mother opens my package of purple dildos, if I subject either one of us to that memory—forever—I'm going to fill my pockets with rocks and walk right in the river out back. " "Um, can you be sure not to open any packages with my name on them? It is not uncommon for my parents to half-knock, stroll in, and move through my room as a short-cut to some errand they're running elsewhere.

It was Christmas after all and my family doesn't fuck around when it comes to stuffing stockings and making merry. Brown box after brown box—some from e Bay, some from Amazon—were piled hither thither; she scrawled her name on package after package. And both of us will know that's not only an appropriate reaction but a necessary one. I set my face in a neutral smile, my voice casually inquisitive, and strolled over to her room. Privacy, shall we say, is elusive.) There inside a simple cardboard box are two glistening dildos—one small, one large—and a purple velvet harness. I start mincing around my room, parading in front of the mirror. some of them are presents for you guys." "Why would I open a package with your name on it? you might not be paying attention and open it." She stares. (Let me also explain that the layout of my parents' house is rather odd. The next two days are filled with a kind of simmering dread; every time I hear the gravel crunch in the doorway I dart—oh-so-casually—to the front door to see if I can intercept the delivery man. I snatch it from the front porch and dart to my room where I tear open the packaging. "Dinner's ready." I take a few disappointing photos in the mirror—the photographic evidence simply isn't doing my fierceness justice—and then scramble out of the contraption. We do not own, produce or host the videos embeded on this website.

All of the videos embeded on our site are hosted by websites that are not under our control.

, I whisper as we're getting coffee in some godforsaken gas station.

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