Squaw Make Silent Tears Thirty-Two Years

Disclaimer: This is based on a true story. Certain names and details have been changed.

July 23, 2012 – Ten days prior to Aaron’s suicide attempt, I wrote the following text to my friend J_:

Me: I may be a widow before I ever become a divorcee. Kids say they are bracing themselves for the phone call. Aaron sent a message this morning telling me he hasn’t wanted to live ever since I left. His demeanor is mirroring his brother’s demeanor just before he took his own life four years ago. I get texts from Aaron that vacillate from one extreme emotion to another. I don’t need to write a book. Aaron is writing one for me, text by text. I can start the book with his older brother’s suicide, move on to Aaron’s self-harm during our courtship, then his aunt’s suicide, then my nephew’s suicide, then our daughters suicide attempts, then his younger brother’s suicide, and then conclude it with Aaron’s suicide. There might be enough material for a trilogy. But in truth, J_, though I jest, Aaron’s demise is so painful to witness, the kids and I can hardly bare it. The nightmare continues in the outer fringes of my pretended happiness.

July 23, 2012

J_: Poor Aaron.  Earth life has been so difficult for him. You took good care of him for so many years but he was beyond repair. You can always feel good about your sacrifices.

July 24, 2012

Me: Aaron’s in good form today. Here is the message he cc’d to me:

“Use to be White Eyes (me) had Squaw…just needed TeePee…now Whites Eyes in Heap Big trouble and Big Fork in the Road…now White Eyes need new Squaw…and TeePee…what White Eyes to do?

Maybe White Eyes need to ride horse better…not get thrown off by squaw while napping!

Just a little levity

Dad”

I no longer respond to Aaron’s texts unless absolutely necessary. But I would’ve liked to have written this in return: Maybe if Whites Eyes do not nap so much he could have bought BIG teepee for 10 cow squaw wife. Now Whites Eyes, squaw and papoose’s all have red eyes from cry too much.

July 24, 2012

J_: I love your response. You have so much self control in not sending it to him.

July 24, 2012

Me: I learned about a month ago that one cannot fight the devil and expect to win no matter how witty one thinks one is. I gain nothing from responding.

July 25, 2012

Me: Squaw make many new friend at LDS Singles. Meet big chief Craig Terry of Craig’s List and now on special email list for much sand volleyball, raindance and parties. No more 10 cow squaw wife. Price gone up since squaw still have nice ass, silk skin, much brain, white teeths, happy smile and papooses grown and not in teepee. Squaw not have to hunt food, make big cook fires, clean, be like white slave girl while White Eyes sit on lazy ass in teepee, keep warm by fire, nap much, shop much much much. (Oops. Not all tomahawks buried yet.) Squaw work hard still. Squaw build better life. Squaw free prison now White Eyes gone.

July 25, 2012

J_: Man oh man I wish you could send that to White Eyes.

July 25, 2012

Me: White Eyes have evil orange eyes. No can send. Squaw laugh silent laugh just like silent tears thirty-two years.

Obscured Superiority

“I don’t have a fancy diploma that tells the world how f**king amazing I am. I’m not an artist with a gallery of paintings to be admired. But my accomplishments are just as beautiful, if not more beautiful, than a Botticelli angel. My life’s work has been the sacrifices I’ve made to give my children a bright and happy future. Sadly, my shattered family unity eclipses my greatest accomplishments. Maybe, I’m writing my own life story because it’s painful to be lumped into the category of an unsuccessful, slutty, exmo, divorcee.”

Those are the words I shared with a gentleman today. They are the same words I often share with people when I feel my hackles rise. I’m not as defensive as I once was–when I initially left Mormonism. I’m getting more comfortable in my new skin. But there are times when someone hits my “hot” button and I get really pissed. Today was one of those days.

In a message, this nice gentleman presented himself as a rather magnificent catch. While I was impressed with the many fine qualities he could bring to a relationship, his closing words were off-putting.

“I have only slept with women I have loved, so you can imagine I have slept with only a few women in this life. I am saving myself for that one special love that is my future. I will know her, and she will get all of me. I won’t expect that of her, because we each have our own path to walk where love is concerned. But I will be able to say to her, I turned down many invitations waiting for you. And the only way I will give myself to her is that my inner knowing sees her as the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.

Thus, she will know that I honor myself, not in some religious way or prudish puritan fashion, for I have known a few lovers, but in a way that says, I don’t give myself away until I give myself a way to love you forever. That way you could be assured that, when we had sex, it really meant something profound, and that feeling allows the friendship I desire to build into a relationship I cannot imagine life without. And when that happens, you have all of me, all of me, both feet in, and fully present.

For most women, this would seem like a really great guy. Not a player. Awesome. But for some f**ked-up reason, it left me feeling as though he’d placed himself on an altruistic pedestal and was pointing his judgmental middle-finger down at me. And even though he claimed he won’t judge another woman for having taken a different path, his words still stung with obscured superiority.

I know it wasn’t his intention to shame me, but, suddenly, I felt shamed. As I explore my sexuality sans ecclesiastical guidelines, I’ve found, much of society has this f**ked-up idea that it’s not only “okay” for a guy to score some pussy, but it’s actually really “cool” when he does. And, yet, when a woman puts more than one dick inside her, she’s a bona fide slut.

Following is my utterly defensive response to his glowing representation of himself:

 “To be truly honest, I’m not sure how to feel about your message. In some ways, you’ve led me to believe you’re the perfect man and, yet, I feel as though you’ve talked down to me–as though I’m lesser than you. I’m sure your cog dissonance will chalk up my reaction to my being an insecure person, but I assure you I’m every bit as competent and confident as you.

I’m a daughter of a literal genius (my father), and an accomplished, six-time award-winning playwright (mother), a genetically perfect blend of left and right brained talents. Like you, my EQ (Emotional IQ) is off the charts. I’m so f**king brilliant that I kept a hoarding f**kopath incredibly happy for thirty f**king years. Every day of my life was spent reading the emotional nuanced signals he sent out. I had to adapt quickly to all kinds of bizarre scenarios and irrational thinking in order to keep my children and me safe. While in this environment, I didn’t have emotional, physical, spiritual, or financial support from a normal husband. As a result, I raised our children as though I was a single mom. The entire burden of providing for them, nurturing and teaching them lay squarely on my shoulders. But it was more difficult than just being a single mom because having a f**ktard for a husband was akin to having one more child…and not just any child…a special needs child. And not just any special needs child…a child who sought daily to destroy me because eight years into the marriage I made him angry when I asked for a divorce–even though I didn’t go through with it. For the next twenty-two years, he attacked me with Machiavellian-style cruelty. He was so bent on destroying me the he didn’t mind hurting his own children in the process–the worst hurt that can be inflicted on a mother. I didn’t receive help from church or community because we appeared to be a normal functioning family. It was me that presented this picture to the world because that was what was required of me.

On top of these challenges–or as Mormons would say, “Growth Opportunities”–was the burden of caring for a child who was also personality disordered. While raising her I didn’t know anything about personality disorders, so I was left to my own motherly instincts and creative devices to help this child face major hurdles in life. This meant I battled a f**ked-up school system that doesn’t cater to non-mainstream children while attempting to keep the daily emotional outbursts to a minimum.

Simultaneously, I launched and maintained a successful real estate career, nursed my ailing father—a stroke victim requiring 24/7 care for nearly three years—assisted my emotionally-imbalanced histrionic mother, faithfully fulfilled my numerous church callings, ran herd over my other children, and took care of all the household needs of cleaning, repairs and maintenance, including yardwork. I did all this with a smile on my face and stilettos on my dainty feet. I did all this with a major ball-and-chain-of-a-husband hanging on my leg, holding me back from every attempt I made to get help for our daughter. While in the midst of her multiple suicide attempts, he repeatedly counseled me, “If we just live the gospel, she’ll be fine. The Lord will help us. Psychologists are full of shit.”

My dear friend, I know you didn’t intend to make me feel defensive. I’m sure most of that is coming from me. I guess I just had to unabashedly brag a bit because, from the onset, I believe you may have misjudged me. I assure you that I’ve not responded in this message as a plea to have you as my lover. I’m in no way interested in a lover right now. I’m glad that you’ll be helping individuals with your brilliance. We aren’t much different from one another. We’re both good people with big hearts and much to give and share with the world–and with a future soul mate. I truly wish you all the best in your endeavors.

Warmest regards,

Lucy”

Note: For more on the topic of slut shaming, please visit, Laci Green at sex+

http://youtu.be/CCw2MzKjpoo

RE: JENNAMARBLES’ “SLUT EDITION”…

Party of One

Sometimes, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched and look for a red laser beam on my chest. I always close my blinds when the sun goes down.

Sometimes, I wonder what day he’ll choose for his suicide/homicide. My birthday perhaps?

Sometimes, I wonder whether or not to attend a dance or special event because “he” might be there with a loaded gun.

Sometimes, I wonder about seemingly selfless acts of kindness. Why is this guy being nice? Who is he really? Who will he become when my wall comes down?

Sometimes, I jokingly say, “All men (and women) are sociopaths until proven otherwise.” I’m not really joking.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll go to my grave having never been loved.

Sometimes, I wonder if Humpty Dumpty is laughing at all the king’s horses and all the king’s men trying to put my shattered soul back together again.

Sometimes, I remind myself that I can’t possibly go to the grave having never been loved because I love me…and, it’s okay if I’m just a party of one…because I’m a f**king awesome…worthy of love.

Note from Lucy Furr: If you suspect that you’re in an abusive relationship or have been in one, I have several tips and resources that helped me escape my perpetrator. They are as follows:

  1. You don’t have to be physically assaulted to seek help from the women’s shelter. When I landed in the women’s shelter, my then-husband had never beaten me, though I lived in fear that he might.
  2. If you’re not sure you’re in an abusive relationship, seek help from the women’s shelter. They can help you sort out your emotions and answer questions.
  3. If you don’t want live in the women’s shelter, contact them anyway. They have an out-reach program that offers many resources and classes that are helpful.
  4. If someone is holding you hostage via suicidal threats, you’re likely in an abusive relationship. The women’s shelter can help you learn how to deal with suicidal partners in a healthier way.
  5. I strongly recommend reading the book, “Why Does He Do That?” by Lundy Bancroft. Even if you’re not in an abusive relationship, this is the best book on the market to learn about the red flags of manipulation and control. It’s the most important book you’ll ever read. All young girls should read this book before they start dating. (Note: The book isn’t just for women. It’s written for men too. The author didn’t want to say he/she throughout his book so he chose one gender for ease of writing.)
  6. Leaving an abuser is the most dangerous time for a victim. If your perpetrator hasn’t physically assaulted you yet, he/she might easily escalate to physical violence when he/she believes you might leave. Most domestic related homicides take place when a victim is leaving his/her partner. Don’t let your perpetrator know that you’re leaving.
  7. Just because a controlling person has no record of having been physically violent in the past, this doesn’t mean he/she won’t become physically violent in the future.
  8. Don’t jump into other relationships after leaving an abusive partner. Trust me. You’re f**ked up. It will take time, therapy and a lot of self-reflection to break the pattern of abuse.
  9. Movies and television don’t depict sociopaths accurately. They don’t look or act anything like Dexter or Hannibal Lecter. I highly recommend reading the book, “The Sociopath Next Door” by Martha Stout.
  10. Before you attempt to date again, I recommend reading the book, “Dating Game Secrets to Marrying a Good Man” by Alisa Snell.
  11. Educate yourself about sociopaths. Visit: LoveFraud.com or PsychopathFree.com

The Obedient Mormon Wife – Chapter One

Aaron, my husband, pulls into Smith’s parking lot and I take in a deep breath, preparing myself for what I’m about to do. He parks our silver Pacifica and I turn to place my purse in the back seat, taking my time covering it with a jacket, making this an obvious gesture so he’ll realize I’m not the one paying for groceries; this shopping trip is on his nickel. A pang of anxiety hits me as we enter the store but I push the feeling aside. I can do this, I reassure myself. Aaron begins placing items into the cart and I contemplate how I should begin adding things without receiving one of his stern looks. I wait for an opportunity to present itself, and finally one comes when he picks up a package of chocolate-frosted cupcakes. My voice is barely audible as I point to a loaf of Grandma Sycamore bread and remind him that we only have a few slices of bread left at home. This is a safe item to begin with because we both enjoy toast for breakfast and it only costs $1.89.

Making our way past fresh fruits and vegetables, I notice watermelons have arrived from the farms and yearn to have one. Aaron doesn’t like watermelon so I keep my desire hidden. He doesn’t mind if I eat watermelon, if that’s what I like, but he certainly wouldn’t be willing to purchase one. In the meat department, boneless, skinless, chicken breasts are on sale. If I were shopping with my own money this evening I’d load up with several pounds of chicken to freeze for lfor foater. But tonight is different. Tonight, I’m beginning a quiet, furtive, effort to reduce Aaron’s hoarding by increasing his purchases of household necessities. I don’t know how much money he has in his wallet, so I look for his approval as I place a package of chicken in the cart. Since there’s no furrowing of his brow I’m relieved, and let out a slow, soundless, sigh.

I dawdle through the laundry detergent aisle and breathe in the irresistible fragrances of lavender, fresh rain and spring bouquet. Aaron reaches for a medium-sized bottle of Arm & Hammer detergent and I don’t mention that, per ounce, the larger bottle is a better price or that the store brand is cheaper. I’m just happy he’s buying it, one less item for me to pay for later. Seizing the moment, I suggest we buy liquid fabric softener.

“I don’t use liquid fabric softener,” Aaron says, “I prefer dryer sheets.”

“I like liquid softener,” I say, hoping the trembling in my voice isn’t noticeable, “but I can use dryer sheets.” Unwanted tears glisten in my eyes so I turn and pretend to examine the assorted stain sprays opposite us. I shouldn’t be doing this. If he figures out what I’m up to, he’ll be angry. How can I possibly explain my actions away? I push these unwanted thoughts aside, garnering enough courage to drop a few more low-priced items into the cart, each time glancing in my husband’s direction for signs of displeasure. I keep these glances quick and casual. Lingering, questioning glances might arouse his suspicion.

After making our final selections we head to the checkout stand. I feel awkward and vulnerable standing in line without my credit card in hand. My heart pounds hard as items are loaded onto the conveyor belt. Staccato beeps scream at me as groceries pass over the scanner. I can’t muster the courage to search Aaron’s eyes to discern his thoughts. When he doesn’t reach for his wallet, my pulse quickens as though my heart is competing with my racing mind. Oh, no! What if he senses my apprehension? Is the trembling in my body noticeable? To ease the stress I move toward the exit and stare at posters on the wall, looking but not seeing, my whole being paralyzed with fear as I listen for his footsteps. Aaron pays the cashier and joins me at the exit.

Silence stabs at me on our walk to the car. Shuddering, I slow my pace, allowing Aaron to move ahead. The silence heightens my fear and I can’t bear it any longer. I pop in one of his favorite CD’s. The relaxing sound of Musetta’s Waltz wraps its soft melody around us and fills the awkward space of unspoken thoughts. I wonder whether to thank him for the groceries; if I do, I might draw too much attention to the situation. Deciding to say nothing I focus on controlling my panicked breathing.

On our drive home, I contemplate giving up this silly game of human chess. Maybe I should just let him win. Life is pleasant, even enjoyable, when I do what I am supposed to do: take care of Aaron.

I know he is a broken man. I knew that from the start. When we were dating I tried to end the relationship but then he went up into the mountains, found a broken beer bottle and lost control of himself. Afterwards he arrived on my doorstep with his face and hands cut and bleeding. I opened my door to him and treated his wounds.

“I don’t know what happened,” he cried softly. “I went to my favorite spot by the river to pray, to find comfort. Evil spirits took over my body. I don’t know how I managed to get away. I feel safe now. I feel safe when I’m with you.”

Maternal instincts are strong emotions, strong enough to eliminate the red flags that were waving in front of me, strong enough to sacrifice my happiness for his. As a youth, I witnessed my mother’s kindness as she took foster children, refugees and foreign exchanges students into our home. Her example taught me the importance of being a true Christian. God wanted me to care for this lost and lonely soul, or so I believed. My love for Aaron grew that day as I cradled him in my arms and rocked him as a mother rocks a weeping child. I knew from church teachings, and discussions with Aaron, that evil spirits are real‒as real as Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Back then I believed Aaron when he shared stories from his past, about how his brother really died. Randy hadn’t committed suicide. When Aaron heard the shot ring out from the basement, he ran downstairs. He was the first one to the scene. The gun lay too far from Randy’s body to have been a suicide. The investigator had it wrong‒an evil spirit shot his brother. All my life I’ve been taught that Satan couldn’t physically harm us, but Aaron bore such strong testimony, his story had to be true. When I embraced Aaron, gazed into his pleading, tear-filled eyes, I silently vowed to protect him from the evil spirits. I chose to care for this broken child of God. But I was only nineteen at the time. I was naïve. How could I have understood the enormity of that promise?

I was popular in college, dated more than studied. I was attractive, outgoing, and friendly. My thin brown hair had been, and still is, my nemesis‒curly in all the wrong places, exposing my high forehead. But my figure, which my mom referred to as a ballerina figure, made up for those imperfections. Aaron knew he’d have to fight off other suitors and so he wooed me. No. He wowed me by showering me with gifts, clothes, dozens of roses, diamond earrings, meals at posh restaurants, and romantic dates to the ballet, theater and opera; all the while rising above the ranks of mundane college men—boys really—who thought dating to be an ideal time to test a woman’s cooking skill and tolerance for televised football. The red flags slowly moved into the background, barely visible.

But that was a long time ago. We pass a church, festooned with yellow and white garlands leading to its doors, as we return home from Smith’s. I figure a wedding must be underway and think back to my own special day. It was on a warm June day in 1982, gowned in flowing white, that I accepted the covenants of marriage for time and all eternity in the Salt Lake temple. My childhood dreams had come to fruition. Across from me, the man I thought I loved—who I believed to be a worthy priesthood holder—smiled and ducked his head. Aaron wasn’t at all comfortable as the focal point; but he’d covenanted to be my husband and I was as happy as any bride could be‒thrilled to be Mrs. Aaron Stallard!

But my joy was short lived. After consummating our marriage on our wedding night, I stepped into the elegant dressing room of our honeymoon suite to change into my new silk nightgown. When I returned a few minutes later, Aaron was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his shirt and slacks, his head buried between his hands, crying.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake.” He said, shaking his head side to side.

“What is it darling?” I knelt beside him on the bed, my mind racing as I wrapped my arms around his muscular shoulders, “What’s upsetting you?”

“We need to annul our marriage.” He finally answered.

            What is he saying? We had a rocky courtship but I thought that was all behind us once we got engaged. Why did he marry me if he was just going to have it annulled? How could this be happening? Tears, blackened with mascara, streamed down my cheeks and onto my cream-colored nightgown as I tried to make sense of the situation.

“I can’t support us.” He continued, his body shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t know why I went through with the marriage when I had the prompting not to. Oh, what have I done, what have I done! I should’ve listened to the spirit. I’m so sorry, Elli, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

The idea of an annulment was ridiculous. He can’t be serious. He’s just scared, that’s all, as most men must be when they take on the heavy responsibility of being providers, protectors and leaders in their homes. I kissed his hands, then his cheek, and finally his lips. ‘It’s going to be fine,” I promised him. “We’ll get through this. You’re just anxious. We’ll be fine. You’re not alone, we’re in this together.”

Aaron claims he doesn’t like to play games. He’s right in the sense that he doesn’t play board games or even sports. But he plays games all right. He plays human poker and human chess. He’s been playing me for thirty years. Sometimes he plays the hand of victim like he did when we were dating. Sometimes he’s the romantic when he takes me out on a date. Sometimes he plays a comedian and I giggle at his outlandish remarks. But at other times he plays his Ace of Spades, intimidating me with his towering, bodyguard physique and icy cold stare.

It isn’t Aaron’s six foot tall height, two hundred pounds of muscle, barrel chest or bald head that people find threatening; it’s the way he sets his jaw when he’s provoked, his nervous energy, his quick temper, his social awkwardness that keeps them at a distance. Somehow I saw past his menacing aura when we’d first met and now I’ve learned to live with it, reading his every gesture, every glare, like a deaf person reads sign language. But when Aaron wants something he’s as cunning as the devil, and I often misinterpret his premeditated schemes. Only once or twice have I chanced to see him smirking while playing out his hand. He shrewdly keeps his cards close to the vest‒gives away nothing. He generates the unwritten rules of his games and, up until recently, I’ve not tried to fight against them. I’ve never dared to delve into his deep, dark secrets, never looked inside his wallet or inspected his separate bank account statements. I’m not privy to the mail being delivered to his personal post office box. I know nothing of the websites he views so early in the morning.

I don’t much care for Aaron’s games, his unwritten rules. They’ve forced me into servitude as provider, protector and caretaker of our home and family. Barring minor donations, Aaron doesn’t contribute to rent, food, clothing, utilities, or any other expenses the children and I have. Those expenditures are mine; they’ve been my burden for the last twenty-two years of our thirty-year marriage. Aaron pays for his own needs and nothing more. And Aaron needs stuff‒lots and lots of stuff.

And so, five months ago, I began my own version of human chess when I started opening my eyes to the bizarre life we live. It’s a dangerous game I play. Though Aaron has never physically assaulted me, I can’t say with certainty he won’t harm me in the future; something about him scares me. He’s a hoarder and hoarders guard their loot; even the mere suggestion an item from his spoils ought to be discarded is met with fury. Since I dare not outright threaten the sanctity of his belongings, I play my hand the naughty way: surreptitiously. When Aaron leaves for work, I peek inside crammed drawers, behind closed doors, in the shed, within storage units. I’m naughty because I’m documenting my findings. I’m naughty because I covertly toss old magazines and sneak beloved kitchen gadgets, even though they chop, slice and dice onto eBay. As I remove trinkets and treasures from within the bowels of our home, terror mingled with glee haunts and excites me. I’m naughty to have such feelings. I’m naughty because I’m crossing well-established boundaries, cautiously putting Aaron’s rules to the test, tweaking them without permission.

I’m not sure how angry Aaron will become if he finds things missing. I don’t know what will happen if I’m caught. My own game frightens me. Tonight was just one small ploy, one small nudge in getting Aaron to provide for our family. Now I wait for Aaron’s reaction‒for his counterattack. Our ride home is quiet, peaceful, but I don’t know his thoughts. Maybe he didn’t notice my stealthy feat; but then again, maybe he’s just biding his time, examining the battlefront, preparing to advance his position.

At home we put groceries away without our usual playful bantering of unimportant events from the day. This signals me that something is amiss. In my mind I replay the shopping ruse, hunting for mistakes in my performance. Does Aaron know what I’m up to? Is he on to my tactical maneuver already? It’s hard to tell this soon into the opening of this match. He might just be tired. Since the end of the day is upon us we stray from our usual bedtime routine and skip cuddling up to watch a Netflix movie. Instead we climb into bed and turn out the lights.

Aaron falls into a deep sleep and snores beside me. Sleep eludes me as I lay awake churning the details of today’s experiment around and around in my head. I feel both elated and hurt: elated because Aaron spent $28 dollars on me and hurt because this is a big deal. It makes me wonder how many pawns I’ll need to sacrifice to save the queen.

Single Woman Problems: Dating at this age sucks

When my date leaned forward, the back of his t-shirt slid up exposing a white gauzy padding that looked suspiciously like the Depend underwear my father wore just before his death. Horrified, I froze. “What the f**k!” I screamed inside my head, “Is my date wearing a diaper?!”

Hyper focusing on this assumption, I craned my neck towards his backside and ogled his butt. Whether my date noticed the sudden, unusual, absence of words streaming from my otherwise chatty mouth or just followed my gaze, I know not. But one thing is certain; he knew my thoughts. “Oh, that?” he stammered, twisting his torso while pointing at his rear, “That’s just an Icy Hot medicinal dressing for my back. I…uh…strained it playing volleyball the other day.”

“Oh,” I said, waving my hand as though it were nothing. “I figured that’s all it was.”

(Dating, at this age, sucks.)

OKCupid Message from Young Man

Recently, on OKCupid, I received the following message:

Young Man: I just want to meet you to see if you´re really that pretty in person! Haha! I’d respectfully date the sh!t out of you! What are you up to?

Old Woman (Me): LOL! How does one “respectfully” date the shit out of someone? I’m so very curious.

Young Man: Respectfully.

Single Woman Problems: Masturbation

When you’re in the bedroom masturbating and your kids knock on the door demanding to come in, you can’t yell out, “Daddy and I are talking. You can’t come in right now.”

To make matters worse, it was my adult son who’s living here with his fiancé until the wedding. I told him, “I’m getting into the shower.” But when time passed without the water being turned on, he pounded on the door again. I was at a complete loss for words. And, no son, unless he’s super creepy, wants a mental picture of his mother with a vibe in her pussy.