Ever the nosy seventeen-year-old, you nose through your mom's dresser drawers hoping to score some weed or at least a little money. What you find instead is a horror beyond your imagining: a double-sided dildo that easily clears eighteen inches in length stares up at you from the holes of a pile of lingerie you wished you'd never learned your mother owned.
You recoil in shock, falling back against a nearby nightstand. The impact of your body against the lower portion of the cheap IKEA end table sends the loose drawer rocketing forward; a low rattling escapes from the open drawer. You look upon the source of the sound; a smooth purple vibrator.
Half-fainting down onto the floor, your head naturally falls to the right. Under your mother's bed lies the second largest collection of oversized butt-plugs you've seen since last March.
In your wild, thrashing attempts to rise to your feet and escape this rubber labyrinth of phallic horror, your arm shoots in between the mattress and box spring of your dear mother's bed. Still clutching for a handhold to rise from this penetrative hell, your hand closes around an odd shape: long but not cylindrical, soft but sharp. Pulling away from the Chinese vagina trap that is your mother's pillow-top mattress, your hand pulls out a blue and purple dragon dildo.
You retch as you rise to your feet. You take temporary respite against the wall by the door and inadvertently flip the light switch, activating the ceiling fan. Dildos of all shapes and sizes fly from their hiding spot atop the fan's blades, striking lamps and bookshelves.
A large black vibrator strikes you in between the eyes and you pass out. You welcome the darkness, embrace it. You hope never to return to this world of.mothers and dildos, of floppy rubber secrets hid just between the cracks of your once sacred home.