Le maudit Mo D.

oh, the glory (hole) of it all

In my mother's life, I am often the bearer of bad news (and in the tony 'Mar, their idea of live music is a bunch of middle-aged white dudes playing Marley covers on a steel drum--def. not the live music capital of the world here). Last night, I learned that in my mom's 60 years on this planet, never once had she heard the term "glory hole." This came about during the following exchange

LILBRO: Bla bla something about how he needs lots of clothes because he hates all the clothes he has bla bla.
MOM: I don't understand why this child is such a clotheshorse!
MO: I do. It's because he's a big homo faggot fashion slutboy. Hey, at least it's just clothes he's into and not patronizing every glory hole in San Diego County.

Mom thought that "glory hole" meant "sphincter," and when I corrected her she literally shrieked as if a rat had just crawled up her skirt. "I can't believe people actually do that!" she hollered for the neighbors to hear. She had me explain the concept to her very carefully and she didn't want to believe me. I then produced the wikipedia page for "glory hole (sexual)", which had a link to a photo of an actual glory hole, some ghetto punched-out, duct-taped-for-the-suckee's-comfort hole probably in the men's room at a Wal-Mart or something. Mom, not usually one to moralize, then turned to her tender, impressionable teenage son and beseeched him to never utilize a glory hole because it was, to her, the most despicable, deplorable, disgusting delivery method of gay sex and that he would be joining the disgusting, dirty subgroup of fags that she prays nightly her son will not become. She ordered me to get rid of the glory hole picture on my computer, actually yelling "get rid of that hole!" Then she told me she was upset that I had forced this knowledge upon her.

Mom then upped the ante of this already uncomfortable exchange by suggesting masturbation as a healthy alternative to sticking your weiner in a hole in the wall for the joys of anonymous head. I stopped her, explaining that the last thing anyone wants to hear is a pro-masturbation rant from their mother. Mom never had a mom of her own so we deal with murky boundaries here on the daily. She got that point, though, and stopped. I think Little Bro is sufficiently traumatized so that if he ever sees a glory hole, he'll remember this particular episode and resist the urge to use it.

Now, if I want my mom to scream or freak out, all I have to do is say "glory hole."

As I write, I'm down the street from the office of one of the agents who hasn't offered a yea or nay on seeing a full of my manuscript. The 'Mar has a small enclave of agencies and one of the agents was at the conference a few weeks ago. It's weird to think that my first fifty pages are sitting in an envelope just up the street. I hope they're okay.

Posted by Zerd at July 10, 2008 10:20 PM