16 January 2011
my mother asks which of my stories is being printed, thinking, presumably, that it is one of the many charming vignettes i have written about our family. i do not even begin to know how to tell her that it is, in fact, a story i've written about grinding with a random dude at a school-sponsored dance when i was 17.
there are things you cannot tell your mother. this is one of those things.
however, it is not made much better by my informing my mother that she probably best not read this story. because it is "racy." a word that seems to fly from my mouth and sizzle down the phone cord. a word that will, undoubtedly, lead my mother to imagine her daughter engaged in horrors far worse than grinding and haunt her for the rest of her life.