You know that stereotypical, over-bearing mom who searches their kid’s room periodically, just for fun? My mom can be kind of like that sometimes. Recently, my family went camping, and I left early (so I could spend a night on the town with my girlfriend, shhh!) but I accidentally left my purse. I called my mom, and asked her to make sure she grabbed it on the way back, so I thought everything was fine.

Not so much. Mummy dearest decided to go hunting through my purse…and found a condom, and freaked out. A LOT. Which is not surprising, but funny, given that I’m currently in a steady relationship with a woman. But then, my parents aren’t aware of this. There is about zero chance that I could get pregnant, but of course I couldn’t mention this in the middle of the tirade, because that would just make things worse.

All of a sudden, my mom (my mom! the same lady who could barely talk about menstruation) wanted to talk about sex, thanks to Oprah. I’ve got nothing against Oprah in general, but her advice was for moms of young teenagers, not for moms of twenty-somethings. The entirety of my mom’s “sex talk” that she gave me back in the day was “why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” And while I appreciate Mom’s efforts, honestly, now it’s too little, too late, and basically irrelevant. Mom-type sex-talks tend to be targeted at straight sex, after all. She’s currently attempting to nag me to find out how far down the path to sin I’ve gone, which is silly, because I’m certain she doesn’t actually want to know. The worst part of this whole thing is that I have this sneaking suspicion that she wasn’t even as mad as she could have been…because to her, condom = penis = man, and at this point, I think she’d almost be okay with pre-marital sex if it was with a dude. I mean, better to have a promiscuous straight kid than a monogamous queer one, right?

On top of that, you have to consider the hilarious circumstances under which I came to possess this particular condom – my best lesbian friend found it on the ground as we were on our way to go watch our favorite lesbian artist in concert, and gave it to my lesbian girlfriend and me as a joke. I don’t know how many more lesbians could have fit in that sentence, but suffice it to say, unless someone brought a turkey-baster and a sperm donor, pregnancy is the least of my concerns. But then again, this is my mom we’re talking about here. She once found my vibrator (also via snooping; perhaps the most awkward moment of my life) and was so angry that she CRIED. Tears of RAGE. Apparently, Brahmins don’t take well to their daughters having libidos and lives that don’t involve making dosas and sambar.

So now, I’m steadily avoiding being alone with my mom so she can’t bring it up, because we both know that if my dad knew, shit would really hit the fan. Oh, the joys of having Indian parents….

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Early twenties, rugby-playing, bhangra-dancing queer. At a large university in a small town. Out to almost everyone that matters. Into dykey haircuts, good music, Lebanese food, and naps. Likes to hyper-analyze everything. Loves to cook, and more importantly, to eat what has been cooked. Incredibly loud and outgoing. Organizes drawers by color. Is both best-friends and worst-enemies with the Stairmaster. Often described as "intense". Wears hats with ear flaps and brightly colored coats. Active tea-drinker, flax-seed-consumer, and cellular-respirator.

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