Busted In Bed

*Previously published by Edwina Caito on Club Mom

Have you ever had the feeling you were being watched? A couple of weeks ago I experienced that eerie sensation. I was in bed with my husband and deep in the throes of passion. I was enthusiastically tossing my hair and panting breathlessly when suddenly, I felt as if we were being watched. I slowly turned my head and opened my eyes to find my 8 year old daughter nose to nose with me. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I fumbled and groped for the blankets as my husband quietly slid under them and out of sight.

This is the child that makes an uproarious racket wherever she goes. But for some reason, that night, she had the silence and speed of a Stealth Bomber with tiny pink feet. The dogs didn’t even hear her sneak attack. Their tails usually alert us by pounding out a friendly, "Hello" on the floor, welcoming anyone into our bedroom.

"I have a headache." She whispered as she rubbed her tired little eyes.
I snatched up my robe and hurried her off into the kitchen for a dose of Ibuprofen. She didn’t mention seeing or hearing anything, but she did ask, "Where’s dad?" I should have told her he was cowering under the blankets in shame.

My son, the middle child, was never one to wander into our room in the middle of the night. He did, however, have the keen hearing of a fruit bat. I discovered his super sonic hearing talent one evening during a family dinner.

Noticing my son yawning and looking bleary eyed, my father asked him why he was so tired. My son stretched and said, " Mommy was having a bad dream last night. She kept saying ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ And she got louder and louder. I didn’t think she’d ever stop dreaming."

I cleared my throat and gazed at my feet, "Anyone want more chicken?" My mother was appalled, my father was obviously amused and my son was clearly confused.

I thought I had gotten lucky with my oldest daughter. She never wandered into our bedroom at an inconvenient time nor did she ever overhear anything and announce it to the entire family. She did, however, develop impeccable timing as a teenager. The worse part about getting busted in bed by my teenager is that she let us know exactly how she felt about it.

Before moving into our house, my husband and I were sharing the sofa bed in the living room of our tiny apartment so our teenager could have her own room. She was out one evening, and since she wasn’t due home for hours, we decided to take full advantage of our time alone. At the apex of passion, the front door flies open, and there was our teenager daughter, two hours before curfew.

She stood there with her mouth gaping as she absorbed the site of her precious mother with her legs sprawled in the air. She wrinkled her nose in apparent disgust.

"What are you two, rabbits? Geesh, are you trying to scar me for life here?" She stomped off to her room, slammed the door and turned up the volume on her stereo.

We didn’t learn our lesson and the second time she caught us was far more humiliating. It happened during an overnight stay at a Ronald McDonald House. Our daughter was out and about in the house, hanging out with new friends she had met . My husband and I were stressed, tired and were in need some very quick comfort. So as we were relieving some stress, we hear the sound of a key card in the door. The lights from the hallway spilled in and pierced the pitch black darkness of the room. There we were, naked and eyes wide with shock, literally caught in a spotlight.

Our daughter stood there in the open doorway and read us the riot act. "Oh my God!" She exclaimed at the top of her voice, "You are in the Ronald McDonald House! Have you no shame?! Can you not stay off of each other for one night?! I’m leaving again, please be dressed when I get back. Eeeeeeeewww!" She shuddered as she slammed the door.

We got dressed right away and made sure we were fast asleep when she returned. We were humiliated, embarrassed and fearful as to how many guests in the house were aware of our deviant conduct. We felt like perverts. We had soiled the name of an upstanding clown and world wide children’s icon. We didn’t have sex for weeks after that incident.

So let our story be a lesson to you. Try not to freak out when your toddler wanders in and announces that he sees daddy’s bottom. There’s no need to cower in humiliation when your daughter asks you what you were screaming about last night. It’s okay, really. You will have plenty of time for humiliation when they are teenagers!

Turn-Ons After Forty

*Previously pubslished at Club Mom by Edwina Caito

I have never been one to complain about my libido. As a matter of fact, I have always had the strange feeling that I was part rabbit. But since I’ve turned forty, I’ve realized that my hormones are beginning to play cruel tricks on me.

You see, when I should be turned on, I feel as sexual and exciting as a garden gnome. Yet, suddenly, I’ll be aroused by something completely mundane, like a margarine commercial, or something totally outrageous and unexplainable like Gene Simmons singing "God of Thunder" accompanied by the Australian Symphony Orchestra. (Don’t ask.)

Thinking back to when I was a young woman just beginning to explore my sexuality, I can’t help but wonder what the heck I was thinking. That starry-eyed young tart fantasized of sex on a secluded beach under a sky bursting with twinkling stars. Now, my forty year old brain has concluded that the fantasy is good in theory, however, I now have no desire to pick sand out of the nooks and crannies where sand shouldn’t be.

Elaborate sexual schemes involving painful bustiers, flowers, silk scarves and music used to be my forte’. I loved the risk of getting it on in the back seat of a Chevy Nova or the sweaty, exhausting passion of foreplay and intercourse for hours! This lady is now happy to slide between the sheets naked, discover that my husband hasn’t fallen asleep yet and pray the sex is fulfilling and fast. After all, I have laundry to do, carpets to shampoo, a pediatrician’s appointment and a PTA meeting to attend all before ten in the morning.

I used to be turned on by guys with hot cars, cute little butts and popularity. Now I’m hot and bothered by a man with a job, an SUV that seats 7 plus groceries and a cute butt. (Some things never change.) I used to purr like a kitten for men like Johnny Depp, rock stars with long flowing hair and buff, tan guys with washboard abs and rippling muscles everywhere. I was breathless while watching them racing their fast cars, pumping iron or playing a throbbing hard rock tune on their guitars.

Okay, so Johnny Depp is still extremely hot and there’s the Gene Simmons thing. (Again, don’t ask.) Now, my pulse races for the men with a little more around the middle to cuddle up to. Any amount of hair is wonderful so long as it is neat and smells nice. I’m turned on my firefighters risking their lives, businessmen in their crisp shirts and ties and men who work hard just to get the bills paid. Who needs a muscle head, all greased up and preening, when I now get turned on by seeing my husband play My Little Pony with our daughter?

Maybe my hormones are now better suited to shove razor sharp chin hairs out of my face, cause my bottom to slide down the backs of my legs and make me cry during soup commercials. Or maybe it’s my age, life style or years of experience that have changed the way my libido reacts to stimuli, I’m not sure. But I do know that when a good set of false teeth, the smell of muscle rub and a smoothly rolling walker rock my world, it may be time to hang it all up!

The Truth About Thongs

The thong used to be worn exclusively by exotic dancers and ladies of the evening, that is, until someone decided it would be wonderful to introduce these tiny scraps of material to the mainstream woman. This some, I am guessing, had to be a male. No woman would subject another woman to this type of torture unless she wears a lot of shiny leather and insists that you call her Mistress.

The whole idea behind the thong was to give today’s woman an irresistibly sexy under thing to wear that eliminated panty lines, all the while making men dissolve into puddles of warm goo. Mission accomplished! BUT...the thong has a dirty little secret. A secret so intense and so filthy that no one wants to talk about it.

Now before I reveal this "dirty little secret" for all to see, I would like to remind you of the intimate relationship you have with your thong. Thongs are very tiny, with a petite triangular strip of fabric covering your genitals and a string or thinner strip of fabric going up your butt crack and splitting your vagina even further in half. The thong doesn’t stay in place, oh no. The thong loves to venture into deeper and darker places and you enable this journey simply by walking, standing, sitting, squatting, crossing your legs, doing deep-knee-bends, sweeping the floor, doing the cha-cha or walking the dog.

To bring your thong back from the depths of your body, it takes a sly and subtle act of either wiggling as you get a grip on the elusive thing through your slacks or boldly running to the nearest restroom and yanking the thing out of your butt-crack-and-beyond with the force greater than a three-hundred pound linebacker.

Now I venture into an area I’ve yet to see any woman touch. And I will stand boldly in my words and just say it, no matter how disgusting, putrid and gross this may seem. Thongs stink!
I don’t mean that thongs stink as in they aren’t nice, I mean that thongs stink in the literal sense of the word....as in smell, stench and p-u. Think about it. We are human women with human body parts that do human things. Our vaginas create and emit fluids every day to keep our ph balance just right. We also, like all human beings, sweat. Our genitals sweat and yes, our butt cracks sweat too. And let’s not mention what happens if you had fresh broccoli or a bean burrito for lunch.

Now unless you have some teeny, tiny, string skinny thong liners keeping your thong as sweet and dry as a meadow in summertime (and adding to the crowd in your crack), you have realized that your thong isn’t the cleanest and freshest thing when you take it off. These things are sticky, damp and well, downright eligible for the garbage. Granted, some days are much better than others, but some days, you should just burn the thing! Disposable thongs would have been a nice idea...in a little pop-up container like Kleenex or baby wipes. But thongs aren’t disposable, they cost several dollars a piece. So we take the dirty thong and cram it down the leg of our pants (so it doesn’t end up stuck to your husband’s favorite t-shirt) and put it into the laundry hamper.

If you’re anything like me, your thongs are divided into two categories: "Thongs for everyday" and "thongs for sex and going out". Your everyday thongs are the ones that rather than burning, you toss in the wash and hope for the best. These are the thongs you wear on the weekends with your favorite jeans and to work under your slacks.

The thongs for sex and going out are the ones you only put on right after a shower, pubic hair trim, douche and that special feminine spray. These are the thongs with the delicate lace, tiny satin bows and sparkling rhinestone accents. These are those special occasion thongs that are only worn for special occasions.....and then quickly taken off so they aren’t soiled or subjected to butt crack sweat from a night of dancing or sitting on your butt in an uncomfortable vinyl chair at a restaurant. And you may even have a couple of thongs that are so special that you put them on right before having sex with your special someone. Mere moments before you both get naked, somewhere between the neck kissing and the pants unbuttoning, you excuse yourself to the powder room, pull out your super-special-ultimately-sexy-pristine thong, give your genitals a quick wipe down with a cloth or toilet wipe, spritz yourself with body spray and saunter out knowing your super-special-ultimately-sexy-pristine thong won’t be on long enough to even absorb a drop of butt sweat!

Yes, thongs are a neat little item of torture that gives us smooth bottoms under our clingiest of clothing and make our men shudder with desire. If they only knew the truth about thongs!

Quick! Hide The Sex Toys

*Previously published on Club Mom by Edwina Caito

Having our bedroom toys close at hand, ready to grab at a passionate moment's notice, was somewhat important to me. The last thing I wanted to do was jump up from our bed, run to ourcloset naked, climb onto a chair and rummage through a box to retrieve the perfect lubrication or vibrating plaything. The two words "climbing" and "naked" should never even be muttered in the same sentence. But my daughter, who was 4 years old at the time, changed my entire outlook on keeping our toys conveniently located in our night stand drawer.


It was a typical Saturday evening one summer. We had several friends over to watch a reality television show, play some board games and go for a dip in the pool. I glanced over to see my daughter holding something in her hand. She gazed, wide-eyed, at the treasure she had found. She turned it this was and that in her hand, admiring at it from every angle, trying to figure out exactly what this pretty, neon pink thing was. She was in absolute awe but obviously befuddled by what she had found.


"Mommy, what is this?" My inquisitive little girl asked as she thrust the item out at arm's length for everyone to see.


All heads in the room turned to behold what my daughter held. At the same moment, Irealized exactly what was in her tiny, curious little hand...my 6 inch, crystal jelly vibrator. Igasped, but froze in my seat, fully intending on not making a big deal out of the situation.


"Honey, that belongs to mommy and daddy. Please put it back where you found it."


She thrust the vibrator toward me again. "But what is it?" The pliable toy quivered in her hand.


By this time, our guests had moved beyond the initial shock of seeing our adorable little girl holding a vibrator and had begun to snicker under their breath.


Beginning to giggle a bit myself, I took a deep breath and said seriously, "It's a grown-up thing. Please put it back where you found it."


A sigh of frustration billowed from my daughter's mouth. She put one hand on her little hip and again thrust the toy forward, this time shaking it to enhance every word she said. With each shake, the vibrator bounced and bounced. "But tell me what it's called.." she insisted.


The entire room burst into hysterical laughter. I could no longer contain myself and began to laugh. My husband was already doubled over and giggling.


This angered my little angel. Her brow furrowed and again, she tried to make her point by shaking the thing harder."Tell- me- what- it's- called!" (Boing, boing, boing, boing, boing.)

We all roared with laughter. Wiping tears from my eyes, I contorted my face, trying again to be serious. "It's a grown-up massager. For when mommy's shoulders hurt."


My daughter looked down at the object she held. She looked up at me and her dad. Glanced back down at the vibrator and shook her head. "Grown-ups are weird." She turned and disappeared into the shadows of our bedroom doorway.


To this day, I still laugh when I think about the night our little girl found our stash of sex toys. It was funny, but at the same time a learning experience. Our night stand drawer now holds a magazine, a tube of muscle rub and some stray pens, pencils and receipts.


I am already thinking of an excuse to give my daughter when she discovers me, in the middle of the night, naked and dragging a chair into our bedroom. Some things just outweigh convenience.