“Wait, guys,” I say, staring at the two of them. “I probably don’t even need to say this, but you have to promise you won’t say anything about this when you come over later. My dads will never let it go.”

I doubt they’d care if I buy a vibrator, since masturbating doesn’t carry a risk to anyone. But it’s not something I want to share with them. Anyway, I doubt they’ll hear “sex-toy store” and think I bought a vibrator. They’ll think I’m having sex and try to lock me in my room for the rest of my life.

“Trust me,” Lydia says, holding up her hands. “I don’t want my parents finding out about this, either.”

“But why?” Claudia asks, glancing at me. “I thought your parents were super, like, liberated. I don’t know.”

She’s not wrong. I don’t mind talking to my parents about most stuff. Weed? Sure. Underage drinking? I’d get a lecture, but at least we would be able to laugh about it. Talking about sex doesn’t make either of my parents laugh. I hate the way they deflate whenever the subject comes up, as if the idea depresses them.

Look, I get that most parents don’t want to think about their kid engaging in sexual acts. But when it comes to my family, their general openness with everything else makes the awkwardness about sex even worse. If they had any other kid, a kid without HIV, I’m sure they’d leave condoms in the bathroom. Knowing that they can’t—won’t—do the same with me sucks.

“Yeah, they are cool,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “But they’re still parents.”

Lydia shows us this random hippie coffee shop down the street from the Pleasure Chest. I’ve never been there before, but apparently it’s cheap, and that’s enough for me.

“How do kinks work, though?” I ask, stealing a sip from Lydia’s cup. The Pleasure Chest has awakened my curiosity. “Like, do married people buy sex toys together? Do you talk about your kinks the first time you bang? What if you don’t have sex until your wedding night and then find out that your spouse is into butt plugs?”

“I think that’s why you should discuss sex before marriage,” Claudia says, twirling her straw. “So you know that you’re compatible and everything. You wouldn’t want to marry someone who, like, wants you to dress up like a dog while you have sex. It helps you weed through the dating pool.”

“Don’t kink-shame,” Lydia says, not looking at me as she takes her cup back.

“Wait, so what if you’re having sex with Ian and he stops and asks you to wear a dog mask?” I ask, leaning forward. “Are you saying that you’d do it?”