“I hate you,” I whisper.

She smiles. “I know you don’t.”

We go back into the living room where our guests look at us curiously. Mrs. G, who definitely remembers me from high school, has clearly figured it out, because she tosses me a sympathetic look.

That’s right, Mrs. G.

My wonderful but crafty mother kept me in the dark about the true nature of her business.

She starts demoing products, which means she tells me what to pull out of the bins and I do it.

At first, they are wholly non-threatening. Lotions, scented soaps, bath oils, hairbrushes. She segues into massage oil, and no one flinches. Next up is some kind of gel that makes you tingle wherever you rub it. I pass around the demo tube, and no one in the circle turns down the chance to rub a little on the back of their hand.

Oh, what the hell. When in Rome.

Ooh.

That’s nice.

“You can use this on your clit or your labia, too,” my mother says matter of factly.

Okay, pause.

I love my mom to death, but she was like most moms I knew, not a super-genius when it came to the teaching of sex ed. She did talk to me (briefly, blushingly) about the facts of life, and she supplemented with a couple of reasonably decent books that showed up on my bookshelf with no explanation whatsoever.

But I have never heard the words “clit” or “labia” out of my mom’s mouth.

I kneel and pretend to be investigating something in one of the Real Romance inventory boxes to avoid showing my hot-pink face.

Would it be awkward if I went outside to “take a phone call?”

“The blue box, Rach,” my mom calls, and I bring it to her and set it at her feet.

She starts pulling out actual toys—bullet vibes, eggs, and one she calls “the Cadillac of all vibrators” that looks like a garden-variety back massager. She hands them to me one by one. I’m supposed to distribute them around the circle. The women look like I feel, shellshocked, as I pass out the goodies.

Oh, God, I can’t hack this.

The phone call idea is looking better and better.

And then, something happens. The women are reaching for the toys, powering them up, touching them to their palms and thighs. And talking.

“I’ve never used a vibrator,” one says.

“You have to,” another says.

“Do you use it by yourself?”

“Sometimes. Or with my husband.”

“My husband’s feelings would be hurt. He’d think it reflected on him.”

“Let him use it on you,” my mother says.

“Really?”

The other women jump in.

“Yeah, totally. Put on sexy lingerie and ask him to use it on you,” says one.

“Give it to him for his birthday,” says another.