…well, no, no I hadn’t.
At least, not until I was in Paris.
I was fourteen years old, on tour overseas with my traveling youth orchestra and I’d taken an extended vacation to Paris after the other musicians had gone home. My cousin lived there, you see, and I’d gone to visit him.
(this is me with a non-flasher, my boyfriend, Alex)
(no, my son is not named after him)
(although he was a really nice guy)
Along with my First Experience With Nutella (one which has turned into a full-blown Love Affair), I saw the sights and sounds of the city, including the Mona Lisa and several men, fully naked. Everywhere I went, it seemed, grown men wanted to take off their pants and show me what appeared to be hairy sausages.
I was suitably underwhelmed. These canned Japanese Mushroom-thingies were supposed to make want to have The Sex? I was baffled. I didn’t want The Sex; I wanted a barf bag and a kicky pair of shoes. A busy street, in the subway, outside the Louvre, it seemed that even graveyards were fair game for The Flashing of Aunt Becky.
One rainy day, between meals of steak frites and Nutella crepes, we chose to visit the Père Lachaise Cemetery. My mother, always a bit morbid, wanted to see where a bunch of famous people were buried. I myself wanted assurance that Jim Morrison was, dead, and therefore unable to produce any more of his horrible poetry. Even there, standing between a mausoleum and a grave, a flasher showed me his penis.
To this day, I’ve never seen so many men willing to drop trou and pull out their wangs.
Or, I should say, I hadn’t seen so many men interested in flashing me until I produced two sons of my very own.
And if they grow up to flash their penises (penii?) on the street, well, unlike dressing my son in a tutu, I will have a problem with that.
Pranksters, I wanted to say thank you for getting my back yesterday (I should have called that post: Go Ask Aunt Becky: TRAIN-WRECK Edition) There’s very little that gets under my skin more than being improperly accused of something I haven’t – and wouldn’t – do.
I can compose books of sonnets, odes, and entire blogs filled with The Error of My Ways but I take offense, not at being called a shitty mother, but being called out for something I hadn’t done.
When I filmed the video, I expected the “U R gonna make UR son GAY” crowd to come knocking at my door. I had my Delete Finger Ready for their onslaughts.
But this, it was like being accused of “having naturally blond hair” or “being a good writer.” Something that is simply untrue.
So Pranksters, I thank you deeply for reaffirming something I already knew. I have the best, smartest, most full of the awesome community of Pranksters on the Internet.
(I consider you guys family, by the by)(I don’t actually care if that sounds creepy).