What do you do when your kid finds your condom - before you’ve had your morning coffee? You read Rachel Sarah’s article on what to do, that’s what. Oh yeah, and you read my advice on what to do too.

Did you ever find your parents condoms? Sex toys? I remember once, when my friend Sara let’s call her Cara, and I were wee-ones, okay, actually we were teenagers - we found a hard, plastic vibrator in her father’s nightstand while we were snooping around his bedroom one afternoon. It was more uncomfortable for us to think about her dad being sexual than it was to think about what he might have been doing with that vibrator. At the time we just assumed it was his then-girlfriend’s toy, but now I’m not so sure. I mean he did always look like he knew something we didn’t know, and at the time what we didn’t know may have been all about the prostate.

Is it weird to wonder if your best friend’s (from a long time before you knew that best friends might not last forever, and that in my case they don’t) dad liked to diddle his prostate? I kind of don’t care. I mean nowadays I can talk to my parents about the next! best! porn! movie! I want to make (trust me, it’s a winner) after returning from a porn convention where my father called to tell me I must talk to his friend’s, sister-in-law’s brother who happens to be a producer for the Howard Stern Show. My dad called to tell me all of this so that I could be interviewed about my porn on national TV (I wasn’t interviewed, but after a bad interview with a wanna-be shock-jockette yesterday I think that’s for the best). Oh yeah, and this is after I bought my mom a vibrator and my dad the book The Multi-Orgasmic Man. BTW I’m pretty sure she (or they) don’t use the vibe and that he hasn’t read the book. Still, if I can talk sex with my parents, I can think about whether my friend’s father liked it up the ass.

But I’m done talking. At least for tonight. Except to say that this is the best review of Getting Off ever - well, at least the best review I’ve read in a long time, and I’m not just saying that because I love the reviewer (as in love, and not make love too).

Okay. Really. I’m done with this ramble. I’m going to bed. Without my sex toys. Some of which I keep in the filing cabinet next to my bed. Others of which I don’t. Just in case I invite you over and you want to snoop around, let me help you out. You’d be better off looking under the bed, because those two boxes of toys are less used, or better yet, outside in the hall, in a big, blue box, where everything is new and ready for action. But that doesn’t mean you can use them. You can look, but you can’t touch. That’s right. I’m quoting Bret Michaels. I hear he’s making a comeback these days. Well, not really.