Travels with Penny: True Tales of a Gay Guy and His Mother Read Online Free Page A

mom-friendly?”
    They shrugged. “I think so. It’s called When Pigs Fly . How bad can it be?”
    Satisfied that only the G-rated parts of New York City were in my mother’s future, I headed into the bedroom to give Mom her stockpile of purchases. I entered just as Mom, while sitting on the edge of the bed with the phone tucked into the crook of her neck, exclaimed, “David took me to a gay sex shop!”
    After a slight pause, she continued, “Okay.” She held out the phone to me. “Your father wants to talk to you.”
    I grimaced. Here comes the “you’re irresponsible” speech. “Hey, Pop.”
    “What in the hell are you doing?!” His voice sounded an octave higher than normal.
    “What?” When one feels guilty, one should always try acting innocent unless directed otherwise.
    “You know damned well what. I told you she was your responsibility!” His voice had gone from strained to forced.
    “Well … she wandered off.”
    “Wandered off?” he said. “How can a fifty-four-year-old woman wander off?”
    “She’s very … wandery … ”
    “You need to take care of your mother,” he said. “What’s next? Taking her to buy dope?”
    Proof that neurotics are a product of nature, not nurture. “No, Dad. Really. It’s all good.” Like I would know where to find dope.
    “Bring her back to me in one piece! Put her back on.”
    For the rest of the night, I fumed. Why did I get yelled at? It’s not my fault I have a curious, sex-obsessed mother. She’s an adult woman! What was I supposed to do? Tackle and hogtie her? Anyway, she was the one who had started the escapade with her, “Oh, let’s go see the inside of a sex shop” thing.
    “What did your father say?” she asked out of the darkness as we lay in bed later that night. Her voice sounded thick with sleep.
    “He’s mad at me because you went into the sex shop,” I whined. “Thanks for getting me in trouble.” When innocent doesn’t work, try whining. It never worked as a kid, but hey! I’m older now and have more practice at whining.
    “Tough toenails, Tony,” She said. “Today was really fun. I had a good time. Thanks for bringing me with you.”
    I didn’t respond. Innocence, whining and the silent treatment— she was getting the entire arsenal from me this time. She remained silent. Good. Maybe she would feel bad she’d gotten me in trouble with Dad. I let her stew for few minutes before I responded.
    “’night, Mom.”
    She was fast asleep. Moms really knows how to hurt sons.
    * * *
    “I notice you don’t have your wedding ring on,” my Mom said, pointing to my left hand.
    “Yeah,” I murmured. “I finally got to the point in my life where I could bring myself to take it off.”
    “Oh,” she said, then gives me The Look.
    Thanks to all the new theories of childrearing that rule out disciplining your children due to possible injuries to their self-esteem, I’m not sure how many youth today can identify with The Look. Ask any of us over the age of thirty and we all can tell you tales of how The Look molded our childhoods. Sometimes referred to as the “Mom Look” and the “Mom Eyes,” it has the effect of an emotional nuclear explosion. (I’ve even met one man from India who calls it “Mom’s Devil Eyes.” Apparently in India, there is a direct line from Satan to a mother’s psyche. As if there was ever any doubt.) There’s no avoiding The Look. The Look carries within it a magical ability to cause grown men to change into babbling children or cause an independent woman to question her choice to keep her maiden name. I suspect if Charles Manson’s mother had been around to apply The Look, Roman Polanski would still be living in Hollywood. If we could bottle The Look, society could save a fortune on police protection. For those of you under thirty, or lacking the experience of encountering The Look, The Look is a sideways glance from your mother which is a combination of inquisitive prying, acknowledgement,