Over the past few days, I’ve learned that if there’s anything awkward about being a 21-year-old gay man with a mother who isn’t entirely capable of wrapping her head around the whole ‘dick in butt’ thing, but is otherwise accepting, it’d probably be telling said mother that you’ve set a date for your wedding. To your BOYFRIEND.

You know, the one who’s dick you let be put in thy butt.

Saving myself the torture of having to fight against the desire to jam my finger in my eye socket and swirling my brain around inside my skull immediately after I had placed the call, I opted to send her an SMS. That’s how we talk about difficult subjects in our family. We rely on the comfort of our BlackBerry’s and iPhones.

This was the response I got:

WHAT? THAT’S IT? YOUR SON TELLS YOU HE’S SET A DATE FOR HIS WEDDING AND ASKS IF YOU’LL BE A PART OF THE DAY AND THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY?!

Oh wait, right, the dick in butt thing.

Sometimes I contemplate if she’d benefit from knowing the story about how, this one time (at band camp) (but not really), when I was sixteen, I had a pregnancy scare with a girl (classy, right?) – just so she feels some sense of normality at the prospect that her son wasn’t always such a Madonna fanboy.

BUT SERIOUSLY. Dick in butt, you guys!

Oh and, PS: If you didn’t catch on already – Eddward and I have set a date for our wedding. It was pretty romantic, in my opinion, at least. I woke up after a nap and he’d spent 2 solid hours mapping out all of our friends birthdays and anniversaries on a calendar, not to mention public holidays and conflicting possibilities, so that we could unanimously decide.

Don’t you just want to squeeze him?

And, y’know, let him put his dick in your butt?