Are moms of the world aware of how often, when they’re talking to their daughters on the phone, their daughter’s necks are being made out with? Do they have any idea? Because science has proven time and time again that a girl’s neck, an attractive make-out target to begin with, becomes positively irresistible once the vocal apparatuses contained within are engaged in communication with that girl’s mother. One hopes none of these studies have ever crossed moms’ desks.
The mouth-to-neck-to-girl’s-voice-to-mom’s-ear attraction-circuit is forged in the days when the daughter’s actually communicating with a mom who is physically present, usually on the other side of a bedroom door, and has come upstairs to announce that dinner’s ready or, more dangerously and thus more tantalizingly, inquire as to “who’s in there” because she “heard noises.” As the years go by, it becomes tens or hundreds or thousands of miles separating the two of them instead of a bedroom wall and maybe also a New Found Glory poster, and a phone is employed, and when it is, and a guy is present, something primal stirs within him when he hears the daughter answer a phone in a tone of voice that tells him definitively, “Okay, it’s not her boss.”
It doesn’t have to be a mom, per se, but a father on the line conjures deep ancestral memories of ass-kickings, generations ago, and that tends to cloud the matter. But moms, if they knew, would at worse be scandalized in an rich-old-lady’s-monocle-falling-out-in-a-cartoon way.
What would they do if they knew? How would it change them to know that their daughter’s “Mm-hms” and “oh reallys” are precisely timed to contain a store of giggles and other, less seemly noises? Like a longtime civil servant who stumbles upon one piece of a much larger conspiracy, would they investigate further and further, until they realized their entire phone relationship with their distant off-spring had been a lie, the corruption goes all the way to the top, and sometimes it’s not the neck being made out with, it’s the other ear, or the stomach, or most disturbingly, usually-clothed but currently-naked parts that had been naked for hours before she, the long-suffering mom, called, and will likely be naked for hours after the call, if all goes well?
The phone has long been a mom’s ally. It is perhaps the one piece of technology with which she is fully comfortable. And to learn that it is not some new confusing piece of technology that has rendered every mother-daughter phone conversation suspect, but rather good old fashioned human flesh, roughly 170 pounds of it, inches or centimeters or no distance at all away from their daughter, that is half-clothed at best and probably still drunk from brunch and does not have to work until 6 PM and is getting a huge fucking kick out of this? Unthinkable. Time betrays moms. Time and tastes and their sisters, regularly, and they expect it. But flesh? No way. It’s moms’ province. Cooling it when it’s feverish and slapping band-aids on it when it’s cut. And here it is in the form of some goofy dude, very likely named Ray, who her daughter has never once mentioned and is probably not coming for Christmas.
And are fathers aware that when they talk to their sons, part of the shame, bafflement, and anxiety that will be present in their sons’ hearts for the entire duration of the call but will never surface and never be expressed in any discernible way, stems from the fact that they don’t currently have anybody’s neck to make out with when her mom calls?