Over the course of my life, there have been a lot of awkward moments. A few spring to mind:

1. The time I threw up during the sermon in church right after the minister shouted something about expelling demons.

2. The time I accidentally peed my pants when I laughed too hard in grade three, and had to sit around in wet snow pants for several hours, claiming it was just slushy out.

3. The time when my dog fished a used condom out of my roommate's garbage and brought it to me as some sort of worshipful gift.

4. Then, of course, there was the time my parents walked in on me wearing a nipple-licious negligée while my naked lover stood by with a throbbing hard-on.

Oh, wait. That's happening right now.

“Mom, Dad,” I choke, “I thought you were supposed to be arriving on Sunday.”

My mother’s covering her eyes and mumbling some prayer, no doubt to re-expel the demons from my very exposed body.

My hands are covering my breasts, and I’m frozen, unable to make any kind of intelligent decision. Meanwhile, Dylan has at least had the common sense to pick up his towel and wrap it around his waist. It’s now the thickest, softest terrycloth tent ever, his hard-on jutting out like a long metal pole.

My father has turned away and is facing the hallway, no doubt horrified to be faced with the awful truth: his daughter has sex with men. His daughter also has breasts. And a very see-through, very tiny lace outfit.

When I finally regain the ability to move, I sprint towards my bedroom, slam the door and immediately feel pretty awful that I deserted Dylan. But women and children first, right?

I throw on a dress and spring back out only to see that Dylan, calm and collected, has somehow engaged both my parents in conversation and asked them to sit down on the couch. His towel seems to have calmed itself into a more natural position, too.

I approach the three of them tentatively, like a child who’s just broken a vase and is very, very sorry. But wait—I’m twenty-seven, I remind myself. I’m allowed to have boys over. Even naked ones. And damn it, my parents got here early. Two days early, by my count.

“We’re so sorry,” my mother says when she sees my face. “A nice young man showed us up here when we asked about your apartment—we didn’t realize you’d leave the door unlocked while you were…”

“While there was nudity,” says Dad, scorn in his voice.

“I was just showing Dylan the apartment,” I blurt out. Yup. Naked apartment showing. It’s a thing in Italy.

“It’s hot in Rome,” Dylan beams, leaning back in the chair, his hard abs on full display. I’m convinced that my very virtuous mother is sneaking peeks at his physique. My father, probably not so much.

“Very hot, apparently,” Mom says. I’m not sure if the double meaning is intentional.

Okay, it’s past time to change the subject. “But I thought you weren’t supposed to get here before Sunday,” I moan. For the first time it’s hit me that I may not get to spend another night with Dylan for a week. My parents won’t exactly approve of my having him over here, and if I desert them to spend the night with him, I’ll never hear the end of it.

Kill me.

“We wanted to see about getting into the service at St. Peter’s on Sunday, so we came early. We thought we’d surprise you, dear. We thought maybe you’d be lonely.”

Nope. Not lonely at-fucking-all.

“Are you tired, Mr. and Mrs. Horner?” asks Dylan, who’s far more considerate than I am. He seems so comfortable in this situation that I’m beginning to wonder how many parents have walked in on him naked in his time. “Could we show you around a little?”

“I think you’ve shown us quite enough,” says my father. Ah, I see what’s happened. He thinks I’m thirteen all over again, and he’s doing that angry father thing. Most dads get the luxury of imagining that their daughters never have sex. Even when their first grandchild comes, they’re somehow convinced that it was all immaculately done, and by some miracle daddy’s little girl has retained her virginity. But the overwhelming evidence just flew in his face, a cruel blow to his deluded paternal mind.

“Let me take you for dinner, Mom and Dad,” I say. “You must be hungry.”

“Actually, we are. But we should unpack first, then maybe a shower.”

“Right. Okay. Well, my bedroom’s in there—” I point to the chamber where, until a few minutes ago, I’d hoped to get laid.

Dylan stands up, grabs their suitcases and carries them into the bedroom. I follow close behind, making little whimpering noises as I go.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper as he lays the bags on the bed.

“It’s all good,” he replies, chuckling. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll make a great story.”

“I can’t imagine who would ever want to hear it.” But I’ll admit it, I’m laughing a little, too. It’s all so ridiculous.

“You’ll sleep in my bed tonight, then?” he asks.

I shake my head, my lips turning down in a pout that I can’t quite help. “What?” he whispers. “Why not?”

“Because my mother is a devil woman who wants me to be miserable and alone and sexless and horny because horniness is suffering and suffering is noble. She doesn’t want me to be single, but she also doesn’t want me fucking anyone. If she knew how many blowjobs I’ve given you, she’d die of a heart attack.”

“Oh, mothers. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t sell them on the Black Market,” he says. “Wait—are you telling me that I won’t get to lick your pussy for a week?” He thrusts his fist into his chest like he’s stabbing himself.

“Not necessarily. I’m saying we’d need to sneak around like we’re naughty seventeen-year-olds again. But…”

“I’m all for sneaking. You know where I live. Come find me tonight.”

“I’m not sure if I can. My parents are super old-fashioned. It’ll ruin their trip if they think we’re…”

“What exactly do they think we were about to do?”

“Maybe if I send them off somewhere tomorrow, we can find some time alone.”

“I have meetings all day tomorrow.”

“Damn it.” In spite of everything, I’m still horny as hell. “Well, I’ll try and sneak over later, then. Sorry again.”

“Loose.” He slips over to me and reaches for my hand, then thinks better of it. I’m sure he can feel my dad’s Superman eyes burning a hole through the wall. “I’ve waited to be with you for seven years. I can wait another night. Besides, every night with you is like four nights in one.”

I don’t care about my father’s X-ray vision. I lurch forward and throw my arms around him, squeezing his neck. “Thank you for saying that,” I tell him. I don’t really know if he meant the part about waiting seven years, but it means everything to me to hear it right now. “I’ll try to come by tonight,” I say, “but I can’t promise anything.”

“I know.” He lands a kiss on my lips that reminds me how much I need to find my way back into his bed.

“Okay, yes, I can promise. Totally. I’m yours,” I tell him robotically. “But right now I’ve got to get back out there. They’ll suspect that we’re in here doing the nasty.”

He heaves a sigh. “All right,” he says, adjusting the towel by pulling it apart and re-tucking it, which gives me a glimpse of his delectable manhood.

“You’re so mean,” I moan.

“I know,” he says. “As for you, you’re incredible. You really don’t know how amazing you are, do you?” he asks.

I back away. Tears are rimming my eyes; there’s just been too much emotional mayhem thrown at me in the last hour. I shake my head. “No, I guess I don’t.”

“Well, I know. And that’s enough for now.” He kisses me quickly, then marches back into the living room, still sporting the towel.

Men’s new fashion accessory for summer ’17.