Granny Vs. The Purple Avenger

I was nineteen. Barely legal. Extra horny. A walking hormone with internet speed so slow I could finish before the video finished buffering.

But I had something better. Something sacred.

A portable DVD player.

Don’t laugh. This was high tech for the time. A little silver clamshell of lust, like a Game Boy for your genitals. I’d inherited it from my cousin who claimed he only used it “for uni lectures.” Sure, mate.

I had a stash of DVDs. No, not action movies. Unless you count action as things that bounce, wobble, squirt, and moan.

I was at home. Alone. Or so I thought. My mum had gone out. My gran was staying for the week, but I had assumed she was in the garden, making jam or judging the neighbours or whatever it is that wholesome grandmothers do when you’re young and trying to ruin yourself one orgasm at a time.

So, naturally, I decided this was the perfect moment to make love to myself like I was auditioning for a solo in the world’s filthiest boy band.

I lit a candle (for ambience). I grabbed my trusty lube. I opened my sock drawer, where nestled among unmatched socks and shame was my loyal, well-worn 7-inch dildo: Steve.

Steve wasn’t subtle. Steve was purple. Ribbed. Curved. Optimistic. A gift to myself from myself, with love.

Naked, elated, and fully committed, I popped in my favourite scene. You know the one. The one with the muscular landscaper and the shy-but-curious student who forgot to water her plants. We all have our classics.

Headphones on. Steve in position. I straddled that thing like I was born to ride. One hand behind me for balance. The other tugging my dick like I was starting a lawnmower.

And I mean really tugging. With conviction. Like it owed me rent.

I was bouncing. Moaning “Steve”. Panting. Lost in the rhythm of my own divine debauchery.

Which is exactly when my bedroom door opened.

And there… framed by the gentle light of the hallway like some holy figure sent to judge the wicked… stood my grandmother.

Sweet, cardigan-wearing, rosary-holding Grandma Ethel.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

She looked at Steve.

Then back at me.

A moment passed. Maybe two. Long enough for me to realise I was still straddling a suctioned dildo, slick with lube, and jerking my dick like it was the last loaf of bread in a zombie apocalypse.

Her mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

She closed the door, slowly. Gently. Like one might close the lid on Pandora’s box. Or a cursed tomb.

And I… turned off the light.

There are moments that change a man.

Losing your virginity. Getting your first heartbreak. Realising you’ve just eye-locked with your grandma while reverse cowgirling a suctioned dildo named Steve.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because I was anxious, no, that would imply a healthy processing of shame. I didn’t sleep because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her eyes.

Judging. Blinking. Horrified.

And worse… Silent.

The next morning, I crept into the kitchen like a man who had committed crimes. Not sins. Not mistakes. Crimes. Biblical ones.

Gran was already there, sipping her tea. Earl Grey. No sugar. The beverage of cold judgment.

I nodded.

She nodded back.

That was it.

Nothing was said. But everything was said in that nod. It was the nod of, “You filthy little bastard,” and also, “I love you anyway, but Jesus H. Christ.”

She handed me a Weet-Bix. One. Dry.

A punishment? A warning? A subtle commentary on my choice of recreational hydration?

We ate in silence.

Now, I need you to understand something: my grandmother is not one of those feeble, sweet grandmas who knits and talks to birds. No. This is a woman who once fought off a burglar with a broomstick and a bottle of Dettol. She’s a retired nurse. She’s delivered babies and stitched war wounds.

She has seen things.

But I don’t think anything prepared her for what she saw in that bedroom.

No one prepares for their grandson using his entire lower body like a mechanical bull on discount night.

And I… I was left with the realisation that I had actually made eye contact with a direct blood relative while fully nude and mid-thrust.

The days that followed were a polite theatre of mutual denial.

We played Scrabble. We watched Antiques Roadshow. She asked about uni. I lied. She offered to do my laundry. I panicked and screamed “NO!” like I was being exorcised.

She never mentioned the dildo. She never mentioned the headphones.

She never even asked, “Who the hell is Steve?”

But her eyes did. Oh, her eyes screamed it.

A week passed.

She stayed the whole time.

I spent it doing what any respectful grandson would do after being caught astride a suction-based pleasure pole in the full glory of adolescent sweat: I avoided eye contact, lowered my voice an octave, and offered to help with the dishes like I was seeking redemption for sins no holy water could wash away.

We never spoke of that day.

But we both knew. Oh, we knew.

It wasn’t just the tension. It was the surgical politeness. Gran started knocking on every door, even the pantry. She no longer lingered in the hallway. She no longer offered to bring me tea. She would simply announce, “Entering the room now!” like a soldier defusing a landmine.

On the final morning of her stay, she hugged me at the door. It was… warm. Strong. Grandmotherly.

Then she pulled back, looked me in the eye, and said, “You’re old enough to lock your door now, love.”

Reader, I died. I died right there on the front step. My soul evaporated like a queef in the wind.

A week later, a package arrived in the post.

No return address. Just a name scribbled in blue ink: Nanny Ethel.

Inside?

A door wedge. A pack of Dettol wipes. And, most hauntingly, a discreet cardboard shoebox labelled: “For Steve. Please use responsibly.”

It’s been over two decades since that day. But sometimes, when I visit, and she offers me tea, I swear I see the flicker of a smile behind her mug.

A smile that says: “I’ve seen you take yourself to Pound Town.”

A smile that says: “We do not speak of Steve.”

A smile that says: “But I never, ever, forget.”

Moral of the story?

Don’t wear headphones in a shared house.
Name your dildos wisely.
And if your gran ever calls you “quiet,” just know she’s not complimenting your manners. She’s remembering the thunderous slap of cheeks on silicon.

Rowan Thornwell’s Hilarious Sexual Misadventures, Oops! I Came… Volume One! OUT NOW!