Man, there's nothing like Dad coming to visit your usually-private little den to make you realize just how many things you own need to be put in opaque drawers right quick. How many books and DVDs need their spines turned to the wall. My roommate and I both have our lube bottles right on the nightstands where they're handy, but now we have to put up a pretense that we don't have anything to lubricate. It's like being fourteen again for a day. I'm even going to clear my browser cache after this entry.
Not that he really cares. It's not like Dad ever ordered me not to have sex or porn, and I'm sure as my parent (as anyone's parent) he's already developed excellent skills in selective blindness. It's just a matter of courtesy and taste, two things that I have to work very hard to fake.
It's not "a condom? you WHORE!" that I'm worried about, it's just "uh, I see you left something out... never mind, well, tell me about your work now..." Which, in a way, is worse.
Parental Control.
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