My friend Chris grew up in a smallish house in Wantagh. For privacy, then-teenaged Chris moved his bedroom to the basement, where he could smoke pot in peace. And do …other things.

Like many basements, this one had a suspended ceiling in order to hide wires and plumbing. It also kept Chris’ secrets. Years passed. Chris’s parents passed away and he inherited the house. He also came out of the closet and got a hunky contractor boyfriend.

When the hunky boyfriend commenced renovations on the basement, the wall of what used to be Chris’ bedroom had to go.

What did he find?

Dildos. Like, 30 dildos. A Jeff Stryker model, ones whose batteries died in 1987, a clear one which when dusted off was revealed to have glitter inside. Why so many? Well, Chris was hiding them in the ceiling, and sometimes his haste resulted in them rolling off the tile and inside the wall. Then he’d have to drive on two wheels at 90 mph to the sex shop, and the process repeated itself.

Seeing Chris’s boyfriend emerge from the basement with a wheelbarrow full of drywall and dildos remains a treasured memory of mine, seeing as it was during a BBQ with several neighbors present. We made up dirty songs about it to the tunes of “99 Red Balloons” and “Thinking Of You” and “The Long Goodbye”, which we left on his answering machine.