“My safe word is Mondale” is what I imagine repressed Hewlett-Packard supervisors telling partners at orgies in suburban ranch houses outfitted with saunas, jacuzzis, and fondue sets in the early ‘80s.

They snorted cocaine from poorly hidden vial necklaces and held awkward key parties in front of stone fireplaces just feet from two-car garages full of Big Wheels, 10-speeds, and lawn darts. The aspiring swingers no doubt hooked up occasionally, but many of the interactions, of course, devolved into stilted conversations fraught with Pall Mall smoke and Lowenbrau breath in which women tersely warded off over-eager, half-unbuttoned, three-piece-suit-vested Dabney Coleman types.

This is what I know happened in the Aloha, Oregon neighborhood I grew up in. The hidden dildoes and instructional porn tapes I “discovered” while house-sitting for multiple neighbors as an 11-year-old tell me.

I remember holding viewing parties of the loot I’d uncovered in the living rooms I was sworn to protect. It was like a Ted Talk with titties. I presented the material like an archaeological find before my pervy friends. And we were all delighted.

My home life was far less tawdry, but for Dad’s stashed Playboys and the lingerie sections of my mom’s JCPenney and Sears catalogues.

Our family dog, Cindy, was brought into this world sometime around 1981. My aunt and uncle picked her and her brother, Scooter, up at a giveaway outside a shopping mall. Our parents were less than thrilled by the prospect but came to embrace the idea apprehensively after my brother and I nagged them mercilessly.

Cindy was a shy and sweet German Shepherd-Bluetick hound mutt. She’d tear the carpet as she ran and stopped abruptly, tail wagging, an adorable puppy.

But Cindy grew up and got horny. I asked Mom and Dad about the blood dribbling from her privates, coupled with her whining. That eventually led to my dad bringing her to a coworker who described himself as a veterinarian. He fixed her for a bargain, or so we thought.

The male suitor dogs that wolfed around our yard when Cindy was in heat told us otherwise. Among them was one my Uncle Kenny named Dirty Pierre. The black Scottish Terrier was too short for Cindy but still tried to mount her every chance he got. And she gave him plenty of opportunities. His tiny hips thrusted into air, unable to reach his target as his little front paws rested on her back. He had a lot of heart.

Our house in Aloha was incomplete when we moved in. We were in the process of building a fence and planting grass. At the time, we’d often leave Cindy on a long leash in the yard with water, food, and a dog house to retreat to.

We loved movies, and one day, after returning home from a theater, we found Cindy indulging in her own pleasures with her little friend.

Dirty Pierre wasn’t pumping air this time. Cindy lay flat on her back on a hill of dirt in the front yard - human missionary style - as the little pooch had his way with her.

We erupted in laughter in the car. None of us had the heart to stop him.

Their love affair ultimately yielded no offspring. An aggressive Doberman knocked Cindy up weeks later. After caring for and adopting out a litter of nine puppies, my parents finally got Cindy fixed by a real vet.

We never saw Dirty Pierre again.

Cindy later ran away, but we eventually found her after a few heart-wrenching days.

I like to think she met up with him one last time.