When we were kids, our parents used medical terminology about our bodies. I don’t remember whether it was always that way: I remember when I was very young, about four, watching a TV programme with nobody else around and then proudly bursting into the room declaring that I had learned the “proper” names for genitalia. Whether that memory reflects reality or not, I don’t know.
One day, when I was six– I can place it quite well, because I remember the classroom– I was allowed to choose what reading books I was reading. And I picked out a book called The Body Book, which at the time looked quite fascinating. I remember my teacher wrinkling up her nose in thought as to whether I should be allowed to take a book with naked people on the cover home, and my mother telling her it was all right.
Anyway, so I devoured this book. It had a lot of information in it about such interesting things as emotions and death, but then I got to the page about sex. In case you didn’t bother to look, it explains that boys and girls have “baby-making bits”. A boy’s “baby-making bits” are named as “a penis”. However, not only is the vagina the only part of a woman’s equipment whose existence is acknowledged, but the book even affirms that its name is “a baby-making hole”. Being a knowledge-thirsty kind of kid, I soaked up this information and forgot that I had previously been aware of any other words.
Now, a few months later, it happened that we were doing some Disney songs in the school choir, including the song Twitterpated from Bambi. When we were waiting by the front door getting ready to go to school one morning, my brother (a year younger than me) got bored and decided to pass the time by parodying the song. He sang:
Things begin to happen when a boy meets girl,
The boy puts his penis in the girl’s vulva.
(Somehow he managed to get the second line into the metre. I don’t think we learned about scansion at school.)
Anyway, I turned on him and said, “He doesn’t! He doesn’t!”
My mother fixed a steely eye upon me. “Really, Thomas?” she said. “And what does he do?”
“He puts his penis in the girl’s *baby-making hole*,” I said proudly.
To her credit, my mother kept a straight face.
–Submitted by Thomas
I grew up in a reasonably liberal Orthodox Christian home, and I am Orthodox to this day. I don’t know if it has to do with my parents’ conservatism, or with their feelings concerning my choices and my right to choices, or even if they simply decided that because we were getting sex ed in school, it was unneeded at home, but somehow, they made the decision to refrain from having The Talk with me. To this day, I am profoundly grateful for that choice, as odd as it sounds – I don’t think I could face having that particular chat with my shy, quiet mother, or worse still, my traditional Greek dad. The thought is painful to contemplate! But I still had access to complete, accurate information (we had sex ed in school in grades five, seven, and nine, and I read most of the books in the public library on the subject).
It was never discussed in Sunday school, either (I suppose they assumed that our parents were talking to us about it), but I knew that devout Orthodox Christians were supposed to wait until marriage to have sex. It’s a choice that I question almost every day (with my boyfriend, you would too, believe me), but one that I know in the end is appropriate for me, at least for now. It is not a choice I wish to impose on anyone else, but I do wish that others would respect my right to that choice. Being as liberal as I am in most other aspects of my life, my friends are always stunned when they hear that I’m a virgin, and they immediately question my choice: have I not met the right guy, am I scared, is it a self-esteem issue, am I just not on birth control yet…?
I feel that this is an aspect of sexual education that is often neglected: it is absolutely crucial that every young adult receive accurate information about sex, contraception, STIs, pregnancy, abortions, and all the rest, but it is just as important that we make it clear that choosing to not be sexually active is equally valid, and not a sign of prudishness, close-mindedness, or conservatism. It’s just a different choice. I don’t question your choice; why do you question mine?
In my case, it’s a choice I made out of respect for my own body and out of respect for the person I eventually choose to marry. I’m still young enough to be a romantic at heart: I want my future husband to know that I loved him before I knew him, enough to save at least that for him and for us. I don’t know why others make the choices they do, whatever choices they make, but I respect them regardless. As expressions of sexuality become more openly accepted (and it’s high time they were!), the choice to refrain from such expressions needs to be equally accepted.
I plan to talk to my children about the importance of good, healthy, and safe choices, and about what those choices are, but I want to make sure that they understand that all the choices are equally valid. I can only hope that others will do the same.
–anonymous
Sex was never discussed in the house where I grew up. If asked directly, my mother would send me to the towering front room bookcase where The Life Cycle Library waited politely on the topmost shelf, respectable and rich with answers. My parents worked in education all of their professional lives yet neither of them ever spoke to their children about love, sex, relationships, our bodies or self-esteem.
My first exposure to sexual behaviour was being compelled to watch my brother and sister engage in various kinds of sex play. They were young adolescents (I was very young) and were adopted children from different mothers so, they explained to me, it wasn’t against the law. I was required to sit naked in my brother’s locked room where I’d look at “dirty” magazines and pretend to get the cartoons; waiting anxiously for them to finish so i could get out of that room, get dressed and do anything else. Occasionally, I was instructed to participate. I never told.
Finally my brother snuck into my room one night, sexually assaulted me and broke that silence. I told my mother about that one incident. She told me that it had all been a dream, it had never happened and that ladies didn’t talk like that.
That was right about the time i decided being a lady was bullshit, especially if they couldn’t say what was true.
For Boys Only was a book my parents got me when I was about thirteen in lieu of talking about sex. (The series also included For Boys Only and For Teen-Agers Only. The first two are from 1952 and are still in print, as a curiosity and an example of cluelessness.)
I’ll never forget reading its description of petting, which had the author saying something like, “…fondling the girl’s breasts above or under her bra.” The book had described masturbation and I had to masturbate when I read that. I believe it was the first time I ever masturbated. I still get horny when I think of it, 50 years later.
Yes, I learned to masturbate from a book, and when I first came that first time, I don’t believe I had any come.
My parents divorced when I was a young child and moved far away from each other. I lived with my mother who, in addition to being a single mom, turned to Christianity for comfort after the divorce. Growing up, not only was no one having sex in my house, no one was talking about it either. Even though I never remember my mother saying anything to me specifically about sex, I just knew I wasn’t supposed to be having it.
We visited my father a few times a year and because of my resentment and his distance, our relationship was strained for much of my childhood. However, he tells me that at one point he and my step-mom gave me a copy of Where Did I Come From? (I was around seven). Apparently after I finished reading it, I asked if I could read it again the next night because I liked it so much. Although I don’t remember this specific incident, I do remember finding that book and re-reading it almost every time we visited. They also owned The Joy of Sex, which they clearly left out where it would be easily accessible.
When I was in college, I told my dad that I was sexually active (I was asking to have a boy stay at his place). He had a momentary freak out and then immediately went into contraceptive counseling mode. Once he ascertained that I was using protection he said “Well…that’s fine then. We won’t walk around in our bathrobes if you won’t.” And that was that and has been ever since.
My mother, on the other hand, kept up her abstinence-only policy. When a boyfriend was going to visit over Christmas break she told me the only thing I ever remember her telling me about sex. Ever. She said “He can stay here but you have to sleep in separate rooms because I don’t want your little sister thinking that I condone that sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing.” My mother’s only acknowledgment in the 27 years of my life that I am a sexual being. Sadly, the little sister mentioned above bore the brunt of my mom’s obvious knowledge of my behavior and her guilt at not preventing it. She received lectures, incredibly restrictive curfews and an abstinence ring, handed to her one family Christmas partially for her and partially as a passive aggressive reproach to me. My sister lost her virginity her first weekend at college.
I work now at a feminist sex toy store, spending my days writing and talking about sex. I suppose my mom wouldn’t condone “that sort of thing” either, but she doesn’t know about it. I don’t talk about it.
I’m just following her example.
I don’t remember when I first asked my mother where babies came from. She insists I asked almost as soon as I could speak. So she rented an animated cartoon for me to explain everything. When I was ten or eleven she rented the cartoon for me again along with another film in the series about puberty.
My mom was really good about talking to me about these things but she knew I liked my privacy. I was always screaming about my privacy. I hated my brother or sister coming anywhere near me or my room. If my mother and I were talking, especially about private matters, I would beat the stuffing out of my siblings if I caught them eavesdropping.
So when my mother wanted to make sure I really knew everything I needed to know about sex she did it in a way she thought would get the messages to me and respect my need for privacy. I came home one day and found It’s Perfectly Normal sitting on my bed.
The book was amazing. It was full of wonderful illustrations and cartoons. I got to follow a little cartoon bird and bee through their learning about sex and puberty.
I invited my friends over and we giggled over the pictures. We particularly loved an illustration of a boy dropping a stick of chalk in shock as he stood before a blackboard with an erection.
When we started to learn about sex-ed in school we were shown some of the videos I’d seen already. I happily bragged about how I already knew this stuff. I think our hapless gym teacher was a bit flustered by my attitude and wanted to know how I knew so much. So I brought in my book and lent it to him! I still remember how baffled the class was when we got some photocopied handouts from that book. No one could believe that the quiet, well-behaved little girl would have a book like that or that I’d be so fine with chatting about it.
It never occurred to me that other children didn’t know this stuff. I thought it was perfectly normal to know about sex. I was happy to chat about it with friends and even strangers. Only my poor mother got the cold shoulder when it came to discussing the topic.
Someday I really will have to thank her for that book. Strangely enough despite my distaste for discussing these things with family I passed the book on to my younger siblings. I hope they appreciated it as much as I did.
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