You should subscribe to the site's RSS feed here or bookmark the page in your browser. Also, submit your own story for inclusion on the site here. However, of most concern is the document’s systematic promotion of masturbation to children beginning at age five. In fact, Floyd Godfrey, LPC, whose specialty is treating youth with sexual addictions stated: “After working with hundreds of clients with sexual compulsions, I have seen masturbation as the most common symptom of sexual addiction. It is also the most common compulsive behavior for teenagers who later develop addictions. Instructing young children in sexual behavior is abusive. Although some young children encounter masturbation as they grow up, this does not give adults license to teach them how to perform sexual acts. It is inappropriate and against the law to teach young children sexual behavior.”
via Stop the UN from sexualising children.
I just read the story about a girl telling her family members about a vibrating doodle pen and I had to share my own story about the things.
I had my first orgasms with one of those pens as a young teen! I got it for Christmas a few years earlier, as did all of my younger cousins, but I noticed that the adults were snickering and knew there was something naughty about them. I don’t remember what persuaded me to slip it into my underwear one night, but I remember making quite a habit out of it.
I knew that girls were supposed to masturbate by putting their fingers inside themselves, but I was scared to put anything inside me because I knew that I could hurt myself if I stuck my fingers into my other orifices (or so I was told). I was especially frightened when I first began to get aroused and found myself getting wet, because somehow in all of my sex-ed classes (including a pretty detailed sex-ed book for teens!), no one had ever mentioned that women get wet when they are aroused and I thought I was sick. I had been told that if anything strange came out of there, I should tell my mother or ask to go to the doctor. I wouldn’t get my period for a couple more years yet.
It never occurred to me to rub my clitoris with my fingers, and even when I got older and tried using my fingers inside myself, I didn’t feel anything special like I thought I was supposed to feel. But the pen worked. I used to steal the batteries out of all my old toys to power the thing. When I burned out the motor after a couple years of frequent use, I rode my bike to all the stores nearby that might carry another one, because I was too young to buy a real vibrator. Heaven forbid a sixteen year old girl be allowed to masturbate!
Hopefully by the time I am a parent I will figure out a graceful, caring way to give my teenage daughters their own safe vibrators without totally mortifying them.
–Submitted by M.
I have Asperger syndrome. It’s a lifelong condition, but I was only diagnosed as an adult. It’s only now that I can look back at the way I learned about sex as a child and as a teenager that I can see how it made things difficult. One particular way this happens is the need to order one’s life with rules, and not to be able to understand when they should not apply, as others might.
I know my parents must have had The Talk with me at some point, but I retain only one memory: my father reading a sentence from a book saying, “the penis becomes hard and filled with blood.” I responded with disgust at the phrasing. I was young enough at the time that no other memories remain: having had the one discussion, there were never any more.
The Talk presumably focused on penis-in-vagina sex. It’s true that everyone needs to learn about that, but it would have no practical relevance to me until my mid-twenties. About the far more topical issue of masturbation, I learned nothing. Nor was much useful information forthcoming from school sex ed; the TV programmes we were shown explained only that “a boy may hold his penis and get a tingling sensation. A girl may get a similar tingling sensation by stroking the front of her vulva.”
But at the age of about ten, I discovered masturbation independently: I had my own name for it and rules about how to do it, and I thought I was the only person in the world who knew how to do it, or I’d surely have heard about it before then. So for a few years, I masturbated happily with no regrets. Meanwhile, my parents took me to church every Sunday, and I was trying to pray and read the Bible. One day I came across the line in the Book of Revelation which describes heaven– “Outside the gates are the murderers, the idolaters, the sexually immoral…” I realised clearly that what I had been doing was something to do with sex. And a terrified voice in my head asked, “Is that *me*?”
For the next six or seven years I had no peace. If lusting after other people was sinful, it had to go: I made myself stop fantasizing. If sex before marriage was sinful, and masturbation was a kind of sex, it had to go. That wasn’t so easy: I put dozens of rules into place and none of them worked. I tried giving it up permanently, and failed every few days, hating myself more each time. I tried throwing dice or coins when I was horny, so that if God didn’t want me to do it, he would have a way to stop me. I tried praying for wet dreams every night, to no avail. I tried only masturbating on Fridays, as a stepping stone to stopping entirely, but I *lived* for those Fridays.
In short, I spent most of my teenage years in the certain knowledge that I was an evil person, and that part of my very self, my sexuality, was inevitably going to send me to hell. And I don’t know how I could have been loosed from the trap. I wanted to talk to someone about what was troubling me, but I had nobody except my long-suffering diary. I would have been mortified to talk with my parents about it, I didn’t have any teachers I could raise the issue with, I had no friends at school to speak of, and though I read everything in the library I could get my hands on, nothing would reassure me as to the morality of masturbating. Maybe if someone had raised the issue at the beginning, or maybe if I’d had someone from the start that I could talk over any problem with, things would have been better. I don’t know.
“Lookit, Ama!”
“What, baby?”
“My penis comes out.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And it goes back in.”
“That’s awesome.”
These are the things one learns from their three-year-old boys in a clothing-optional household. Or in a house that doesn’t cut the penii of the children in it. Or in a house that lets the children explore their bodies with an innocent freedom. Or in a house that allows the children to masturbate to shows such as SpongeBob, Phineas and Ferb, Cars – or whatever else happens to be on and the penis is in reach. Or in a house that — well, you get the idea.
I love raising my boys. I love staying home with them. I love the freedom they have to discover their bodies — to explore them. I love that I have the opportunity to raise them without shame.
This was not the case when I was growing up. Bodies were hidden by clothing at all times, unless when bathing. And even then, doors were closed, boys and girls bathed separately, and one made sure the towel completely covered all parts that should never be seen by the opposite sex. I never saw my mother in anything less than a full-length slip. I never saw my father without an undershirt on — with sleeves, never without — and certainly not without pants of some kind or other. And with the exception of being very young (under three) and bathing with my brother who was one year younger than I, I never saw my brothers without a fair amount of clothing.
I would say it was because my parents believed that our bodies were sacred and special. But it was because of the version of Christianity that they believed in, and still follow. Our bodies were sacred alright, and should not be shared with anyone — ourselves included — until we were married. Really.
Which meant that I didn’t see what the opposite sex looked like. While I knew that boys were different than girls (because one needed both boy and girl parts to have a baby), I didn’t know that the outside sex parts came in different shapes and sizes. I didn’t know that it was normal to feel desire, or to want to touch myself, or to explore other bodies, or to have tingly sensations every now and then. I didn’t know because I wasn’t allowed to know. Not from my parents and not from a class in school. Remember, not until I was married.
I was in my teens when I discovered the books that my mother and older sister read and tried to hide in their closets. I learned a little then. I was an older teen when I was asked if I was a virgin — and then had to ask my best friend what that meant, because I didn’t know. And I was sixteen when I let a boy touch me in the seat of the school bus — and I got to touch him back. Yeah, I learned a lot then. And I learned that I craved that touching.
I don’t know how much of the freedom I allow myself and my children can be attributed to the denial I grew up with. But I do know that I couldn’t raise my kids with the thought that their bodies were something to be ashamed of. I couldn’t put the restriction of “not until you are married” on them. I couldn’t expect that they would adhere to that, and not try anything else. And I really wanted them to be ok with what their body looked like, felt like, and did.
And they are.
My baby boy, at three year old, is excited to share with me what he has learned about his penis. My six year old is not ashamed to change in and out of his suit at the side of the pool. I can only hope that this openness will continue as they get older. Not that they should share with me the latest and greatest trick their penis can do, but that they are able to come to me with questions or share what they have learned in general.
And yes, I hope their confidence about their bodies that they have now, continues to grow and be strong as they get older. I hope their freedom to just be who they are, does not get hindered by restrictions that make no sense at all.
I knew before my children were born that I wanted to be the kind of mother that they could trust would tell them the truth. I never talked “baby talk” to them and always tried to judge what age appropriate information for them was. I also never would assume that, “Not MY child! My daughter/son would NEVER do that!” Parents like that are just fooling themselves. Why do they think their kids won’t do the same or worse than they did?
Sometimes my philosophy worked very well. When my daughter was about the age when she was figuring out Santa and the Easter Bunny weren’t real guys, I told her that when children become a certain age that Santa and the Easter Bunny let mom, dad, older brothers and sisters, take over the duties that they performed for the smaller children. I further told her that was the way we could always keep the magic of Christmas and the fun of Easter going forever. Now that she was getting older it was a big responsibility to keep the secret going and help Santa and company. She LOVED it! She talks about it to this day. I was Queen Mom with that pearl of wisdom.
I treated my son the same way. I did request that his father take over the actual “sex” talks with him. My son became aware of his penis very early in his life and like all men, it became his BEST friend. Since my son was five years old, he has never let me see him naked. I sent his father in a couple times over the years to question him and make sure his junk was okay, in proper order, etc. His father did this with much anguish and I think the last time I did this, my son was about fifteen. After his father had asked him the torturous questions, my son stormed out of his room and told me that his plumbing was fine, did what it was supposed to, and worked correctly and to STOP HAVING HIS FATHER CHECK ON HIM!!! He further informed me he knew about sex and how to protect himself and any future girlfriends. “Jeez, MOM!” Those were his last words on the subject.
So, I let them come to me with questions. I answered honestly and as the years went by, the questions about sex became less and less. They still come to me with questions about a variety of subjects but never sex. My job on that topic was over. They both had been told about birth control, pre-marital sex, virginity, oral sex and so on. Whew!
Now that you know I was always up-front with my children about everything. And I do mean everything, imagine my surprise when I found out *I* didn’t want to know EVERYTHING about them!
On a recent evening, his father and I were going out to dinner. My son was in his room. He usually has the door closed and locked. I went out to the car while his father went to ask him if he wanted to join us. When his father came out, he was laughing. I wanted to know what was so funny. His father, bless his sick little heart, told me. Apparently our son, my sweet little baby boy, was jerking off to internet porn! His door was locked but not closed tightly and when he knocked, the door opened. His father (I would have paid money to see the look on his face) was confronted by the sight of wild monkey sex on the computer and his son wanking away blissfully.
My appetite was gone. Some things a mother doesn’t want or need to know.
My wife and I strongly believe in open communication with our daughter about sexuality and over the years we’ve had many opportunities to do sex education at home.
Just the other day, the Spawn asked Mrs. Kyle to explain exactly where the baby was going to exit her body. We’ve been talking about the whole process of pregnancy and childbirth since the Spawn became aware of her mama’s pregnancy. Mrs. Kyle grabbed a pen and paper and did a quick line drawing of the vagina and neighboring external features and explained where the baby would come out vs. where pee and poop came out. The Spawn listened and asked a couple of clarifying questions and then, “What about the bump? the one near the top? What’s that called?”
Mrs. Kyle went back over the drawing trying to ascertain which bump she was referring to. The Spawn volunteered to try her hand at drawing. The result was two concentric half circles with a triangular point near the upper part of the drawing — a sideways view of the labia and clit, rather well rendered.
“That’s your clitoris,” Mrs. Kyle explained. The Spawn nodded and repeated the name.
Mrs. Kyle, sensing a teachable moment, asked a follow-on question, “Do you ever touch yours?” The Spawn nodded in the affirmative. “Does it feel good?”
The Spawn responded with a big, smuggish grin, “It feels good and it’s very stretchy.” I exchanged raised eyebrow looks with Mrs. Kyle when she said ’stretchy.’
My wife continued, “Yes, it does feel good. It’s perfectly alright to touch it and feel good, but it’s something to do in private, do you understand?”
“Yes, I like to do it in my room sometimes.” The Spawn still sported a smile that spoke volumes about the number of times she had experimented, and the success of those explorations.
“Exactly. It’s something we do in private, that’s absolutely right.”
And with that conversation turned to something much more mundane, like getting computer time and cleaning her room. I was proud, once again, at the way my wife and I handled such conversations: matter of fact, informative, responsive to the child’s actual questions.
I had another teaching opportunity in June during our local Pride celebration. Two of the groups represented in the parade and at the park were trans-oriented: the New Boyz Club and the Gender Alliance. The Spawn and I were traversing the park, booth to booth, and she pointed to the New Boyz Club sign and asked what it meant, “What are ‘New Boyz,’ Mommy?”
I explained to her that sometimes people are born with bodies that don’t feel right to them. “For example, some people born with girl bodies feel like they should have been born with a boy body.” At this point she looked sharply up at me, “There are ways to change your body to be more like the one you wanted to be born with.”
I started to say something more about people getting surgeries to change their bodies, but at that point I’d lost her. Now she was moving on to the next booth, which featured lots of rainbow items. It may be that I’d gotten too explicit or that she wasn’t interested anymore. I’ve been slipping in information on gender, gender queerness, anything related whenever I can. These discussions often start with some observation she makes about me — my facial hair, my boyish haircuts, the way I dress. Little by little the information is accumulating and at some point, I hope we’ll be able to talk more about it.
I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, and, whenever that is, I’m confident that we’ll have a great conversation.
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.
When I was younger, it was all over the news that a local woman had been tied to a tree, raped, and murdered. I asked my mother what rape was, and I don’t remember what her answer was – just that I wasn’t satisfied with it, and went and looked it up in the dictionary, like they had trained me to do with every other word I didn’t know the meaning of. It wasn’t in my children’s dictionary, but it was in the big red regular one. As were words like sodomy and masturbation. The definitions of which intrigued and excited me – they didn’t sound bad or scary at all, so what was the big deal?
I couldn’t have been even ten, and for a long time, I had known that rubbing parts of my body felt very, very good. Masturbating has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
Then, when I was twelve, a girl I knew asked me if I fingered myself. What? No…why would I do that? Wait…guys? YOUR DAD??? She had explained that her dad taught her how to do it, and it was how men could tell if a girl was ready to have sex. I knew I wasn’t, so I didn’t pay her much mind. That year, I’d been molested, and it proved to be the match that set many other issues on fire.
After that, everything came from the internet. Freshman year of high school, I had lots of internet access. Netscape was awful, but it helped me find much more about sodomy than the dictionary ever did. And I learned that all my rape fantasies were okay, and not a sign of something wrong with me – even if my teenage self, with the complete lack of self-esteem, had rationalized them by thinking “Well, that’s the only way someone will ever want to have sex with ME.”
I never got the birds and the bees talk. All my knowledge came in the form of books, abuse, and zeros and ones through the tubes. I have no idea how I’ll educate my kids…but educate them, I will. I’ve always been good at doing well, with or without a plan.
If you’ve yet to have children, remember this: toddlers are extremely curious and creative little creatures. When you’re taking a bath or in the kitchen, they will dig through your drawers or under your bed looking for play clothing or monsters or a lost Toy Story Buzz Lightyear. And when they do, they will find whatever it is that you’ve hoped they would never ask about. And then they will ask about everything single thing they discover.
This is what happened to me one lazy Saturday afternoon while my husband was out and I was engrossed in the latest John Grisham novel with my feet up on the backside of the couch. In marches my three-and-a-half-year-old, proudly pulling a makeshift caddy of all our private pleasure toys that we keep stored under the bed. My blindfold is casually wrapped around her waist like a little fashionista belt and she sports one fuzzy pink handcuff pushed way up to her shoulder, like some cool punk rocker.
“Mommy, Mommy! Lookit! Toys!” she exclaims to me, excited about her bounty. And then the questions begin as she presents each item in a quick flurry, her curly hair bouncing. She pulls out a simple straight, non-penis looking vibrator and somehow actually manages to twist it just right to start it humming.
“Why does it move like that? It tickles.” I gently take the toy from her and turn it off. This is a delicate moment to handle. I don’t believe there’s any shame in sex, but I also believe that 3 ½ is far too early to introduce the concept. I’ve heard stories from friends whose mothers taught them that sexuality was improper, keeping the facts of life from them until they were well into their teenage years. By then, of course, they had learned all the truly improper – that is, inaccurate – information from their friends. One close pal was even slapped in the face by her mother when she unintentionally found mom’s vibrator and asked about it over lunch in front of other ladies. This would never be my approach. I consider my response and give her as close to the truth as I think is appropriate.
“That’s for when mommy’s back hurts.” I tell her.
“Can I put it on your back?” She asks, all innocent.
“That’s sweet, honey, but my back doesn’t hurt right now.”
She seems content with this answer and moves onto the feather tickler, sticking it in her hair like an Indian. She poses fiercely for me. I cower in mock fear. Then she removes it and tickles my nose with it, so I giggle.
“Tickle me back!” So I do and she giggles. “Why do you have this, mommy?”
“For tickling, of course.”
“Right!” And she tickles me again. We have a good laugh. Then, suddenly, she runs back into the bedroom and brings back my wedge.
“Mommy, what’s this?” Her face is screwed up with a completely confused expression, her head tilted to the side like a dog that’s just heard a funny sound.
“What does it look like it’s for?” I ask. She pauses. Then, with great accomplishment:
“A slide!” And she plops down on the high end and slides down to the floor, squealing. It’s not a very long slide, but it does the trick. She jumps back up and this time rolls down it, turning over about twice and laughing dizzily at the bottom.
I leave John Grisham on the couch for the rest of the afternoon while I watch my daughter play with the blindfold, feather, cuff and wedge. The rest of the toys go back in the bedroom, but this time on a high shelf in the closet.
Some day I know we’ll have a good laugh about this day. She may even think I’m kind of cool. Or maybe when she’s a bit more grown up, she’ll come to me with more adult questions about sexuality because she knows she can trust that I’m as open and honest as I can be, given the circumstances. Maybe she’ll remember that I let her play and use her imagination, knowing that she wasn’t being “tainted” or shamed in any way. Until then, of course, as far as she’s concerned, a feather is just a feather.
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