I Wish I Knew Then What I Know Now

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While I am certain that my mother had (or tried to have) The Talk with me roundabout sixth grade, I seem to have blocked that from my memory. Or perhaps I blew her off to stave off embarrassment and avoid the whole thing altogether. I likely said “Mooommmm I already know that, they gave us a class” and turned my back. She gave me a crude 1980’s era clinical pamphlet from the doctor’s office. I can recall looking at it in secret but I didn’t fully grasp the information.

But I still recall a few moments from my first Sex-Ed class. It was tradition at the time for the sixth grade class to take a field trip into the big city; both before and after the mortifying group class we took little jaunts to the Aviary, the Museum, etc. So we had bits of normalcy to cushion the shock, so to speak.

It was taught by a nurse and there were slides of health book style drawings and diagrams. I believe the moment she completely lost control of our sixth grade class was when she got to the “penis in vagina” part of what intercourse is. The whole class laughed. For a good five minutes. There was the usual nudging and giggling throughout but for the most part the boys and the girls didn’t acknowledge each other. We now KNEW THINGS that couldn’t be taken back.

But between the forced-group initiation and my discomfort on discussing such subjects after that with the likes of my mother, I actually didn’t learn much. In fact I clearly did NOT learn much even after the Sex-Ed portion of the eighth grade health class because when it came time for me to be in a sexual relationship four years later……I didn’t know much about my own genitalia. When my teenage boyfriend tried to lick my clit, I didn’t know what he was doing – but I didn’t like it and said “I think you’re in the wrong spot.”

It took another five years at least until I admitted to my then-boyfriend that I wasn’t sure where my clit was; he showed me. And it was another couple of years (late 20’s) until I was masturbating “properly” and experiencing something close to an orgasm. I truly had a number of years of being sexually active and not getting a whole lot of pleasure from it. I liked the idea of the act, and the pleasure I was giving my partner, more than the actual act of sex itself.

I wish I had been taught better, in more comfortable environments. Not in a classroom full of giggly peers and not by my mother who I didn’t like much. I would have been much more receptive if the teaching was done by a female I liked and looked up to, like any one of my cousins.

I know that should my future daughter refuse to let me talk, I’ll enlist outside help. But I also know that I want my daughter to know so much more than me, including how to masturbate and derive pleasure from sexual activities when she’s ready. I feel like I missed out on a number of “good sex years” by not knowing how to enjoy it.

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Are You There, God? It’s Me, Puberty

We have some interesting conversations around here. This was from the other day in the car between my 12 1/2 year old son and I.

Basically went a little something like this:

Me: “I don’t know if I should tell you this story (about a fighter pilot friend’s call sign) because it’ll only lead to questions and answers I’m not sure you’re ready for.”

Him: “Maybe we should wait until I reach puberty.”

Me: “I thought you said you were already getting hair…”

Him: “Hair?”

Me: “Yeah…hair…”

Him: “Hair?”

Me: “Hair…down there.”

Him: “Down where?”

Me: “I thought you told me you were getting fuzzy nuts”

Him: “Oh yeeeeaaaaaaahhh. I remember now. Yeah. Totally.”

Me: “Dude, you’ve reached puberty.”

Him: “So, can I hear the story now?”

Me: “I’m still trying to decide. Cuz, really, it’ll lead to questions about sex and, while I want to be open and honest about that, I think some of this might be a bit more than you need to know.”

Him: “Yeah. I’m still working on the fuzzy nuts part myself.”

It’s not that I don’t feel my son shouldn’t know this information. In fact, I think it’s important he know it and know it RIGHT, get it from a reliable source.

But how do I explain oral sex to him? Should I start the lesson a bit more broadly, approaching from say…that episode of Everybody Loves Raymond when Marie takes up sculpting and her statue obviously resembles the vulva. I explained that to my son. He blushed mildly but didn’t turn away. That’s a good show to bring up and use to ease my way into the discussion, I think. And that’s likely how it’ll happen.

I think I’ll use my time with him this weekend to broach the subject, let him think it over, and then he can ask questions when he’s ready before he goes back to his dad’s house. I know the answers won’t come from there. Or maybe he’ll be brave and ask his dad a few. Either way, I want him to be educated by people who know and not some kids at school who are repeating something they heard from Two and a Half Men, although that’s an excellent source of fodder for sex ed, albeit a slightly more advanced sex ed.

Any suggestions are greatly appreciated.

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I Can’t Get No….Contraception

(With apologies to The Rolling Stones)

That first night I spent with Heather, the first of ten thousand or more, made me realise that I never wanted to spend a night alone again. That warmth and closeness, the feel and smell of another human being right there next to me all night long until I woke to find her still there the next day was something I had never before experienced in my 20 years.

The sex came later. I had slept with my underpants on that first night. I’m not quite sure why. I was certainly shy, repressed, inexperienced and unsure of myself. My church upbringing had warned me of the dire consequences of just this type of thing and not taking all my clothes off was maybe symbolic of not going all the way.

Heather could have taken matters into her own hands, dragged them off me and taught me all I needed to know there and then: She certainly had the experience which I lacked. She could have laughed in my face or taken offence at me not grabbing with both hands the golden opportunity she was presenting so freely to me. She did none of those things. She was gentle and patient and she didn’t rush things. She slept in her knickers as well that night. We kissed and cuddled, she let me explore her, let me feel what it was like to be explored and we masturbated each other.

We spent long rainy Saturday afternoons, that autumn of 1977, slowly discovering more and more about each other. Because my background had made me somewhat reticent and because contraception was something of a problem, actual vaginal penetrative sex was only a small part of our relationship, so we explored a whole range of other experiences besides. Things that many other couples perhaps only arrive at much further into a relationship but which for us have been an integral part of our love play right from the very start. Like fisting, for example. Like anal. Not so much oral, strangely. Whereas I quickly discovered the delights of tasting her moist, fragrant cunt, I hope Heather will forgive me if I say that giving oral was not her favourite activity back then.

Heather wasn’t on the pill at the time. She explained that she didn’t dare while she was living at home because she knew that however well she hid them her mother would be sure to find them and that would inevitably lead to a huge row. Yet another huge row. How she managed to avoid getting pregnant before she came to England is something of a mystery. In any case, she hadn’t left her home town to become embroiled in a relationship. Quite the reverse. The previous couple of years had seen her school grades slide in inverse proportion to her interest in the local boys and she didn’t want that to happen while at university.

Condoms were available of course, although not as widely as they are now. These were the days pre-HIV, and when chlamydia was something we learned about in Pathology classes but were never likely to encounter, so ’safe sex’ as we now know it simply wasn’t an issue. Our hall of residence was right in the heart of the City of London, so there were no convenient pubs or shops nearby. There was a Durex machine in the toilets at the hall, built like a tank and covered in hilarious graffiti such as ”Buy me and stop one”, ”This chewing gum tastes funny” and, beneath the logo declaring the contents to conform to British Standard 3704, the inscription: ”So was the Titanic”. Problem was that the thing was so noisy that you could hear the drawer being yanked out and slammed shut way down the corridor. It was the thought of being discovered in the act by a fellow member of The Christian Union that kept me well away from that machine…

(To be continued)

–Submitted by Fat Controller of Northern Lights and Sleepless Nights

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They’d Never Believe Me Anyway

I don’t know if it’s this way at your house, but with two pre-teen girls, dinner table discussions at our house more frequently than not involve reproductive organs, sexuality and (these days) marriage equality discussions.

Take for example, this interaction between myself and my eleven year old:

A: Me and Friend X and Friend Y were wondering about how lesbians have sex.

Me: Do you mean since neither person has a penis?

A: Yeah.

Me: Well, there are lots of ways to be intimate that don’t involve a penis. They could use their hands and fingers. They could use their mouths…

A: You mean they kiss?

Me: Well, that and they use their mouths on one another’s vagina or breasts and other parts of the body that feel good when they’re touched.

A: Oh…(takes a few minutes to ponder).  How about gay men?

Me: Well, the same thing.  They can use their hands and mouths and anus.

A: What’s an anus?

Me: Their butts.

A: Oh.  (Another quiet moment.)

Me (imagining the phone calls I would get the next day):  You know how we’ve talked about that parents usually like to be the ones to teach their children about sex? This is probably one of those things that you should tell Friend X and Friend Y to talk to their parents about rather than explaining it yourself.

A: Yeah, good idea. They would never believe me anyway.

–Submitted by D.

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Well-Rested

Now that I am an adult, my relationship with my mother has shifted from one of parent and child to more like mentorship. My mother has done all the parenting she can and now my life is up to me. The honest openness that always existed between myself and my mother has now grown even stronger and more open because she realizes I am an adult now and there is now nothing left in the world she needs nor should protect me from anymore.

As a result, I’ve been able to learn a lot about who my mother really is and learn about her past and all the wild things she did “when she was my age” (and yes, I’m doing all those things now). I’ve been able to share pretty much anything in my life freely and openly without judgment.

About a year ago, I had probably the most embarrassing sexual experience of my life (so far). After a good month and a half of heavy flirting between myself and a much older guy, we finally ended up back at his apartment after a party one night. What followed was the most awkward, mutually unsatisfying, fumbling bad sex which ended when he fell asleep while I was giving him twenty minutes of oral sex. Feeling mortified and angry, I was left with nothing else to do but grope around for my clothes while he snored. I left and made the long walk home at 4 in the morning.

The next day, still feeling the sting of my supposed sexual inadequacy, I called my mother to recount the sad tale and we had a good laugh. The best part, she was able to give me the best line to use on the day I had to face him again (we had mutual friends). She said, “Sweetie, here’s what you do. The next time you see him, you smile big, throw your arms around him in a big hug and say ‘Wow, you’re looking good. You must be sleeping well!’”  I’ve never been brave enough to say it, though I certainly have had the opportunity.

This is the difference between the advice my mother gave me when I was a child versus what she gives me now. When I was young, she was honest and open, but she was a parent. Her guidance was parental. She taught me about the mechanics of sex, about relationships, about self respect, pleasure, protection and all those good things.

Now that all that has been taken care and I’m waist deep experiencing it all for myself, she can now share with me snarky one liners, and saucy stories from her past. Rather than the information being passed from her down to me, it is now a mutual sharing of experiences. It’s not that I don’t still have a mother. I do, it just that our relationship has matured and changed and so have our conversations about sex, relationships and all aspects of life. I can’t think of a time when I won’t be talking to my mother about sex. My father is a different story.

–Submitted by A.

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What’s Fifty-Six?

    “Mom, What’s fifty-six?”

    “Ah, I’m not sure what you mean.”

    “I think it might be a… a…”

    “Mmm-hmm?”

    (Whispered) “…a sex thing…”

    Long, long pause.

    “Honey, do you mean sixty-nine?”

    “Oh, yeah, that’s it.”

    “Where did you hear about that?”

    “Some kids at school…”

This is the kind of conversation one has when one has children on the verge of teenager-hood. The kind of conversation that’s easy if you’re up-tight and prudish, because you can just wash a kid’s mouth with soap or spank them or pretend you don’t understand. But when you actually talk to your kids and tell them the truth, it can be a little but complicated.

The truth. That’s the tricky part. What truth? How much?

I’m a dirty bastard. I write erotica. I know sexuality. But putting things like this into a context so it’s both understandable and appropriate; that’s difficult.

How do you explain sexuality, sensuality, to a ten year old?

Honestly though, here’s what happens when you don’t.

I had a co-worker named Suzy, long long ago when I worked at a poster store and head shop, a place connected to Tower Records. We sold bongs and rolling papers, pipes and coke mirrors. Plants and incense.

So Suzy was the honey of the crew. A little older than most of us, I was maybe 20, she was 23 or so. A suntanned California babe. A little dim, but not as dim as she acted. Not really as cute as we all thought she was, but you know, the cutest girl we actually had there with us every day. I wanted to fuck her desperately. So did most of the rest of us. And I realize now, I could have but I didn’t think to just ask.

So I wore a shirt back then, a kelly-green football jersey with a big number 69 on the back. People would comment on it, and I’d say “It was the position I played in high-school.” Some got it, some didn’t.

I used this joke on Suzy one day and got a blank stare. The sort of an embarrassed grin. She moved in close, all intimate-like, and whispered to me.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said.

“What?”

“Sixty-nine. I don’t — uh…”

She paused and looked around.

“I don’t know what it means!” she finished, lamely.

I could have said a lot of things. Now, obviously, I’d suggest that I show her. And it might have worked, for all I know. She might have let me take her in the back room and demonstrate. I certainly would have gone if it’d played that way. But then, twenty years old, I had no idea what I might have gotten away with.

So I decided to go for the prank.

“Ask your mother,” I said.

It was a couple of days later when I saw her again; one or the other of us was off shift. But her face was red when she saw me, her body language all embarrassment and irritation.

She planted a punch in my shoulder, and then started poking me.

“You! You! Y-y-y-y-y-y – YOU!” she sputtered at me.

“What?”

“You told me to ask her!”

“Ask who? What?” I’d forgotten all about it.

“You told me to ask my mother, what 69 is!”

“Ooooooohhhh yeahhhhh….”

“And I did!”

Her face was getting redder.

“And. She. Told me!”

Poor Suzy. I doubt that’s the last sexual lesson she had to learn the hard way.

It’s very important to me that my children grow up never having to say “Oh, wow, I didn’t know that.” It’s so easy to teach them, and costs so little. I want them to be the ones who can tell their peers the truth when teen-age conversation turns to adult matters. I want them to be the ones who know what STDs are, who know how you can and can’t get pregnant. I want them to know they can come to us and ask about birth control someday.

BUt still. How do you explain sixty-nine to a ten year old?

I didn’t have to, this time. The conversation above was between mother and daughter, and handled incredibly well; matter-of-factly with enough but not too much detail.

That conversation concluded, after a couple of ten-year old Eeeewwwws and Ughs, with this:

“…And I give you full permission, now that you know this, to forget it completely and pretend we didn’t have this conversation.”

Which my ten-year-old did, and went back to her homework. But now she knows she can ask a question like that and get a real answer.

I must say though, I’m waiting for the day she asks about why daddy is always kissing people who aren’t mommy. That will be an interesting conversation.

–Submitted by Karl Elvis, The Moronosphere

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