Nigerians need to let go of that moral crap, sex is not bad; So why do Nigerians demonize it?
Your mother cannot even give you proper sex education as a yound adolescent, rather she says ‘ if you go close to a boy or if a boy should touch you , you’ll get pregnant’ .
BULLCRAP!!!!! Hey wonderful mother, why don’t you say ‘ my girl, if you have sex without protection with a young man you will get pregnant’ .
Isn’t that real and honest compared to making your child believe she’s some reincarnation of Virgin Mary that will concieve by some holy apparition.
Why don’t you tell your child, because believe me , she already knows the whole 9 yards, I dare say at age 12 she knows half of what you knew at age 23.
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At my school, we were given Sex Ed in grade seven. It was a fairly comprehensive program covering the anatomy and reproductive cycles of both the male and the female, the general mechanics of sex, pregnancy and some time devoted to topics of pleasure, relationships, masturbation and anonymous Q&A sessions. During one class when we were learning about menstruation and the laundry list of symptoms that accompanies this monthly cycle, my teacher told us “The body is mourning the loss of a potential baby”. I remember instantly disliking what she had just said. There was something about that statement that grated against me like nails on a chalk board. But I couldn’t tell why. For several years, whenever I thought about that class, I would flush in anger. I felt there was something fundamentally wrong and insulting about the comment, but I couldn’t put my finger on what bothered me so much. I eventually put it out of my mind. Many years later, when I was in university and hanging around with friends in the Women and Gender studies program, and blossoming with my own ideas of sexual liberty and equality, I recognized that statement for the misogynistic bullshit that it was. I was able to finally put into words exactly what it was about that statement that bothered me so much — how it suggests that a woman can not be complete or truly happy unless she is pregnant. That her entire purpose is to carry children because even her own body demands it and “weeps” when it is denied every month. It represents the manipulation of biology and science to justify social inequality and misogyny (similar tactics have been used to suppress other minorities as well). I am sure that was never my teacher’s intention, who for the record was a woman herself. However, those words represented my first encountered with institutionalized sexism and how we as a society can so easily perpetuate this type of inequality and ridiculous social attitude, even against ourselves, by what we say or do not say. I will always be proud of myself for being bothered by those words, even if I didn’t understand why. I was able to recognize that there was something wrong and I was unwilling to accept sexist bullshit. 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. I grew up in a home that sexuality was often on the far ends of the scales. It was nothing for my Mom to walk around nude. And for my parents to very affectionate in front of us kids – kissing and groping in the kitchen wasn’t uncommon. I of course giggled at it as a little girl. But growing up I now appreciate that they could be so open with their affection and sexual attraction in front of us. But at the same time we were told that sex wasn’t something we needed to know about until we were grown up. And they really didn’t want to talk about it. I am not sure when it happened but eventually I figured it out that my Mom and Dad had to get married because they got pregnant with me. And as soon as I became aware the lectures came to not do the same thing. I heard all about the things my Mom and Dad had to give up because they had sex. But still it wasn’t talked about what sex was or how it worked. And it did create a message for me that sex was bad – forbidden because it made you give up things that sounded like they were better and good. All the while though still my parents still were very open with their affection for each other so it made me want to have that but just not tell them. So I learned about sex on my own, from girly magazines my Dad had stuffed in the back of his closet and from friends. As mentioned previously, we didn’t use condoms to start with. They were a little tricky to obtain, or maybe that was just what I was telling myself as an excuse. If I am honest with myself, the action of going out of my way to buy them constituted ‘intent’ and that seemed to me to be worse than telling myself that sex ‘just happened’ on the spur of the moment, hung-up and guilt-ridden as I still was. So it was without protection that I took my first ventures into her luscious fragrant hole. Dipping into it, luxuriating there for just a few seconds of bliss before pulling out and finishing myself off over her full breasts became the routine. It was only when her period first came round I was able to enjoy full-on penetrative sex with her, and it was like an epiphany. I wanted more of this and with time I began to take more and more risks; pulling out later and later, coming inside her for more days of her period. I looked forward to her periods, not knowing the discomfort they were causing her. I became an expert in that game called ”Hunt the little blue string”. And then, one month… She was late. She was never late, never had been, or so she told me. You could set a clock by her monthly cycle. But she was late nonetheless. Just late enough to make us both reflect on the upheaval that a pregnancy would cause for both of us just then. It turned out that the arrival of Auntie Flo had just been delayed by a few days by a bout of ’flu. We breathed a collective sigh of relief and carried on, more carefully than before. I started to experiment with another crude form of contraception: Anal sex. I had discovered early on that a little finger, drenched in her generous juices, was a most welcome occasional visitor in her arse. I had sometimes bitten my fingernails right down so as to be allowed to probe her further. The shackles of my upbringing were already being cast aside one by one. I was convinced I was going to hell anyway so what was another sin to add to the list? Heather was no stranger to anal. She had tried it back home as a teenager. Fortunately, her first experience was at the hands of someone who knew what he was doing. He had been gentle with her and she had not been scared off for good. As a consequence I didn’t have to persuade her to let me try; it was something we explored together. I shall always be grateful to that unnamed person. For the rest of the university year we slept together pretty much every night, sharing a narrow bed, barely wide enough for one, sharing coursework assignments, sharing wet Saturday afternoons, sharing the thrill of mutual masturbation, the illicit joy of anal and, once a month, the treat of full-on penetrative sex. The next academic year would would see us setting up home together in North London, with the freedom which that would bring, not least the freedom which comes with ’proper’ contraception. (To be continued) Author’s disclaimer. This was 1977: Clearly, unprotected anal sex is a bloody silly thing to do unless you are able to trust your partner absolutely, and is in no way recommended as a means of contraception! As my children are approaching the teen years and hormones are beginning to rage, I have made a promise to myself. A promise to keep an honest, and open line of communication with them when it comes to any of the “tough” subjects. A promise to really listen to what they are trying to tell me when they come to me with questions or want to have a conversation about what’s going on in their lives. Why am I so adamant about this you ask? Because my mom and I learned the hard way. When I was sixteen and a half I was THE small town, all American, girl next door. I was on the honor roll, I was in Drama club, Chorus, S.A.D.D., Student government, I was even a Sunday School teacher. I stood at the Veteran’s Memorial in the center of town during the town’s Memorial Day Parade and sang “Amazing Grace” in honor of our town’s veterans. I never tried a cigarette, never took a sip of alcohol. I was in bed by 10pm on the weekends. I was a “good” girl. With one exception. I had an older boyfriend that I was having unprotected sex with every weekend. I knew it was wrong to have sex without a condom but I just kept doing it. I could say my older boyfriend co-erced me into it, which I am sure played some roll in it all, but I knew better and the worry ate at me. Finally I decided on a plan to get my mom to take me to a doctor so I could get on birth control pills. I remember that moment clearly. My mom was sitting on the edge of my bed, and I was sitting in the big comfy green chair in the corner of my room. My heart was pounding while I explained to my mom that my boyfriend and I were “thinking” about having sex and I thought it was time for her to take me to the doctor for birth control. My mother, the queen of denial, sat there shocked for a moment and then replied “Well if you go on birth control, won’t that just make you actually have sex instead of just thinking about it?” Half of me was completely mortified and the other half was furious. Was she that stupid? What did she THINK was happening when she allowed me to “visit” in my room with my older boyfriend, with THE DOOR SHUT?!!??? So I agreed with her. And by the next year, at the end of my first year of what looked like it would be a very promising college career, I was pregnant. I look back over the years and recognize that moment when I went to my mom asking for her guidance as a defining moment in my life. I don’t blame my mom for being in denial and not giving me what I needed from her that day. She was an extremely loving, hard working single mom. Maybe that day she was just tired or scared or maybe she didn’t know what was the “right thing” to say. I will never know. And I made my own choices. Which is why I am making this promise. To myself and my kids…
I promise…
“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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