The Trauma of Sex

So where were you and how old were you when you first learned about sex? I’m talking about the whole mechanics of where babies come from. This moment was for me, what the boomers call a “Kennedy Assassination” moment. For those of you in my generation, we sometimes refer to the “John Lennon Assassination” moment or the “Challenger Explosion” moment. Or for those of you even younger, the “Kurt Cobain doing us all a favor” moment may be more meaningful. For those of you even younger still, you might share a “I can’t believe that Asshat got re-elected” moment.

I don’t know how old I was when my bad news friend explained the mechanics of sex to me. I was young enough not to know already, of course. We were actually standing on a sidewalk so I don’t know if that really counts as learning about it “on the streets”. He even drew a picture of a vagina and claimed to have actually seen one. I can still see the drawing in my mind. He wasn’t far off. Turns out they are really not as big as he depicted, but he may have been influenced by Picasso or something.

I believed it all. But then the ensuing images of my parents performing these mechanics flooded in and tried to dash these truths against the rocks. But time and experience proved these teachings true. My parents, the blessed saints that they are, must have actually performed these mechanics or else I wouldn’t be here. And they must have done it more than once or else my brothers and sister wouldn’t be here either. Hell, this apparently had been going on for years! Being the youngest of the lot, I was at least grateful to be able to believe that this nonsense had certainly stopped by now.

School eventually caught up with the streets and confirmed what I already knew to be true. My parents actually willingly participated in mechanics that I was gaining a burgeoning appreciation for. In fact, this act was not depraved at all. It was beautiful, and natural, and a great gift from God. (I went to Catholic schools, so it was okay to add that last part.). But that didn’t help with the whole image of my parents “doing it”. That would take years and years of drug and alcohol abuse to overcome. Not that that helped any. But it was worth a try.

Somewhere along the line I came to recognize that my parents were not actual saints. Rather, they were merely very good human beings. And human beings have desires. And back in some far distant past, they could have actually been hot for each other. They certainly must have gotten over all that nonsense now that they were old and everything. (Some defenses take some real battering to knock down. Leave me with this one please.)

I think I was in my late twenties when I came to peace with all of this. By this time, I had two kids of my own. And it hit me that someday these child humans would come to learn of sex the way I had. They would be confused and troubled as I was. They would have nightmarish visions of their parents doing things like this like I had. I vowed to not let that happen. As soon as they were old enough to understand, I would let Sybil (my wife) explain it to them.

And she did. As soon as the kids figured out that some kids had penises and some kids had vaginas and that this was pretty much the criteria for deciding who was a boy and who was a girl, Syb spilled all the beans. She did a masterful job. My kids knew more about STD’s and “inappropriate touching” by kindergarten than I knew in college.

I could never have done that. I could never have looked those little cherubs in the face and talked to them about sperm and ova. I got nervous whenever I read them “Green Eggs and Ham”. She did it like she was talking about how water turned into ice when you put it in the freezer or what causes rainbows. No mystery here. Just the facts ma’am.

So it kills me that I totally buffaloed these kids years later playing “Bullshit” around a camp fire (which is where “Bullshit” is best played). The kids were pre-teens at the time and, as I mentioned, fully aware by now of the awful mechanics of sex. They had probably already come to terms with the idea of their parents having an active sex life. But still I totally blew them away with my story in that round of “Bullshit”.

If you are not familiar with this quintessential campfire game, the rules are simple. Everyone takes a turn telling a story. Then everyone else votes if the story is true or eponymous with the name of the game. If you tell a made up story, you get points for everyone who says they believe it. If you tell a true story, you get points for everyone who votes that it is bullshit.

I won with my story. It was true. But it involved me wanting to have sex with my wife (then girlfriend). I played on this universal mental block and won. It was worth it. Here is the story…

I was off at college in the Big City while Syb worked as a waitress back in our home town. In fact, she was living at her parents’ home at the time. Her parents were out of town one weekend and I had the opportunity to surprise her with a visit back upstream.

I went to her parents’ house while she was still at work. To my surprise, the house was locked. (Who locks their house here? This isn’t the “Big City”!) I tried all the usual doors and windows and finally managed to get past the lock on the back door. I went up to her room, got nekkid, and climbed into her bed. Boy, wouldn’t she be surprised when she got home!

I was somewhat dozing off when I heard the front door of the house open a half-hour or so later. “Oh boy is this great!”. But I heard voices down the stairs. They sounded like men’s voices. I was no longer thinking “Oh boy is this great!”. I was thinking that she was with some friends or someones looking to have a party after work.

I thought it would be best to try and hide between the bed and the wall and I did my best to do so. But when the guy with the baseball bat and the German Shepherd came in the room asking who was here, I thought it best to come clean. The guy behind him had a shotgun. These were not your typical “after work” party guests. If they were, then there were many things about my then-girlfriend I didn’t know about.

Of course, they were not invited party guests. They were neighbors concerned about someone breaking into the house across the street when they knew the owners were out of town and that their daughter would soon be returning home from work. This is reason number two why folks here don’t need to keep their doors locked.

I identified myself as Sybil’s boyfriend and that I was just kind of waiting here for her to return from work and that I was most certainly, and without any qualification, unarmed. I was so completely unarmed as to also be un-pantsed so I hoped they would not insist I crawl out from the space between the bed and the wall. They were good folks who understood immediately and were probably less embarrassed than I was.

They left directly. I heard them apologizing to Syb as she entered the house wondering what all the commotion was. They explained that they saw me break into the house but didn’t know who I was so they were just checking in. She came upstairs to find me still nekkid and hiding between the bed and the wall. She called me a few names that she had probably used before and has certainly perfected since.

And none of my children believed the story. I played a trump card I could only get away with once. I will never forget when I did that. I hope my children don’t either. Here’s hoping they are telling this story over and over again years from now. Even if it is in therapy.

- 1/2