This is a very different version of some rant I went on the other night on FB. I’ve updated it with a few personal stories, as I’ve had time to think of what I would have added after I posted, so here’s some extended advice for anyone between 7-18 years of age who would ever need sex ed advice from a grown ass woman.
First, I wouldn’t say 7 year olds need sex ed advice but then again, I think if there are kids getting knocked up at 12, someone should hit those poorly parented children up early and do the world a favor and either, 1. educate them or 2. bleach their insides so they are incapable of breeding more millennial type non-contributors to society.
Also, what the fuck is happening to the world when 12 year olds don’t have enough shit to do that they’re out and about whoring around with each other? You want to know what the fuck I was doing when I was twelve? I was deciding what rainbow colored elastics to decorate my metal braces with. I was attending sleepovers where I wore metal head gear that wrapped around my fucking head while I slept in a sleeping bag, the highlight of the night was eating chips and ice cream and cookies AND brownies, and drinking mountain dew, and called boys using a see-through phone, yet never talking to boys because the minute one would answer, we’d hang up the phone and scream. I was wearing three pairs of socks scrunched down and carrying around a backpack and writing book reports about Hiroshima and I was convincing my parents to let us get a new cat because the old cat, Sprinkles or Surprise or Bailey was hit by a car again we lived on a road that killed so many damned cats. Also, a strawberry shortcake pop from the ice cream truck, not sucking dick, was the highlight of my day, so I find today’s kids fucking bizarre.
I was not letting any grimy handed, skuzzed headed, dirty, mouthy, snorting, drooling, non-bathing, eating like a pig, dressing like a moron, 12 year old boy stick anything in me, and certainly not up my vagina, which I thought not only dumped urine straight out it but anything went up it went right to my stomach and then if blasted hard enough, into the empty cavity above my stomach, which somehow contained my heart and lungs.
I have an overwhelming insane comprehension of the human body.
So why are we in the middle of this conversation that seems like me just yelling exactly how my brain thinks? (That is exactly how I write, by the way)
Well, someone asked me how I’d phrase sex ed/womanly advice to their daughter, which is honestly the first mistake. No one has ever asked me to give their child advice on Shark Week, like I’m some sort of motivational speaker for anyone who bleeds out of their legs once a month. I have no idea why anyone in the world would ever consult me about this, and this is the PERFECT reason why I was not given girls. I am unqualified because I barely girl good enough to keep me alive. But, if I was going to give advice, I got to thinking….
Once upon a time, we were all sitting in a circle in Health Class, and in waltzed an additional teacher with a big box of something, set it on the table and then separated the boys and the girls. The boys were taken outside to the football field where they could spend the hour beating the shit out of each other and the girls were presented with this box of gifts—an individual purple pack of fun that included pads and pamphlets on how to deal with your lady bits, some of the language tip toeing around men and women spending time with each other, inserts with terribly drawn diagrams and literally no information of value that was approvable by any authority of health.
Yet this was the school system’s attempt at providing some sort of sex ed, preparing us to start A Lifetime of Bleeding, why this should be considered a gift, a gift of blood shooting from your flower, all commemorated with this tiny bag of heavy, purple covered pads, a bizarre drawing of a girl with no face that modeled a simple diagram of the inside of your body (seriously, I literally could not tell you to this day the insides of my body, and yes, I have two children), but surely no advice on what would happen if you liked some boy enough to get it on with and have The Sex and have The Baby?
That was sex ed.
Lucky for me, my mother had already done a better job at explaining sex to me the day I was ten when she made me come sit in her room, look at a different pamphlet that contained faceless people hugging naked, and told me that, and I quote, “When two people love each other so much and want to show each other with more than hugging, they hug each other on the inside, too. Do you have any questions?”
No, I did not. I did not because I had heard her having sex before and it did not sound like two people doing any outside or inside hugging. It sounded like a moving company trying to move the bed from one room to the next one by jamming the headboard through the wall, the kind of sex where you forget you don’t have kids or fucking volume control and I was not interested in knowing more about that.
I’m not scarred, though. We had sex once with Sawyer sitting on the couch in a hotel room and in fairness I had distracted him with TV and a snack but then in a moment of distraction, I missed the fact that he had gotten off the other bed and walked over and there he was, slapping my thigh, asking me what I’m doing, and you can’t just answer that, so I told him to go back to the other side of the room to watch Handy Manny because Mommy was just sitting on Daddy’s lap backwards and would be right over.
If we could just adjust the teaching methods a bit, I’d love for this education to include a really detailed class on tampon use, perhaps a class on the use of vibrators and dildos, so no one has to screw any boys, we can all just screw ourselves until college.
I’m sure we know how to prevent liquid from shooting out of us. How about we tell young women that one disadvantage of having children if you have unprotected sex is that your vagina no longer works for fun things like sex because it is too busy leaking out a liter of Elmer’s glue each day, causing you to sit on the toilet for a half hour at a time, staring at your oversized and dirty underwear, smelling the crotch part by bringing IT TO YOUR NOSE AND SMELLING INTENTLY, rubbing your finger around in the glue mess because you’re trying to figure out if you have a disease more like the clap and not just side effects of breeding kids.
Or you could do women a solid and bring a whole bunch of realistic dildos in and have them all inspect them, get used to different sizes and textures and colors, yes COLORS BECAUSE PEOPLE HAVE BROWN AND PINK PARTS and if you are from White America, brown parts will surprise you because you surely think all penises are pink. Also, let us put our mouths on them so we know what the fuck we’re working with. Give some of them hoods, for those women one day that get with guys who have dicks that look like anteaters. Give some massive bushes so you figure out how to press forward and end up with no pubes in your teeth.
Do us a favor, and teach us the lesson I learned from my best friend, while we sat around eating the salad bar during lunch. She had gone to the school dance on Friday like the rest of us. She had also done more than dancing and on Monday sat down at lunch and promptly, and quietly announced to all of us, whisperingly knowingly,
“You guys will NOT believe this. You will not. THE SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.”
And to this day, that is the most important lesson I have ever learned, that when you give a hand job, the SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND. Do you know how many fucking heart attacks we all could have avoided having if only someone told us that BEFORE we touched a penis?
So yeah, if you’re going to ask me for advice for your child, this is going to be the conversation, with the highlight, THE SKIN MOVES WITH YOUR HAND.
**School nurses feel free to email me and provide me an update.