Stamped: February 8th, 2007 | Toggle Similar
Tagged: sex talk, sins.

I lied during confessional.
I’m not certain if that was the moment I sealed my ticket to hell or not. I'd like to think that since I was in confessional at the time of my prevarication that perhaps any bad juju I had coming to me was nullified. I was 16 years old and it was my first and last time in confession. I never would have gone willingly, but I was being force-fed Catholicism at the time and as part of the process had to purge myself of sins. HA!

The ten minute holy incarceration was going fine and dandy until the priest asked me about premarital sex. Shit.
Despite the fact that my parents had the complete 411 on the who's, when's and where's of the very first time I had sex two years earlier, honesty and integrity (not to mention the fear of God) withdrew from my conscience at the idea of an admission of sex. All I could think about was the fact that the priest was a family friend and routinely came to our home for dinner. I sure as hell wasn’t about to tell him that I was getting banged in the backseat of a ’87 Ford Taurus. True, I knew that there was some sort of confidentiality sacrament when in the box-o-atonement, but at 16 all I cared about was covering my ass (or not, depending on how you look at it).

I can’t vouch for the communication in other homes, but in my home sex was a three letter word that was swept under the proverbial rug. It was as paralyzing for my parents to talk about as it was for me. The irony is that they knew I was having sex and I knew that they knew I was having sex and yet no attempts were made to talk about it. Well, there was almost an attempt. When I was 17 I had my first gynecology appointment and my step mom went with me. When it came time for me to see the doctor he asked if I wanted her to stay in the room with me and I said sure. Oh what a naive, stupid little girl I was. I never once gave thought to the fact that he was going to actually bring up a discussion about sex—more importantly, my sex. It's not surprising then that when he asked me (a mere 9.6 seconds into our conversation) if I was sexually active that my face froze. To this day I believe that the earth stopped and waited for the sound of the "thud". I didn’t know what to say. I knew I couldn’t lie because it was important that he know (besides, he would soon be up close and personal with the proof pudding) and yet, my instinct was to do just that. Finally, I said the first thing that came to mind: “Uhhhh….well, not today.”
Nice one.
And with that, I asked my step to leave the room.

You could have cut the air with a knife on the car ride home. I thought for certain that some sort of horribly awkward talk with a consequential reaming would follow. It was in those moments of silence that I suddenly found my religion (funny how that happens). Dear God. Sorry about that lie last year…and the premarital sex…and saying your name in vain…and for not obeying my parents all the time…and for jumping at the opportunity to play a jezebel during the holiday “Days of Yesteryear” program (you have to admit, I was damn good at it, though). But if you can pleeeaaaaase save me from this and pleeeeaaaaase prevent my step mom from telling my dad, I promise to not ask you for another thing for the rest of my life. Hey, hey. Amen. Yay God.
Oh man, if I had a penny for every time I made that promise.

By some miracle I escaped that day, and those paralyzing years, mostly unscathed (and STD free!). Thanks to scrambled cable porn and a week at band camp I had a decent understanding of at least the mechanics of sex. Still, at that age, none of us is immune to sexual stupidity and if it's not already blatantly obvious, I made a lot of stupid decisions. Maybe if my parents had talked to me about sex -about the repercussions, about safety, about all the emotional turmoil it can cause- I could have made wiser decisions. Of course, just because I could have made wiser decisions, doesn't mean I would have, but I would have been better prepared. Most importantly, by communicating with me, my parents would have shown me that I could at least talk to them about sex.

When I became a mother I decided that I would not paralyze my kids with fear. I would arm them with knowledge and trust and I would not allow myself to become one of those parental sex talk phobics. I want open and honest communication with my kids so that should there be a time when a holy man inquires about premarital sex they're not tempted to secure a seat on the Hellbound Express next to me.

I wasn't prepared, however, for the door to that brand of "open and honest communication" to be opened while we were driving to the post office one Tuesday afternoon when they were only 8 and 5.
"Mom, I know that a baby grows in a mommy's tummy, but how does it get there?"

Mrs. I'm-not-going-to-have-a-problem-talking-to-MY-kids-about-sex please report back to reality immediately. I fumbled briefly for the words, but managed to give them an age-appropriate dumbed down version of the facts of life, minus any birds or bees. My son sat speechless in the backseat. No doubt I've scarred him into celibacy. My daughter on the other hand, well, she's an inquisitive little shit. She is undeniably in cahoots with the karma police because, I kid you not, after a few moments of silence this was her response: "What I don't understand is why the boy has to put his penis in the girls vagina. That's so gross. How come he can't just stick it in her mouth and put sperm in there so she can have a baby?"

Open and honest communication is so completely overrated.

Last 5 posts by JB

• Happy Anniversary - June 21st, 2007
• decision 2007: dildo fantasies vs. honesty - June 14th, 2007
• Intermission - June 7th, 2007
• Yoni, up close and personal - May 31st, 2007
• My friend Karma - May 24th, 2007