HARLEM — The closest my dad ever came to giving me the birds and bees talk was this one time at the racetrack, when he used a rolled-up program as a visual aid, and told me a few crude jokes about hookers. Still, it’s way closer than my mom ever came to talking about sex.
Despite my parents’ silence, I got the goods in sixth-grade sex education. All the boys in one room, all the girls in the other. There were the booklets, blue for boys, pink for girls. And the booklets contained what looked like blueprints for plumbing, again one set for boys, one set for girls.
The woman teaching the boys class — incidentally she also doubled as the lunch lady — used the word “cum.” Now, I’m no doctor. But even then, I was fairly certain that there was a proper medical term for the phenomenon she was describing, and surely it wasn’t “cum.”
Anyway, I had long given up on the idea about ever getting “the talk” when it happened. At least, I think it happened.
I’m driving one day and my mom’s riding shotgun, when a beautiful girl steps into the crosswalk. As I’m checking her out, I feel a punch on my shoulder.
“Use condom, ha!”
I was 23.
— 30 —