The Sex Talk
“So you see, Mom, you just place it over the tip and roll down. Voila, you’ve got yourself a safe-sex banana.” Suddenly I’m hungry. Setting the slightly bruised yellow fruit on the table, I shoot my 52-year-old mother a jocular glance. “You know, we should've had this talk about fifteen years ago when I was a teenager; and our roles should’ve been reversed.” She ruefully agrees but maintains that since I’m the sex researcher I should be well equipped to deal with this type of scenario. She may be right, but I can’t help but wonder if I would have become a sex researcher had she fulfilled her parental responsibilities in the first place. You see, my mother is 52 years old and the poor woman never learned how to use a condom, communicate sexual preferences, or enjoy the wonders that technology offers our nether-regions. At first this made me want to cry for her, until I remembered that she had conservatively married the first man she’d had sex with. Since my brother popped out not long after, it’s pretty clear there were no condoms involved. As we finish up our tutorial, I casually ask her to let me know how it goes.
Please understand, this is the first time my mother has dated in over ten years, and even then it’s only because I finally convinced her to open up her… heart. I can imagine she’s ready to pounce something fierce and almost feel sorry for the poor fool who will be her first victim. Then I remember we’re talking about sex and that pity turns instantly into pride; you’re welcome victim number one.
After about three weeks of online dating she locks down a solid contender and has her merry way with him. I know this because dear Mother gave me a detailed recap of her sexcapades. This was the first time in my life someone has crossed a boundary with me. I’ve been flashed, punched and verbally violated in every way imaginable, but only now, listening to the woman who birthed me talk about swapping juices with some random Don Juan do I squirm in my seat. Next time I’ll be careful about my flippant requests for future conversation.
The good news is she’s able to successfully utilize the mechanisms of a condom and now considers herself a fully-fledged mature adult. The bad news is that I begrudgingly sat through a 20-minute saga of her experience, trying to block one graphic mental image after another. As she outlines the back seat of this anonymous man’s Dodge Charger and how she lovingly sprayed her fe-juices all over its delicate leather, I cringe just enough to keep it hidden.
I’m happy for my mother, really. I’m honored that she trusts me enough to teach her how to properly engage in backseat muscle car fun times. That being said, if I had to go back and do it all over again, I’d become an accountant.