All parents dread this moment. You notice the hairy legs (I’m talking about the boy). You hear the voice crack. You race out to buy deodorant. By the gallon. All of a sudden you realize: it’s deep in the sticky wicket of puberty. So you, out of duty, out of a misguided sense of tradition, because you think you care, decide to have a talk. The talk.
Let me offer you a word of advice for parents of the Post Google (P.G.) pubescent:
Don’t. Talk. About. Sex.
They know more than you do. They’re like obsessed ob/gyn scientists. My 13 year old son’s probably seen more pictures of the va jay jay than I have in my entire life. If, like me, you are a highly liberal parent and don’t squelch the internet, then the first time you talk to your kid about sex, you are doomed to feel like a shy Amish farm boy dropped into a pool full of Vaseline and naked Brazilian trannys. To whit:
Dad: Son, I think I need to talk to you about sex.
Son: Cool dad. What do you want to know?
Dad: No, I mean, I’m here to answer any questions you might have.
Son: Oh good, because I was curious about a few things (pulls a ream of paper from his desk drawer). Do you and mom ever [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!]
Dad: Dear god.
Son: So that’s a no. Is it because you’re afraid your [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] will [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] or that your [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] isn’t [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] enough?
Dad: Mother of Christ.
Son: Also, when girls say they’re willing to [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] do they really mean they’ll [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] or that they just want to cuddle?
Dad: Didn’t I give you a pocket knife when you were ten?
Son: Why?
Dad: I need to cut my throat.
Son: Don’t be such a prude. Now, here’s a picture of two people [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] in a room full of [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] in Turkey and what I’m wondering is, in other cultures, is it normal for a spectator at such an event to [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] with his [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] in a tea pot?
Dad: I’m gonna throw up.
Son: Also, sometimes when I [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] I think about [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!]. Is that normal?
Dad: NO! Oh my GOD! NO! Stop!
Son: Finally, have you ever [HOLY JESUS MOTHER OF ALL THINGS HOLY THAT IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE THING TO HEAR, EVER, NOT EVEN IN A MERCHANT MARINE SHIP'S BRIG AFTER A FIGHT. MY GOD; FURTHER: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] and did you get a rash?
Dad: Please stop talking. Please—
Son: Is this normal? (Shows photograph of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!]
Dad: I’ll do anything. Anything.
Son: Can I get a new game dedicated desktop with nine terabytes of ram and an oil cooled hard drive?
Dad: Here’s my credit card.
As I leave the room, he calls his friend and I hear:
Son: Misson accomplished.
