All parents dread this moment. You notice the hairy legs. (I’m talking about the your son.) 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 pubescent:
Don’t. Talk. About. Sex.
They know more than you do. They’re like obsessed ob-gyn scientists. My 13-year-old son has 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 [I TUNE IT OUT BY SCREAMING IN MY HEAD: AAAAAAAAA!]
Dad: Dear god.
Son: So that’s a ‘no.’ Is it because you’re afraid your [AAAAAAA!] will [AAAAA!] or that your [AAAAA!] isn’t [AAAA!] enough?
Dad: Mother of Christ.
Son: Also, when girls say they’re willing to [AAAAAAAAAA!] do they really mean they’ll [AAAAA!] or that they just want to cuddle?
Dad: Didn’t I give you a pocket knife when you were 10?
Son: Why?
Dad: I need to cut my throat.
Son: Don’t be such a prude. Now, here’s a picture of two people [AAAAAAA! AAAAA!] in a room full of [AAAAAAA!] in Turkey and what I’m wondering is, in other cultures, is it normal for a spectator at such an event to [AAAAAA!] with his [AAAAAA!] in a tea pot?
Dad: I’m gonna throw up.
Son: Also, sometimes when I [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!] I think about [AAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAA!]. Is that normal?
Dad: NO! Oh my GOD! NO! Stop!
Son: Finally, have you ever [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!] and did you get a rash?
Dad: Please stop talking. Please—
Son: Is this normal? (Shows photograph of AAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAA!]
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:
“Mission accomplished.”
Christopher Garlington lives in a standard two kids, wife, dog, corner-lot, two car, small business owner American dream package. He drives a 2003 Camry, sports a considerable notebook fetish, and smokes Arturo Fuente Partaga Maduros at the Cigar King as often as possible. His stories have appeared in Florida, Orlando, Orlando Weekly, Catholic Digest, Retort, Another Realm, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, South Lit, and other magazines. His short story collection, “King of the Road,” is available on Amazon. His column “My Funny Life,” was nominated for a national humor award (rigged). He is the author of the infamous anti-parenting blog, Death By Children; the anti-writing blog, Creative Writer Pro; and co-author of “The Beat Cop’s Guide to Chicago Eats,” available on Amazon and in fine bookstores everywhere.
