I Have Sex for the Endorphins, Don't You?

Because I wanted to get pictures of the signs in the daylight (and because I'm a dumbass), I drove by the sign-bearing house this afternoon with Jill while Jack was in a class. Just as I'm aiming my camera phone at the sign, Jill reminds me that I said that we would talk about prostitution. (If you're coming into the discussion late, my daughter and I were discussing her future career options.)

"Okay. Let's see. Hmm. Well, do you know what sex is, Jill?"

"No. Well, not really. I don't think so."

If Jill were to have to endure the same thing I did when I had the sex talk, it would have been at this point in the conversation that I would have asked her to tell me everything she knows about sex.

Luckily for Jill, I was scarred for life from my sex talk so I didn't put her through that torture. If you've heard this story before, feel free to skip to the end to read the thrilling conclusion of THE SEX TALK.

When I was nine-years-old, I was watching Saturday Night Fever on television. I haven't seen it since, but I imagine that the movie was heavily edited for television. Whatever the case, there's a scene in the movie where John Travolta is in the backseat of the car with that chick that was gaga over him and they were making out. Just as things seem to be heating up, he pulls out a plastic wrapper and starts fumbling with it. I stupidly asked my stepmother what he was doing.

She decided that it was time that we had "the talk." By that point, I'd already learned all about sex from an older girl that lived near my mother (who I visited on the weekends). So, I piped up and said, "I already know about sex. I just want to know what he had in his pocket." I mean, c'mon, I'm watching a movie here!

Instead of telling me it was a condom and its use, she made me tell her everything I had heard about sex. Through tears and red, burning cheeks, I stammered out my knowledge over what seemed like the next couple of hours. In reality, it was probably more like 30 minutes (because the movie was still playing on TV), but it seemed interminably long. In the end, she confirmed that I did indeed have the correct information and then she finally told me about the condom. It was a traumatic experience, and my nine-year-old self vowed right then that I would never put my own children through that.

I knew that we would need to have the talk soon, and I was probably waiting for an opportunity like this to arise. I didn't want to give the kids too much information too soon, but I also didn't want them to be running around with false information either. The older girl told me about sex after I told her that one of my 4th grade classmates was pregnant. She seemed doubtful, but I was adamant that it was true. The "pregnant" girl's mother had told her you get pregnant if you kiss a boy and she had kissed a boy! The older girl quickly set me straight with what was (thankfully) correct knowledge and I was on my way -- on my way to horrible embarrassment at the hands of my evil stepmother.

So, back to Jill ...

"Well, sex is what two people who are in love do to have babies. Women have eggs and men have sperm. The sperm comes from the man's penis. So, the man inserts his penis into the woman's vagina so that the sperm can fertilize the egg."

I notice that Jill has a horrified look on her face.

"Prostitutes want babies?"

"Um, no. Prostitutes are different. You see ..."

I pause for a moment and kick myself (again) for not running through the thousands of different scenarios for this conversation. I also kick myself for not actually reading up on how to talk to your child about sex and PROSTITUTES. Then I silently curse the asshole who put the sign up in the first place thus making an already difficult conversation nearly unbearable.

"Sex feels good as well providing you with a baby. So, sometimes people just want to have sex because it feels good and, in some cases, they go to someone and pay for it."

"Why would anyone want to do that?!"

By this point, I'm wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me. It would be so much easier to die a violent death than to have to finish this conversation. I now know that sex talks and me equal trauma. I'm also worried that my daughter will need counseling because of this conversation alone.

"You know how it feels good if someone rubs your back or brushes your hair or gives you a hug? Your body is covered with nerve endings that can make you feel good if they are touched and endorphins are released as well."

Did I really just go to endorphins? With my eight-year-old?

"Endorwhats?"

"Endorphins are ..." and I launch into this long explanation about endorphins and their role in the body. (I'll spare you because I like you.) Jill's eyes are starting to glaze over, so I wrap it up.

"Any questions?"

"No," she said. "Wait, just one."

I tense.

"May I ride my bike?"

"Yes. Yes, you may."

Guess who's making a trip to the bookstore tomorrow in order to purchase a book to repair the damage that I caused this afternoon?