The Talk

"Son," I called into the next room, "would you come in here, please?"

"Coming!" His reply made me sigh unconsciously. The falsetto squeak of my young teenager's changing voice was just another reminder of how quickly time goes by. "What is it, Dad?"

"Put your game down," I told him, and he could tell right away I was using my "serious" voice. I remembered having the same feeling of anxiety he was feeling whenever I heard that voice from my own parents. Fortunately - or unfortunately - for both of us, I wasn't going to yell at him, or question him, or punish him.

No, as his sixteenth birthday loomed, and soon he'd be taking girls to prom, asking to stay out all night with friends, and driving his own hovercar, it was time to have "The Talk."

I gestured for him to come sit next to me on his hoverbed. "Son," I began, clearing my throat, hoping my own nervousness wouldn't show through, "it's time we had a talk."  I gave him a meaningful look. "THE talk."

"Aw, Dad," he hung his head down, kicking his feet, "We have the googlenet, I know about sex and stuff."

"I know, but it's not enough to just know the mechanics. Pretty soon you're going to be going out with girls or attractive robots, and I've got to make sure you understand there's a big responsibility that comes with it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well son," I took out the box I'd been sitting next to, the awkwardness of the moment startling even me. "if you're going to have sex, you've got to use a condom."

"Daaaaaad!" He was just as embarrassed by the whole thing as I was, but I knew this was important.

"This is important," I pressed, letting the box of hovercondoms float next to him, even while silently wondering if maybe mankind had gotten overzealous with hover technology. "Sex is a wonderful thing, but it can carry some heavy consequences. If you're not careful, you can get a girl pregnant."

"What?" He seemed genuinely shocked. "Babies come from sex?"

"It's true," I affirmed, "but these will help prevent that from happening."

He took the box and looked it over, quickly putting it to the side, clearly feeling uncomfortable. "Okay, okay, use condoms, I got it. But, why, Dad? I thought women could choose when they can and can't get pregnant?"

"Oh ho ho," I laughed heartily at the youth's ignorance. "No, son. And don't say that around women, it's very offensive. See, they have no control over it - unless they get raped."

"Really?" He seemed confused, but I could understand why. No one had really thought that way until Senator Akin, many years earlier, had brought light to the scientific fact.

"You see, son, when a woman really gets raped, she secretes a certain secretion and keeps herself from getting pregnant."

"What do you mean, "really" gets raped? And aren't you thinking of ducks?"

"Well, to answer the second question first, we all used to think so, but a very smart man named Todd Akin, who was a Senator in Missouri, showed us all we were wrong using testimony from a real doctor. When he first said he heard that from a doctor, even I thought he meant like, a chiropractor, or maybe someone whose last name just happened to be "Doctor," but no, it was a real, actual doctor. And he taught us all a valuable lesson about how women get pregnant. If a woman is forced into having sex, she can't get pregnant."

"But - how does that work? If babies come from sex . . . "

"Ah, but going back to your first question, a woman's body is an amazing thing. If she doesn't want it, her body will shut down the baby-making stuff and she'll be alright. That's why, thanks to Senator Akin, we outlawed the morning after pill. It was just one more way for women to think they could have sex without consequence."

"Wait a second," my son said, mulling that over in his teenage head, "there are other ways to prevent pregnancy and we outlawed them?"

"Of course," I said, "sex is a huge responsibility, and making it safer for everyone involved just encourages more of it. Since we know women who are legitimately raped can't get pregnant, it means that all those women who had abortions or took emergency contraception were lying about being raped in the first place. And that's terrible son, rape is a horrible crime and those women are bad people for lying about it."

"Is that really true?" He seemed more confused than ever. I felt bad for him - I knew this was a lot to take in, and a young, hormone-addled mind could become overwhelmed by all the science.

"Hey, Senator Akin was on the House Science, Space, and Technology Committee, so I trust him to know what he's talking about. It was thanks to him that we finally got rid of birth control being covered by health insurers and passed that Constitutional Amendment banning all forms of abortion."

"So, so . . . " I could hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to wrap his head around it, "women have no right whatsoever to choose when they want to start a family? If they want to have sex, it's all up to luck?"

"Luck and condoms, son," I told him solemnly, "luck and hovercondoms."

"But . . . Dad, that sounds really, really unfair to women."

I shrugged. "I used to think so, too," I recalled, "because no matter how strongly I felt we should be focusing on making a nation where women had enough options that they'd never feel like abortion was all they could do with an unwanted pregnancy, I knew at the end of the day, it wasn't my choice to make. But since Senator Akin made it clear that way of thinking just encourages women to lie about rape, I had to change my mind. That's why you wear a condom, son, every time." 

That wasn't the whole truth, though, and if nothing else I wanted this talk to be thorough. "But," I started to clarify, "if you maybe find a girl with enough money to pay for her own birth control, then it's okay not to use protection."

"Really? But . . . aren't there like, diseases that come from sex?"

Now, this was an important question, and I wanted to make sure that my son and I were on the same page here. I looked him square in the eye, putting my hand on his shoulder. "My boy," I was using my "serious" voice again, "you know I'll love you no matter what, right? No matter what, I'll always be proud of you, and I'll always support you." He nodded, though he was clearly confused. "Son, are you gay? Or . . .hoversexual?"

"No," he said, shaking his head, "I know I like girls. I mean, I REALLY like girls."

"Good," I breathed a sigh of relief, since that made this next part of the talk a whole lot easier. "In that case you've got nothing to worry about, since you can't get AIDS through heterosexual sex."

"Is that true?!" He exclaimed, looking more surprised than ever.

"It is," I assured him. "If you were gay, we'd have to talk about all kinds of safety precautions and preventative measures, but as long as you stick to girls you'll be okay."

"Wow," he was trying to process everything he'd just learned. He took the box and looked it over, the flush of embarrassment coming back to his cheeks. "Okay, okay," he said, his teenage irritability surfacing, "I think I get it. Can I go now, Dad?"

"Alright son, but remember everything I said today."

"I will, I will!" He dropped down to the floor, scooping his game off of the dresser. He stopped at the door, looking back at me with a smile. "Hey," he offered meekly, "thanks, Dad."

I smiled as he walked back out into the hall. Parenting is a big challenge, but knowing I'm sending my kids out there with the right information made me feel pretty darn good about myself.

When it comes time to tell my daughter how it is, though, I think I'll leave that up to her mother.

Peanut Relations Lead to Peanut Babies

When I was in the seventh grade, I lived in Atwater, California and I was required to take a quarter-long class called Teen Skills.   We learned about peer pressure I think, and drugs, and being awkward.  I remember specifically a story about a boy who tripped over his own damn feet in the middle of the quad and leaped up, raring to fight whoever tripped him, only to find out that puberty done it.  At the time I remember looking around my class as the teacher assured us that our horrible, life-ruining awkwardness would pass, and thinking, "We're not that awkward."

But this isn't about how I was blissfully unaware of our boy/girl height ratio, our pimples, our gangly limbs, despite my teacher's telling reassurances. This is about peanut babies, and I how I really didn't get that.

We had a project in which we had to choose one or two peanuts, draw some faces on them, and call them our children for a period of a week or so. This, I suppose, was meant to teach us how hard it is to have tiny edible children that do pretty much nothing, and thus deter us from the sexual activity that I didn't know we were having.

I had done this project once before, in the second grade, with a potato. I left it on the swing set in my backyard overnight once and was horrified when my mom informed me that if it was a real baby it would have died.  I do not know why this was a lesson I needed to learn in 2nd grade, except that it was Kentucky and I went to a Catholic school.

Regardless of the life lessons I may or may not have taken away from my time in Kentucky, we were doled out our peanut babies  and told it was our responsibility to keep them alive(?) and happy for the period of the project.  I named mine Sherloch and Zaidee and put them in a shoebox with most of the furniture from my dollhouse, and my friend Becky put hers in a Barbie convertible with a rubber dog.  Then Becky, envious of my sweet household arrangement, kidnapped my peanut babies and we spent the rest of the next period (Science? Literature? I clearly learned nothing in middle school) passing ransom notes back and forth and driving her Barbie car up and down the bars of our desks.

I said this isn't about awkwardness, and it isn't about the failure of the California school system to properly teach sex ed; it's about the fact that when I was in seventh grade, I was a child.   My barbies may have been awfully sexually active, but I was gripped in terror (and a little bit disgust) at the thought of kissing a boy.

I played house, I ran around outside, I ate my weight in donuts and pizza and never gained a pound.  I was still growing.  I had baby teeth. I was a kid.  I did not have sex.

I didn't think about sex as a thing that my friends or I should (or could) do; I didn't wonder about it, I didn't want it.  It didn't occur to me that people my age might be having it. But lo and behold, many years later, I learned that they did.  Kids I knew were having consensual sex with other kids I knew, gangly limbs, sparse pubic hair, mosquito-bite boobs and all, in the seventh and eighth grade.  Maybe I lived a charmed life, in which I was never pressured and didn't have close friends who were sexually active that young, but I still don't understand it.  Sex complicates things far more than necessary at any age, but at an age in which people are only just beginning to begin to learn about themselves, their beliefs, their feelings, their egos, and their bodies, I can't imagine the emotional consequences.  Also, OMG AWKWARD CITY.

I don't understand it, I doubt I will ever understand it, and that terrifies me in the event that my future child or student or Little Brother/Sister will decide to become sexually active as a pre- or early teenager.   I, having no experience and little empathy for this, would most likely freak out and do none of the things they tell you to do in order to be the kind of parent or parental figure your child feels comfortable approaching for help in situations just as this.

Children should be allowed, by their parents, by the media, by each other, to be children, and being an awkward, geeky, underdeveloped late bloomer saved me in that way.  I was impervious to the world because I lived in my own, and I didn't care (actually was a little proud, if I'm remembering right) that I was unpopular and had no dates to dances.   All children don't have that nerd shield, however, and I don't know how to deal with that.  It makes me a little sad, a lot confused, and very worried for kids everywhere.

Sex should just not be on the table if you are a child, physically or emotionally.  It should not be on the table if you are not ready, regardless of how old you are or the state of your virginity.  Teenage sex is so glorified in a way, in media and pop culture, sung about and acted out by people in their twenties.  But the reality of the situation, and the fragile, volatile state of pre-pubescent ids and egos, is so much more important to know, and teenagers don't have the presence of mind to think about it. I know, I was one. You were (are?), too.


The most important thing I learned from peanut babies was that I still had time to play; adult activities could wait. And they did. And I don't regret it, even a little bit.

A Very Sexy Round Table

These Gentlemen are happy to announce the return of a perennial favorite feature - The Round Table! Round Tables won't necessarily be posted on the site with the regularity of our scheduled posts, as we'll be writing them as inspiration for a question strikes, but anytime we do have a Round Table to share, we'll be doing so on a Saturday. Just think of it as an added Gentlemanly bonus to spice up your weekend.

And speaking of a little spice - we'll be easing our way back into the Round Table by unearthing a question to which many of our original members responded back in the spring that got lost in the shuffle of our evolving site.

It being spring, love was in the air, and sex was on our minds. (Well... it was on my mind at least.) So in the spirit of keeping things classy in the bedroom, I posed the following question to These Gentlemen: What is your ideal sex playlist?

Find their alluring (and varied!) responses below:

Ozkirbas

"Entrance of the Gladiators" - by Julius Fučík. If that song is not immediately available, "Also sprach Zarathustra, Op. 30" - by Richard Strauss.

Matt Lindeboom

Okay, so I like to transform sex into a spectacle of light, sound, and orgasmic revelations; which is why I bought a dual light and smoke machine and placed it directly at the foot of my bed. These sexual events, as I call them, have been criticized by the Philadelphia Inquirer as "gaudy examples of how the act of making love has degenerated into the arena of baroque Enya light shows that one sees all too often after a night at the bar." The blood-red satin drapes, I believe, are what the reviewer was referring to when she said "baroque." So I've told you about the light and spectacle, how about the sound? Music must be carefully coordinated to garner a certain effect, much like the soundtrack to a movie.

1. It’s important not to come on too strongly or predictably -- both are equally devastating to any aural quality your sex event may take on. Chuck the Marvin Gay. Scuttle that Isaac Hayes and watch to make sure it sinks to the bottom of your fish tank. I suggest starting with Robin Thicke’s “Sex Therapy.” Just subtle enough to get things started.
2. After the initial mood is set, push the play button on “Your Sex is on Fire,” by Kings of Leon just to let your partner know that you appreciate his or her particular brand of sex. (N.B. I would not recommend this selection of either you or your partner have an STD.)
3. Now that roller coaster is building, you will want to sprinkle in some rap to keep a beat to. This is especially smart for you guys and gals who have a hard time finding a rhythm. I’m partial to “Alphabet” by Blackilicious. But you should do you.
4. By now the spinning lights and smoke that’s filled the room have left you completely disoriented; its time to slow it down and recompose yourself -- maybe plan your next killer move that you read about in Elle or Maxim. The sex-mix usually is playing “Oh Danny Boy,” by now. I'll just as soon not go into it.
5. Let’s skip to the climax. Once the peak of ecstasy is inevitable, let the theme to “Jurassic Park” take you over the edge. Please -- someone, anyone -- tell me how John Williams wouldn’t make sex more epic than ever thought humanly possible?
6. Finally, when you both are good and collapsed and talking about Paris in the winter, discreetly switch to the last song in the sex-mix: Queen’s “We are the Champions.” Let fly your barbaric yawp, and sink into whatever bed good, American electric rock has made for you.

Max Nova

As unlikely as it sounds, my past experiences have been music-free and I wouldn't see a change in that in the future. I think having something like Barry White playing at the time would just induce a wave of giggling.

Alex

Ask Adam- he controls the music.

Maybe The National?

Brett

HONEST RESPONSE:
To be super honest, I don't prefer to have music going. Probably just cause I'm ADD and want no distractions. And if the CD or playlist runs out suddenly it's awkward. And it's equally wierd (in my opinion at least) to either go along with, or against, the rhythm.


That said if there are people around music is good for privacy. Not only because it isolates you in a sound-pocket, but also because it sends a clear message of "we're trying to be private and discreet." In which cases I like something with a female vocalist, that's kind of dark, keeps a pretty steady beat, early-90's-ish... My Bloody Valentine, Garbage, Portishead. Which suggests I'm having some kinda like seriously goth-y sex, but what can I say, the traditional Led Zeppelin just doesn't do it.

JOKE RESPONSE THAT IS ACTUALLY AN INSIDE JOKE MAYBE TWO READERS WILL GET:

Anything in 5/4 time, not that it's kinky or anything.

David Pratt

I don't really listen to music that often when having sex. I can't honestly say I have any kind of preference one way or the other. I'm sure there is plenty of music that would take me OUT of the mood, but I 'm hard-pressed to think of any that puts me IN it.

So instead, I'll just submit this playlist of what I feel is acceptable doing it-time music.

1) "Face Down, Ass Up" by 2 Live Crew

2) "Smack My Bitch Up" by Prodigy

3) "Hate Fuck" by Mount Sims
4) "Violent Pornography" by System of a Down
5) "Buch dich" by Rammstein6) "Put It In Your Mouth" by Akinyele
7) "Fuckin' You Tonight" by The Notorious B.I.G.
8) "Still Getting my Dick Sucked" by DJ Paul
9) "I'd Like to Fuck the Shit Out of You" by David Allen Coe
Anything by R. Kelly.

Of course, it's strictly a matter of opinion.

Stephen

Jon Stewart answers for me, between 1:20 and 2:30.

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Adam Z. Winer

Apparently I've been designated to answer this question?... so I will.. but it's going to be disappointing because I don't really have "mood" music. I think it generally needs to be something with steady tempo, but also something that can be ignored. Usually play it safe - something reliable.

Some artists I've played: Sondre Lerche, the Beatles, Broken Social Scene, the Beatles (NOT Sgt Pepper), Spoon. I'd probably play some low-key hip hop or Red Hot Chilli Peppers if I knew what was good.

B(ootylicious) Graham

In my humble opinion there is no sexier, more sensual, more romantic music genre than R&B. However, my chosen life partner is not at all interested in what that genre has to offer, so when I listen to KC and JoJo or Usher or Luther Vandross or anyone else crooning in those smooth milk chocolate hug voices about their ladies, the ambiguous romantic fuzzies I get have nothing to do with him. And since it takes two to tango, so to speak, it just doesn't seem fair not to bring him into the equation.

As a friend told me when I asked her advice on answering this question, "you have more important things to worry about than changing CDs every 40 minutes.... music is like the

garnish on the dish, it isn't the main course."

And besides, I am myself, which means that something completely ridiculous would switch on my ipod and we would just laugh.

ali d

I very rarely plan my sexual encounters, and when I do, I'm much more focused on the impending dirty deed than I am setting any kind of romantic mood. (I am, in fact, a huge fan of silly, giggly sex. Because let's face it, sex? Kind of ridiculous.)

I did, however, once have the extremely convenient pleasure of dating a gentleman who lived in a not-so-big apartment with three other guys. When we wanted to have some modicum of privacy in his room, we'd throw some music on, and my band of choice quickly became the British electronic band Zero 7 - particularly their album When It Falls, although I do also really enjoy "In the Waiting Line" off Simple Things.

It's mellow. It's sensual. And most importantly, it's understated. The music has enough of a rhythm that you don't get thrown off your game, but it's not so overpowering that you feel like you need to be keeping time. The vocals glide around the room as an accompanying accessory to the prevailing carnal act, and your attention can slide in and out of the music as it's appropriate. My personal favorite tune is "Home," so if you're looking for something new to add to the bedroom (or wherever you so choose to have a romantic interlude), I'd highly recommend starting there.

So there you have it. We hope that we have offered you some new ideas when it comes to creating your own mood the next time you want to share an intimate moment with a special someone. But remember, above all else when it comes to matters of the flesh: A true Gentleman never kisses and tells.

30 Tiny Truths - 8

8. You Sir...

If you complain about having sex, you're an asshole.

You know who I hate?

People who complain about getting laid, as though all the charm and fun of the act itself has washed away in that same sense of jaded disillusionment that a hipster has for their favorite band once they reach airplay. As though getting some is some sort of burden they have to bear, when they really wanted to watch that movie, or get up rested for another day at the office. Life is hard for them - they only came once last night.

Fuck you.

I don't care if it wasn't 'that good.'
I don't care if he was a '20 second special.'
I don't care if she used her teeth (I mean, geez, just tell her to stop and FIX THE PROBLEM.)

Sure, it could have been better. No question.
But, the only thing anyone going on a two year dry spell is thinking about when they hear how tedious your intercourse was last night is how satisfying it'll be to hit you in the face.

You didn't have a bad night.
No - laying in bed alone, lightly touching yourself, watching 2 am reruns of The Nanny? THAT is a bad night.
If you're having sex, you're having a fantastic night. And if it's good, hot, dirty, whatever your adjective of choice, sex - your night is only getting better.

I'm talking about consensual relations between two adults. Obviously, there are cases where sex is NOT COOL, and I am not referring to anyone being taken advantage of, or coerced, or any other scenario where things are actually wrong.

But mild disappointment? Some 'been there, done that' blase` malaise?
If you can't appreciate the warmth of a human body next to yours? Soft skin? The fact that someone is actually letting you touch them, nay wants you touch them, and are enjoying it?
If you don't think 'this is fucking awesome' every single time?

Then you sir, are no Gentleman.

And Nick at Night comes for everyone.

Better Sex

A friend said to me recently that, despite all the potential variables, the quality of the sex she was having was primarily based on how she felt about her appearance that day.

Not the position or the person, not the time or place or even her mood, but predominantly if she was feeling "fat" that day or if she felt like she didn't look her best. What's more, it wouldn't matter what the other person said, if she didn't feel skinny then that's all she would think about during the sex.

I was really humored by this. First of all, if someone is having sex with you, you must be doing something right, right? Another friend said, if I was having sex I'd feel great about myself, so I can't relate to that.

And second - the idea seemed just so vain and so self-centered that I immediately rejected it. Surely your state of mind, or the person or the nature of the sex should have the most to do with how much your enjoying the sex.

Self-confidence is an interesting thing though. The brave statement had me thinking about my own insecurities - such as my uncanny resemblance to a werewolf, or a nose only outdone by that of Daniel Strauss. So I guess my advice for all those who might be haunted by these kinds of thoughts during sex is to have enough self-esteem to assume you are desired, and go from there. Self-confidence is more sexy anyway. And then, you might just be able to focus on having a good time.

AZ Winer - on one of his good days

A Knock Knock Joke

I think living in New Mexico was the first time I ever started to appreciate solitude. Boredom gets to me pretty bad, and I get Cabin Fever really quick, so I usually want to be out doing something and with people as much as possible, and in high school that was a pronounced need. I think other people would still say I'm pretty social, but I'm certainly less than I used to be. I'm sure there are a number of factors, and being in a relationship really mellowed that need at the time, but the first time I can remember really looking forward to being alone was one night in my least favorite state of the union.

I was living in a house in Taos, and there were always between 5 to 7 of us living there at a time. I shared a room (which was really a converted garage, and looked like it) with my friend Wolfy. To say I wasn't particularly close with most of my housemates would be an understatement, to document the list of illegal activity that operated out of or around the people in that house would read like a court indictment, and to say that I spent my 8 months in New Mexico in anything other than a consistent state of seething anger and frustration would be like saying that foreign nations are really appreciative of current US foreign policy. So I'd eat out a lot, often by myself and with a book, and I'm pretty sure that started a terrible habit that lasts to this day.

So when I finally got the house to myself, even for a few hours, it was an amazing and rare moment of serene pleasure. And one night the stars aligned and I was blissfully alone at last. Wolfy and Rocky had gone off to do something they weren't supposed to at Travis' (our old friend who you may remember from a previous post, famous for busting his arm doing drunken backflips trying fuck a fourteen year old,) and I don't remember who else lived with us at the time but they were all gone.

It was wonderful.

I put on some music, tucked under the covers, and pulled out some JLA. Heaven.
Now the entire front wall of our room was actually a giant glass window with a sliding door, which would cause some problems later. But you could easily see entirely inside or out.
I'm laying there reading about Martian Manhunter's change into the Fernus the Burning when I hear -

*knock*knock*knock*knock*

I figure Wolf and Rock have come back, but I don't see anyone, so I check the front door.
Nothing.

Okay, stranger things haver happened. I'm all tucked away again when I hear -
*knock*knock*knock*knock*

Now I'm sure they're just fucking with me cause they know I'm stoked to have some time to myself. So I call out that this isn't funny, and check the front door - no one's there.

I tuck myself in again, and start to relax when louder and more ferocious than either time before
*knock*knock*knock*knock**knock*knock*knock*knock*

Now I am pissed. I run out of the house into our gravel driveway screaming about what assholes they are when I finally notice that the knocking is coming from our upstairs window.
Along with the sound of a high pitched girl moaning in rapid succesion
*oh*oh*oh*oh*OH*OH*OH*OH*OH-OH!
and then a man's voice, deep and gutteral just screams out
*YEAH!*
in the kind of manner where you can just imagine a clenched fist being pumped into the air.

Trurns out John and Tracy were home.

I ran back to my room, hid under the covers, and tried to block the sound of a man screaming "Yeah!" to his climaxing orgasm out of my mind with obviously failed results.

Post script - I told this story to a set of aquaintances who had just recently gotten married. When I got to the end the girl's eyes went wide and she just pointed and nodded at her now husband.
So I guess John isn't alone in his battle cry.