Cootie-free in 2008

I had Sex Ed. class several times during my tenure in the Pennsylvania public school system.  I can remember looking at Xeroxed handouts of penises as early as the 5th grade.  The content--and the teachers --were by and large horribly dry. We got handouts. We took notes on STDs. Maybe we watched an ABC After School Special or two. By and large, Sex Ed. in PA schools during the early 90s was a pretty forgettable experience that consisted of gym teachers rattling off facts while students sat silent with heads pointed straight forward. There were no demonstrations involving bananas flanked with latex covers. No frank discussions of the role sex plays in a relationship. Despite being such a (pardon the pun) titillating subject for kids that age, Sex Ed. class really took the sexy out of sex. And I suppose that really was the safest approach given the age group. (Actually, now that I think about it, I'm impressed that my school system offered me and my peers more than just the "abstinence only" perspective. But I digress.) I do have one colorful memory of Sex Ed. class. It was 7th grade and Sex Ed. was starting anew for that year. I'd had to bring in my parental waiver in order to take the class, and there we all were on the first day. It was just girls in the room, as we'd been segregated (so we could be more comfortable learning about a touchy subject?). The teacher stood in front of the green chalkboard, looking somewhat cautious and rather sour. She was a thin woman with short blonde hair and glasses, and, like most middle school gym teachers, was somewhat sexually ambiguous. She gave me the distinct impression that she'd been part of a contest in which all the teachers had to draw lots to see who'd have to teach Sex Ed., and she ended up being the loser.

It's what she did first that made my 7th grade Sex class memorable: She handed out scrap pieces of loose leaf paper, and told us all to write whatever questions we had about sex on the papers. Anonymously. She'd have us hand them in, and she'd answer whatever we wanted to know. Of the opportunity to ask anything at all of an adult, I remember thinking, "score!" But it turns out that I couldn't come up with anything juicy. Not that I wasn't a curious 13 year old, but I was too shy at that point to write a salacious sex question even if it was anonymous. My peers made up for my lack of courage though. As the teacher thumbed through our papers, she read all sorts of ridiculous Cosmo and Glamour-worthy questions out loud: does it hurt? How big is the average male? Can I get pregnant if I (insert laughable scenario of great concern to a 7th grader here)? Each question was more and more ludicrous, and each answer seemed to draw more and more hopelessly irrepressible giggles from the room of girls.

That experience was probably the last time that I've giggled when it comes to talking about sex. Not that I'm the beacon of maturity at 26 years old---cause I still have moments when mentally I am 13 again---but I do posses the ability to talk about bodily functions, anatomy, or sex without bursting into laughter, being repulsed, or snarking. I can handle the frank talk about what our bodies go through.

But not everyone can.

Namely, my boyfriend cannot. To be fair to him, he is a terribly mature 27 year old. And he's gorgeous. And well-educated. And well-spoken. And he *can* handle talking about anatomy and bodies and diseases---even things that turn your stomach----just so long as the body in question does not belong to me.

I am not allowed to specifically mention details relating to my time of the month. Cannot talk about breast pain without drawing a smile. Am barred from mentioning any prior sexual experiences. Comments on these subjects are always met with a response similar to: "oh man, I don't wanna hear about that."

And I'm puzzled why this near-perfect specimen of man cannot stand to hear about my inner-workings. It's absolutely baffling why we remain consummate adults until the moment that we get to this one subject area. He makes me feel like I'm back on the playground at St. John's Lane, and the boys are running away from me because I have cooties.

I don't have cooties. But I do have boobs. And a uterus. And I reserve the right to speak frankly about them and at length. What's the big deal? We've all got the same equipment (or a variation on the same equipment). We all have the same chat-worthy malfunctions from time to time.

I guess I shouldn't be so hard on my guy. If I have to guess at the true reason why I'm "shushed" every time I try to let loose with body talk, I'd say it's probably because he wants to keep me up there on a pedestal: the most perfect specimen of gorgeous and intelligent woman who never sweats, never farts, and definitely does not get cramps once a week every month. I should find that sweet. Should. Instead I find it maddening and insist on talking even more about bodily functions because it drives him crazy.