CREATIVE NONFICTION 17
the first time I learned about the physical lo-
gistics of sexual intercourse, I was eleven, sprawled
on the couch with my younger brother as my
entire family watched a TV special about Magic
Johnson and the AIDS epidemic. I jolted up to a
seated position when someone onscreen explained
the ways in which one could contract HIV. I
realized they were talking about s-e-x. “Wait,”
I said, a look of revulsion on my face. “The what
goes where!?” My head swam with images of giant
penises approaching tiny vaginas. It was the most
horrifying thing I’d ever heard, and I couldn’t
imagine why anyone would want to do it.
Three years later, in eighth grade, I had my
mandatory semester of sex ed, taught by my gym
teacher. I don’t remember much from the class;
the curriculum was forgettable, and primarily
fear-based—a blur of anatomy slides and lists of
sexually transmitted diseases, which I copied into
my spiral-bound notebook. I spent the majority
of the time passing notes with my long-time
crush, the gym teacher’s son. (Poor kid.) I do
remember the way my skin flushed with heat
when my crush leaned over to ask me something
and his arm brushed mine.
For her part, my mom didn’t talk to me about
sex, except to say I was to wait until marriage.
That’s just how the sex talk was handled then,
if it was touched upon at all. There was the
unspoken agreement that kids were not ready
to hear about sex, that speaking to them about
it might be considered an endorsement. When I
was nineteen, my mom finally talked to me about
birth control. We sat down together in the living
room, and she made me promise I would schedule
an appointment with my gynecologist and get
a prescription for the pill before having sex. By
then, I was dating someone six years older than
me, and I suppose she’d decided to let go of the
illusion that I would save myself for some elusive,
future husband. For my part, I had internalized
the notion that I would hold onto my virginity
until marriage. As my mother lectured me on the
importance of safe sex, I nervously pulled at loose
threads on the couch, wondering why she had so
little faith in my powers of self-restraint.
It wasn’t until several months after I had
already been coerced into sex by the older boy-
friend, when I was twenty, that I masturbated for
the first time. It had never occurred to me.
When I was twenty-one, I started writing
about sex. I stumbled into an editorial internship
for a media company that also happened to own
an adult personals site. I embraced the opportu-
nity to explore my sexuality. I used it to teach
myself what it could be like to embrace sexuality
as a healthy part of life, rather than as a relational
obligation. I reviewed vibrators and erotic films.
I took cardio striptease classes and attended play
parties. I explored what was out there in order to
learn more about what I liked.last year, the internet blew up over the news
that Jessica Biel was teaching her two-year-
old son about sex. That is to say, she said she
was having conversations with her son about
their different body parts, using—as she put
it—“technical terms.” The internet did what it
always does: a slew of sites regurgitated glow-
ing accounts of Biel’s progressive parenting
while another segment of the Internet called her
behavior “disgusting.” People online commented
that Biel and husband Justin Timberlake should
not be parents. Others insisted she should not be
“sexualizing” her child or teaching him about his
“naughty parts” too soon. Some called it abuse.
You know. As they do.
I wondered what the internet was saying about
me. The mother who writes about her favorite
vibrator for the internet. The mother whose
bookcase is filled with titles like Come as You
Are and Yes Means Yes and Vibrator Nation. The
mother who has a riding crop in her office closet
and a nude portrait waiting to be re-hung. I had
long since stopped reading the comments on my
published pieces, but when my reported memoir
on female sexuality came out in October 2018,
I fielded a number of interview questions about
how my daughter might someday react to the
things I’ve shared in print. I had heard the same
question from my own mother. “Won’t she be
embarrassed?” she asked me.just before I became pregnant, I was offered a
job with a professional organization for sexuality
educators, counselors, and therapists. By then, I
had been steeped in sex content for a decade and
was feeling burnt out on listicles about orgasm