If you had peeked into Mrs. Ellis’s health class eight years ago, you would have found the virginal, high school freshman version of me, as well as 20 of my closest classmates. We were holding back giggles and gastrointestinal fluid as Mrs. Ellis forced us to watch videos on human reproduction–we stifled our laughter from the moment something went in to the moment something came out. I went to a school that crammed nine months of life into three very short and very dreaded weeks; I should mention that I learned nothing about sex. I learned what sex can cause, yeah–a venereal disease or a baby, which means either way, you have a quasi-ruined life. But that’s the worst case scenario. From my own personal experience, I’ve never had a quasi-ruined life. I can tell you what I did have, though: a good damn time.
Sex is fun and anyone who has had mediocre to mind-numbing intercourse can vouch for that. However, I stumbled onto this after experiencing the most confusing sex of my life, when I was torn between so much fear wolves could smell it and an intrigue that not even more cowbell could cure. I’m talking about “the first time.” So let me pose this important philosophical question. Why was this not taught? We’re taught that sex is to “Fear Factor” when, in all actuality, it’s a lot more like “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” At first, it’s really weird and it freaks you out, but then you figure out its insane awesomeness. You realize that this is yours to do with what you want for the rest of your life. Sex eases stress, lowers your blood pressure, boosts your immune system, improves your sleep–I’m willing to bet you didn’t learn that in sex ed.
Secondly, let’s talk about your “number.” Or, rather, let’s not talk about it. Why did no one teach us that this number, and not the first six numbers of your social security number, is the most insignificant number you will ever have? If your number is too low, you’re not “good” or “experienced enough.” If your number is too high, you’re a whore who has no standards. Then you have those who think one is too many. It’s not important, and it can’t be changed. Teach that. Nobody wins the number game–unless one of you with Sheldon Cooper-esque degrees is holding out on the rest of us with some makeshift time machine in your parents’ basement, in which case, you wouldn’t know what you’re missing out on, anyway.
Speaking of the sex-deprived, the most frequent “A” I received in Mrs. Ellis’s health class had a “bstinence” tacked onto the end of it. You want me to not have sex? You want me to wait until marriage? You want me to “save myself” and be legally bound to someone who potentially has no idea what he’s doing? You have got to be fucking kidding me–see what I did there?. I couldn’t even wait until I was 21 to go to bars and drink. If a ring is all it took for the perfect sexual partner, we’d all be married. Sorry, Grandma, but sex has been around a lot longer than my body has been Katrina-like flooded with hormones. Why is no one teaching us basic life shit like “test drive the car before you buy it” or taxes? When they start teaching that, let me know.
Basically, I wish someone had told me something more than “Wear a condom.” Saying something like, “Plan B costs almost as much as having an actual child” might help. I wish someone had gone above and beyond “Abstinence! Abstinence! Abstinence!” in the hopes that a sex ed Beetlejuice would appear out of nowhere and traumatize the entire class into never having sex after revealing that his pale, greenish/white skin was the result of too much unprotected sex with multiple partners. Quite frankly, I wish someone would show me just one more birth video because, you know, I don’t think it stuck. You can say the word “abstinence” until you’re blue in the face and show us as many births as you’d like. Regardless of what we’re taught in sex ed, we’re still gonna bang and we should be taught more than “use protection.”