Talking with boys about sex and masturbation: Keep calm and spank on!

A friend of mine witnessed her 12-year old son in the throes of masturbation. The little fella, obviously new to the experience was strugglin’ with the tuggin’. He also didn’t realize that slapping the salami is something that should be done in private, because he left his bedroom door wide open! And that is why my buddy had a few vodka drinks instead of her usual single bottle of beer that particular night before talking with her boy about keeping his peen activity private.

Pud pulling etiquette lessons, just one of the many whacked out (see what I did there) lessons parents of  boys are tasked with teaching when they become teens.

I was traumatized just listening to her talk about it. As the mother of a 12 year old myself, her experience got me thinking about how I would handle the same situation. Aside from the booze, I wondered how I would find the words and what kind of brain bleach is available for these types of things.

Could I find a vampire to wipe my memory?

Maybe I could find a hypnotist to help me forget?

Just to be safe, I burned some stale sage from the spice cabinet and danced around the fire chanting, “Please don’t let me catch either of my kids diddling their junk. Please. Please. Please.”

My daughter isn’t quite there yet (at least not to my knowledge) and I do not want to talk to my son about masturbation any more than I already have. I do not want to talk to him about his wang and I don’t want him to ask me questions about it either. About six months ago, I gave him a little talk about it and put a big box of tissues and a family sized jug of lotion on his nightstand. Have at it, Buddy!

Seriously, the day I realized that he had finally mastered independent ass wiping, I threw about a zillion air punches in celebration. I was just so done dealing with his private parts. Of course he was only three years old so obviously he wasn’t anywhere near being silent about his twig and berries. I’ll spare you the details. If you have a son, you know what I’m talking about. Hell, if you have a man in your life you know what I’m talking about. Males of all ages are simply penis-centric.

However recently my son and I had a mind blowing, slightly awkward chitchat with about genitals, sexually transmitted diseases and the emotional aspects of sexual relationships. This conversation took place on the way home from the pediatrician after his yearly well visit.

Our pediatrician has a policy that I dig – hard (I said hard). Once a kid hits the teenage years, he or she has the right to speak with the doctor alone. It’s a privacy thing and I believe it’s fabulous and empowering. It’s also developmentally appropriate for kids to want some distance from their parents around this time and to get some practice talking with other adults about their naughty bits in a safe environment. Unfortunately my kid wanted no such privacy. Guess he just wasn’t ready for his wee cock to be a part of a covert op.

So I figured I’d take the opportunity to use the car ride home to get some junk talking out of the way. I mean why the hell not cover the tough topics while he’s still open to discussing them freely with me? As much as I joke around about not wanting to discuss his dick or what he does with it, I do want to keep the lines of communication with him open when it comes to such an important subject. I want my son to feel comfortable talking about his sexuality or any old thing he wants to share. I’m the grown up, so no matter now squirmy it makes me, it’s my job to make sure he gets accurate information and endless support as he grows into a (gasp) man.

Are you ready to have your mind blown, ‘cause I’m going to blow it to fucking bits!

I initiated the conversation. “So Dude, next time we are at the doc, feel free to go in alone. It won’t hurt my feelings. You are growing up and deserve your privacy, but please know that I am always here for you. I’ll listen and not judge and try to help you and if I don’t have the answers, I’ll find someone who does. Your wang is your thang, okay?” I said to him, hoping to encourage him to go it alone the next time. His response floored me.

“Yeah, I know you’d be cool with me going in alone. Besides you don’t have a dick so how would you know about dick issues?”

Oh yes he did.

Yeah, so that remark provoked a twang of defensiveness from me.

Don't tell ME I don't know about dick! I know about dick. I’m married to one.

And I’ve been dealing with dick both literally and metaphorically for a lot longer than my kid has, and I had to deal with his little dick for a good many years before he got control of his own bathing, grooming and potty training business.

I TOLD him that, and it was only the beginning of my mini-rant about all things sex and sex parts related.

I informed him that there’s more to sexuality than knowing what to do with your own junk. Any animal can do the deed, but not everyone can do it well, so like anything else in life, a sport or career or a friendship, a person has to commit to learning, practicing and setting high standards for themselves in terms of performance. I compared being bad in bed to being the kid who shit his pants in third grade social studies class. Sure, people move on and eventually stop talking about it all the time, but once you get a reputation for something, it sticks.

Did he want to be the kid who shit his pants that one time in social studies? Did he?

DID HE?

He indicated that he did not, nor did he want to be the dude who sucked in the sack.

I gave him the lowdown on how serious it is to engage in a sexual relationship, how intense the feelings are, and how difficult it can be to cope with the overwhelming and new emotions. In the past when I worked with teenagers, I developed a speech I like to call, “Fatal Attraction light,” in order to explain the differences between how teenage girls and boys feel about sex. His mind was blown!

Bitches get crazy enough to boiling rabbits? Hell yeah they do, but there’s more! So much more! Yeah, he was riveted, so I went on.

Did he want to be a baby daddy, because even people who use protection sometimes manage to make a baby? Of course I would certainly love a grandbaby if one was to appear, but I would not take emotional and financially responsibility for his child if he were to find himself in the role of teenage baby daddy. I told him that endless phone calls and texts, tears and hurt feelings, guilt and foul smelling genital discharge and insane itching are among the many unpleasant consequences of sexual activity.

He seemed strangely comfortable with the conversation, asking questions and bringing up things even I hadn’t thought of in terms of the complexity of relationships and the consequences of physical intimacy. What a relief! I was hoping this would be enough sex talking for a while, because like I said, I really would like to minimize my involvement with his pre-teen peen.

As we got closer to home, I got ballsy (see what I did again) and I brought up the topic of homosexuality, gender identification and tolerance, which for me was the icing on the cake. In the past, I’d worked with kids who had been bullied and endlessly tormented by their peers and I had been thinking about how to approach this topic with my son for quite some time. As a parent, it’s my responsibility to make damn sure that he wouldn’t be ignorant and closed minded about anything related to human sexuality, aside from pedophilia of course. He can hate on those motherfuckers all day long.

Yeah, I was feeling good, really parent-riffic, ya know? During a fifteen-minute car ride I had managed to approach some tough topics with him without feeling uncomfortable or worried about what I was saying. As we pulled into our neighborhood, I told him how much I loved him and that I would always support him, that no matter what happened in his life, I would be there for him. I also told him that I had high expectations for him, that I didn’t want him to be the type of guy who people see as a total dick, literally and metaphorically. “See what I did there?” I asked him, chuckling to myself, impressed with my cleverness.

As I was pulling into our driveway, I asked him if there was anything else he wanted to say or if he felt done and satisfied with our chat. He had a thinking look on his face. Something was clearly on his mind because he didn’t even laugh at my witty dick pun.

“Mom, can you imagine what a pain in the ass it would be for a guy to learn about gay sex? I mean, we don’t learn about it in school and if a kid doesn’t know any gay guys and is afraid to talk to his parents or friends, so he’s on his own! Literally and metaphorically, it would be a total pain in the ass! See what I did there, Mom?" he grinned at me, waiting for a response.

Mind blown. But before I could even process his anal sex pun, he said,"Hey, what’s for dinner? I’m starving! Let’s have hot dogs. See what I did again there?” And with that zinger, he hopped out of the car and went charging toward the house laughing. "That was a really good talk, Mom, thanks!"

I should have stopped on the way home for wine. And hot dogs, because all I had thawed was chicken breasts. I decided to cut them into strips just to be safe. The kid was on a pun run and I imagined what kind of fun he'd have talking about chicken breasts.

So if anyone knows a vampire that can wipe my mind or a skilled hypnotist, I’d sure appreciate if you’d give me his or her phone number. I need their number! Please email me their number! Because there is not enough vodka in the fucking universe to help me forget that my astute, yet pre-pubescent 12 year old made a casual quip about anal sex and asked me to make hot dogs for dinner.

Spank on, bitches. Spank on. And enjoy one of my favorite movie scenes about whacking off - EVER. Tommy Boy asks Richard who his favorite Little Rascal is.

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