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What IS Sex?

My earliest memory of sex is, fittingly, also my most embarrassing memory of sex. Just as fitting, it really had nothing to do with sex at all, but instead a bunch of dudes sitting around, talking ABOUT sex.

I must?ve been in 4th or 5th grade. Whatever age the State of New York deems appropriate for indoctrination into the carnal world of the flesh via the tantalizingly disappointing course titled SEX EDUCATION. All lecherous expectation promptly deflated upon learning the intrepid guide on our inquiry into fuck was the burly and bearded gym teacher, Mr. Sackman ? more affectionately known as the ?Sack Attack.?

In fact, despite my young age, had this been a course in hilarious synonyms for erogenous anatomy, I would?ve been well on my way to graduate study. Like most of my peers, my parents left my learning of sex to the traditional, time-trusted teacher known as The Street. Being a typical red-blooded, all-American boy, I soaked up the core curriculum via hushed jokes, pornography stashes, and ?Married with Children? reruns. By the time of Sack Attack?s symposium on sex, I was pretty confident I could be teaching HIM a thing or two on the subject.

But that all changed when Sack Attack lived up to the no-pun-intended meaning of his name: Sack Attack sacked me.

It began when his meaty hand clamped the string on the map roller, revealing a diagram of a tragically drawn penis of flaccid proportions. ?Look familiar, gentlemen?? Sack Attack opined. ?It should! Cause we ALL got one.? He took an ominous step forward, ?But that DON?T mean we all know how to use it. So let?s spend the next hour discussing just that.? He took a baleful glance across the room, then added, ?Buckle up, boys!?

Bodies squirmed nervously in their desks.

?Okay, so the first thing you gotta know,? he explained?

But here?s where details get hazy. I don?t remember the first thing we had to know. Nor do I remember the second, nor the third. Perhaps I blocked it all out. Perhaps I honestly forgot. All I can remember is feeling pathetically confused, as if Sack Attack were teaching calculus to a student who could hardly do three-digit multiplication.

I was thinking ?wtf? ? and this was back in the early ?90s, before ?wtf? even existed. All I can recall are certain words, phrases: ?the act,? ?engage in intercourse,? ?it?s a choice you and her make.?


I thought sex education was about wangs, juggs, hooters, wieners, vah-jay-jays, tits and ass, perhaps a fart thrown in for good measure, and, of course, an expose on all things sack-related (up to and including ?dees nuts?). Sack Attack?s vague syllabus hypnotized me into a zombie-like trance where I found myself raising my hand and asking, ?Wait, hold on. What exactly IS sex??

Cackling uproar followed my question like a dark, condescending shadow. While I had honest intentions, I immediately realized my pending public humiliation. So I adjusted my approach accordingly, assuming the role of heckler.

?Can you please explain this thing called SEX, Mr. Sackman?? I clarified, ?We want to hear it from an expert.?

Sack Attack?s face scrunched up behind his lumberjack beard with the disgust one would expect after having his libidinous history satirized by some little shit wiseass who hadn?t yet sprouted his first pube.

?Why don?t you go ask your father,? mumbled Sack Attack, his voice laced with dark revulsion.

I still regard that moment as pivotal in my sexual maturation. Happily, I traded an education in the inner workings of sex for momentary starship as a comic hero of sorts. Rather than an answer sparking my quest for truth, a non-answer became my dark inspiration for a skin-surface understanding of this thing called SEX.


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About Rob J. Rob J. is a writer and dating instructor in New York City. Themes that resonate in both his teaching and writing are masculinity, genuineness, rational self-interest, and general awesomeness.

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