Shut the door, son.
Have a seat.
No, not the couch. That wooden chair. We’ve got more than enough indigo ass prints on the upholstery.
I’ve noticed you spending more and more time on the Internet and I’m not stupid. I was your age once and it’s high time we air out the particulars of sex before you get the wrong idea from all the disinformation out there.
Why do you look troubled?
I’m talking about...well, you know. "The birds and the bees."
Or, um, let me put this in terms you’ll understand: "the critters and the crests."
Yeah, wow we’re cooking.
So, right, the sex. Do you know how it works?
You’re making that face again—the same face your mother made when I asked her to sew my old letters onto your varsity. I’m doing this for your benefit. I don’t want you growing up into the sexual equivalent of a Barneys' PR fiasco.
When a man loves a woman—loves her like he, quaff-to-toe in suede, waited in line outside a brick and mortar to buy her, and stuck around even when it started to rain—only then should the man consider sexual intercourse.
Stop squirming. Christ.
If it’s easier, let’s call it “placing the shoetree.” Okay? Okay. Now, where was I?
Right, the act itself. The first thing you should know is that downstairs ladyparts are more jumbled than a clearance rack. There are, well, three potential “shoes” for the shoetree. But knowing which shoe to go for is easy when you think of it like—if you'll allow me to mix metaphors—a 3 button sportcoat. Starting from the most rear shoe and circumnavigating below and to the front, it goes:
Let's call a Jack Spade a Jack Spade—three is the pee hole, son. Don’t ever let it get back to me that you buttoned the third button or I’ll have failed you.
Loosen the belt on your noragi. You look extremely uncomfortable.
Now, do your pops a solid and add a emergency condom to your everyday carry. Put it in one of the pockets you’ve never opened on that shirt with all the pockets. If she doesn’t ask you to wear a condom, she probably hasn’t asked the other guys, which is how you get a sexually transmitted disea—JESUS—look at me when I’m talking to you. How am I supposed to do this if the S-word makes you uncomfortable?
Okay, think of STDs like a crotch blowout on your physical, permanent, actual crotch.
If she asks you to use a condom, you know she’s got a good head on her. But in the interest of full disclosure—and your mother would kill me for saying this—condoms are awful. Just use your best judgment and carry a condom you can pretend to use if she asks you and actually use if she doesn’t.
There’s advanced stuff we won’t get into until you’re older, but that’s the gist. For now, just worry about meeting a nice girl and spending less time talking about clothes with the other boys.
The fist you’re trying to shove in your mouth tells me I’m getting through to you.
Okay, great! This was good! Really! A watershed moment for us.
But, on an unrelated note, quit taking all my fucking jeans. We don’t do that in this house.
Rick Morrison is a writer living in North Carolina. Follow him on Twitter here.