The facts of life

The blogger I like to think of as Ernest the Swan (but only because I don't know French) has written today about sex. You can go read his blog, but only after you read mine. Because I left him a long rambly comment, which I am pretty much going to reproduce here, and if you go there you'll just ruin all this for yourself.

So don't do that.

Stay here, and tell me how you learned the facts of life.

Ernest's blog brought back three extremely vivid memories for me, all from the time when I was about 11 or 12 years old:

1) Standing on the street corner with Mary Lemon, an O'Melia or two, and somebody else--Mary Ledyard?--and pooling our knowledge. We all knew a little, but fortunately we all knew slightly different things. So we emptied the pockets of our knowledge and found that, together, we had just enough. Once we agreed on what the mechanics were, we all decided that we would never, ever, ever do it. Except for one girl, who was extremely Catholic, and who said rather sanctimoniously and already sounding weary that she would capitulate whenever her future husband demanded because it would be her wifely duty.

2) Running into my sister Nancy a little later, and having her tell me that she was going to explain the facts of life to me. She said she found out on a street corner by pooling her knowledge with her friends, and she was going to make sure that I had a responsible older person telling me what was what. This was the last thing I wanted. I squirmed. I cringed. I swore that I already knew. She did not believe me. She could sense my unease. I twitched and tried to think of the most innocuous way I could to explain it so that I did not die of embarrassment. I said, "You connect." Satisfied, she let me go.

3) Wondering and wondering and wondering about that connect business. Specifically, how long? All night? How would you sleep? Just an hour or two? How would you know? (Clearly, the street corner was lacking in a few crucial details.) I found the answer in the newspaper. Specifically, in a Dear Abby column. I don't remember the question, but I will never forget her answer. She referred to "a wild sexual romp that only lasts fifteen minutes." Aha! Fifteen minutes! I folded up the paper, serene in my confidence that I now knew it all.