The Talk--Rated PG 13

I had to say something.


I mean, I picked up the boy's iPod to check my facebook notifications and was greeted by something that shocked and appalled me, and strangely, at the same time, kinda turned me on. He had been searching the web, on his iPod, for pornography and had hit pay dirt the likes of which I haven't seen since the early heady days of cable modems and high speed Internet.


I've sworn off the stuff. Two computer killing virtual STDS through the world wide web and I'm reduced to looking at websites like OMG! and The Daily Mirror for my titillating tidbits....but I digress. The point is, I had stumbled upon my son's first, I guess, attempts at studying human sexuality, and had also been busted in turn by my wife due to her close proximity on the bed and her observance of my jaw dropping to my chest. There was no easy way out of the fact that I was gonna have to have the talk.


Not the "birds and the bees" talk, no, I think by the videos he'd downloaded that he pretty much figured out the placement of body parts, methodology, and frequented sounds involved in coitus. Naw, I was gonna have to break it to him that what he saw wasn't what he thinks he saw. And it took a good four or five days to think about what I was going to say and how I was going to say it.


I chose a moment in the car, the car we call the Pussy Wagon. (I may have to rethink that nomenclature now) We call it that out of homage for the Kill Bill series of movies, and, for the irony--because if a hot chick sees you in the 1990 Volvo 240 wagon with the muffler strapped up with a white coat-hanger, the last thing you'll ever see is just that. But that's not the point.


We were off on our way to see True Grit. It was a real father, son moment.


"Son, I saw what you were looking at on your iPod and..." it began, and I started telling him the usual stuff. I'd preface the following with an explanation to you with something I've written before about dealing with children, and that's the fact that I never talk down to kids, I know they are smarter than we think, and that being embarrassed about talking to my kids about anything went out for me with the changing of diapers.


"Son, what you saw ain't real. Women don't like being treated that way; gagged with a penis, slapped on the ass, and sodomized like--you know--up the butt." I said these things and listened for questions that didn't come.


"I want you to know, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with a healthy curiosity about women, sex, sexuality, and two people gettin' it on. I understand that. I get that. I lived that at your age." I stopped myself before I started the story about riding my bike to Rite-Aid to check out the magazines when I was his age. "But the websites you've stumbled on have nothing to do with that. They're not for thirteen year olds."


"The women in these things are often victims in some way, or drug addicts who'll do anything for drug money. They're not what we'd call healthy. And the other thing to remember is that these women are someone's sister, daughter, or even mother."


And then, I offered something that not many dads would do. I said, "Son, if you want some websites or coffee books that do celebrate women's bodies in art and realism, let me know. My favorite happens to be Wicked Weasel!" And it's true. There are so many artists who depict women in a healthy light, albeit naked, and in such a way that a young man can see the female form without her legs being pinned back behind the ears. I think that's important.


The bikini website features "clothed" women modeling swimwear, not bent over and tied up with a ball gag. Included are consumer pictures of women modeling and mugging for the camera whom I like to describe as real women in real places.


Right or wrong, I offered. I remember what it was like to be curious, and I remember what it was like to have that curiosity answered in a meaningful way. I also don't want him perusing anymore of the hardcore stuff that he'd been looking at again.


I tried not to embarrass the boy, for sure. And he might have been, but he didn't let on. I also hope that he didn't just say he'd ask if he had any questions just to shut me up and later remember to clear his Safari browser history to boot...though I 'm sure there's some of that at work. I mean, it's porn after all.


I had even pondered including the girl in on the chat for two reasons. One, I wanted Jaime to think about how some of the women in the video were someone's sister taking the abuse, and two, I wanted her to know where the slathering, insolent young men who are bound to come sniffing around her were actually coming from, and how their perspectives on sexuality and early relationships might have been skewed by their premature exposure to hard core pornography and the absence of parental supervision that is so pervasive in homes around the country. Yes, even yours truly has used a Wii for an hour of "peace and quiet."


In the end, though, I decided to just talk to the boy and perhaps save a frank discussion with her if she ever asks or starts downloading crazy stuff from the Internet with her iPod. truthfully though, I'm sure I'll open my mouth the next time we're alone in a car together and offer.


 So, I gave the talk the old college try, and I might have blundered, but letting everyone involved know that we dusty, boring adults are interested in their lives and are willing to discuss anything no matter how delicate (and shockingly hot) it is, I think, a major step in the right direction.


And hopefully, they'll lean on me and mom for future guidance, but I won't hold my breath. They are, after all, teenagers.