The Miseducation of Kiki Wellington
A tale of two nonsensical parental sex talks
When I was in high school, I was often told my town was the teenage pregnancy capital of the United States. I don’t know if that was actually true or just a scare tactic, but based on my observations, it felt true. It was not uncommon for the sins of the summer to be visited upon the spring, or for the flings of the spring to rear their protruding bellies in the winter. But baby bumps parading around the high school courtyard aside, if people were getting the sex talks I received growing up, it was no wonder the town may have earned this dubious mythical distinction.
That goes to show just how bad they were.
The virginity train had already left the tunnel, barreling through my hymen like freight on a light rail….
When I was in the fourth grade, when I still firmly held the conviction that boys were yucky — and frankly, sometimes I still do — my mother prophylactically sat me down and told me: “There will come a time that you’re going to want to have a friend over, but if things get too quiet in your room, I’m coming in.”
Uh, okay. Can I go back to listening to records and doodling now?
