Limo headlights and electric razors — how I (sort of) discovered sex
Without comprehensive sex education, the ways kids learn about sex are often troubling
A young child asks to take a shower with his parents, and he starts asking questions about their naked bodies.
“What are those, Mommy?” he asks.
“Those are my headlights,” his mom replies.
“Oh. Ok.” The boy is satisfied with the answer.
“Daddy, what’s that?” he asks.
“That is my limousine,” the boy’s dad replies.
“That’s cool!” says the boy. “What is that, Mommy?”
“That is my garage,” the mother answers.
Later that night, a loud storm wakes the boy, and he runs into his parents’ bedroom and crawls into bed.
“You can sleep with us, sweetie, but don’t look under the covers,” his mom says.
Disobeying his mom, the boy looks under the covers and says, “Mommy, turn on your headlights, Daddy’s limo is pulling into your garage!”
I was about 8 years old when I first heard this joke in the cafeteria at school. At the time, I didn’t quite understand what it meant, but I laughed along with the other kids anyway. Since puberty education didn’t start until 5th grade, and sex education would not begin until middle school, this joke was my first glimpse of the mechanics of sexual intercourse.
Prior to the joke, my only exposure to sex was TV. Since TV never showed full nudity, I spent my younger years thinking that babies were made when a couple stripped down to their underwear, laid in bed and made out — nothing more. This understanding influenced me as I started to explore my own body. Rather than stripping down naked, I changed into a matching training bra and underwear (the women on TV always matched!), and I writhed around in my bed. The feel of the material against my flat chest didn’t feel restrictive but arousing; it never occurred to me that what was underneath was the part that was important.
Around the same age, I often played truth or dare at sleepovers with my friend Joseph. Joseph would often dare me to take off one or multiple articles of clothing, and I would participate willingly, feeling both guilty and excited. I knew that what we were doing was transgressive, but I did not understand its sexual significance. When I was struggling to think of a dare and Joseph suggested that I dare him to remove his clothing, I passed. I didn’t really see any reason for me to see his genitals. It didn’t interest me in that way. It was just a game.
Fast-forward to high school. By this time, I had seen the diagrams, and I knew definitively how penis interacted with vagina. I also internalized the message that this interaction was incredibly dangerous and life-altering, and so I started to learn from my partners about alternatives to “limo in garage.” I came home with embarrassingly large hickeys and bite marks. I let my boyfriends put two fingers into my vagina when I wasn’t wet enough to enjoy it, and I didn’t know to insist that they cut their nails. At times, I even had to clean up blood from fingering injuries! I was a horny teenager, and I was driven to have sex, but I kept feeling disappointed. It was like craving ice cream, then immediately regretting it after eating.
I went home and tried to recreate my inexperienced partners’ dry thrusting actions with my own fingers, and I couldn’t figure out why it did nothing. I wanted to like sex. I wanted to get aroused like the women in the erotica I read. But what was sexy about an action that was roughly equivalent to inserting a tampon?
As I gained more private access to the internet and searched for the answers to my burning questions, I got the feeling that the key to this mystery was this elusive organ called the clitoris. The clitoris was supposed to be tiny, sensitive, and difficult to find — but once you found it, you were supposed to know. Once I found the clitoris, I should expect to be thrust into magical ecstasy, a million times more powerful and indescribable that I could imagine. I fumbled around with my fingers, trying to figure out what felt good. I contorted my body into weird positions with a handheld mirror, wondering if something was wrong with me. It seemed hopeless! My arm was sore, my hand was sore, and there was no ecstasy to be found. I started to think that maybe sex was only pleasurable for men, or maybe I would have to wait until I was ready for intercourse to see what the fuss was all about.
In my later teen years, when all hope was nearly lost, I heard about vibrators. The internet said that some people’s clits just didn’t respond to manual stimulation very well, and might need a little extra help. But I was too embarrassed to go to a sex store, and I was intimidated by all the options online. I wondered if I could recreate the experience of a vibrator some other way. My freshman year of college, when I knew my roommate would be in class, I grabbed the electric razor I used to shave my pubic hair. I turned it upside down so that the blade was facing away from me, and I turned it on. It was large, and I placed it vaguely in the area that I supposed my clitoris to be. The noise was loud and obnoxious, and I kept getting worried that my suitemates would hear. But then, something happened. I started to feel a different sensation than I ever had before. I recognized the feeling in a specific place, and I realized it was my clit! I had hit the jackpot, found the gold mine! I was 18, and I had my first orgasm via the back end of an electric razor. I think that’s what they call a ‘rite of passage.’
I was 18, and I had my first orgasm via the back end of an electric razor. I think that’s what they call a ‘rite of passage.’
Obviously, learning about sex was a confusing puzzle for me. I got bits here and pieces there, from my peers’ jokes, school diagrams, television, online erotica, whatever. Consequently, the messages about sex I received didn’t always line up. The way my boyfriend touched me was not the way the internet told me to touch myself. The passionate love on TV didn’t reflect my awkward, stumbling encounters. My bra and panties didn’t always match. My mom told me that sex was beautiful and wonderful, but she also got really upset when I wanted to do it. Boys loved it, but until I found that magic spot, I hated it. And worst of all, I didn’t know if any of this was normal.
The way my boyfriend touched me was not the way the internet told me to touch myself. The passionate love on TV didn’t reflect my awkward, stumbling encounters… and worst of all, I didn’t know if any of this was normal.
Unfortunately, my childhood confusion seems to be the norm rather than the exception. It seems that everyone has a “The First Time I Learned What Sex Was” story, and what’s learned is rarely accurate. It’s also happening at younger ages than you might think, if you’re not currently a parent. My peers were already talking about sex at ages 7 and 8! So why did adults try so hard to pretend like we weren’t?
In the age of smartphones, kids are learning about sex earlier than ever. Children are typically engaging in sexual play by ages 6–8, and are first exposed to pornography at or before age 11. When kids first hear about sex from their peers, there is usually no education in place to help them separate the facts from the fiction. There is a gap of several years between a child’s first encounter with the topic of sex and their first exposure to accurate information. Many people never get accurate information until well beyond their transition to adulthood. This leaves young people ill-prepared to report sexual abuse, prevent pregnancy or have a healthy body image.
This leads me, as always, to my sex education soapbox:
This should not be happening.
We should not be learning about sex in terms of limos and headlights. We should not be masturbating with razors. Boys should not be fingering us until we bleed. We need age-appropriate, comprehensive sex education, and we need it now. That doesn’t mean teaching six-year-olds how to use condoms, but it does mean teaching kids accurate names for body parts; that genital contact should always be wanted — not forced — and should never hurt; that bodies are complex and confusing and wonderful; that pleasure is natural. As many of us know too well from our own childhoods, kids don’t need more gatekeeping and shaming. They need guidance.
By the time they hear the limo joke, it’s too late.
