Do you remember your playground sexpert? You know who I'm talking about - the kid who would spend recess whispering of bizarre, unbelievable practices, of "cunny linguists" and "four skins," things that sounded as foreign and ridiculous to your 11-year-old ears as wombats. I remember her well, because that kid was me.
With access to my older sister's issues of Cosmospolitan and tattered V.C. Andrews books, not to mention cable television, I was the resident sexpert of my fifth-grade class. In between games of jump rope, my female friends and I would huddle near the bike racks, and I would regale them with the latest findings I had gleaned from Cinemax. With my bifocals, buckteeth, and plaid school uniform, I was practically a Norman Rockwell portrait of nerdiness and the last person you'd suspect of puncturing the innocence of childhood with a diagram of a man's testicles. And yet, there I was, lazy-eyed Anais Nin of my Midwestern Catholic grade school. I would sneak my sister's Cosmo into bed, puzzling over the numerous "mind-bowing" sex tips - like "throwing a picnic in bed with your lover" and spreading jam where jam was never meant to go. Then I'd waltz into school the next day, ready to blow some prepubescent minds with this revelation on condiment foreplay.
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