I am aware that I still have a lifetime of learning ahead of me, but I am also aware that my knowledge of sex and sexuality far outstrips that of many of my peers. My classmates and I could hardly bear to look at each other during the class each week.īut now, at 16, I consider those sex-ed classes incredibly valuable. We employed the ever-popular “anonymous questions box” that I assume is still omnipresent in sex-ed classrooms up and down the country, and the teachers always had a list of backup discussion questions to raise in case one went down poorly. You can imagine the awkward shuffling and bashful mumbles that ensue when a group of barely-acquainted 13-year-olds are introduced to such topics. We also spoke to a group of LBGTQ people about topics like coming out and experiencing often-pervasive homophobia and transphobia (among other attitudes), and we debated the importance or lack thereof of remaining a virgin. As eighth graders, we were deemed mature enough to handle the more emotional aspects of sex, and discussions ranged from basic reviews of anatomy, safe sex, and the various forms of sex to what we would do if we found out a partner had an STD, whether we would have sex before a relationship became serious, and whether the word “slut” was inherently offensive to women. Seven years later, about two weeks after my 13th birthday, I attended the first session of another UU sex-ed class, this one a year long. They are standing next to Serena’s divorced grandfather, who is talking to Serena’s bisexual hermaphroditic polygamist aunt, who was born a man.”) The class also supplied my first lesson in “no means no,” a novel concept simply because, blessed with a loving family and a safe school and neighborhood, I had never before been exposed to the idea of sexual abuse. Some weeks later, the topic shifted to what makes a family, and we dull suburban children learned about the fictional Serena’s rather unconventional family reunion (“This is Serena’s gay cousin and his 20-year partner. Our teacher sang a song about Josh and Jenny, fraternal twins with two eyes and ten toes each, and then-gasp!-mentioned Josh’s two testes and Jenny’s one vulva, presumably in an attempt to normalize dry, scientific discussion of the human body. I felt vaguely subversive when I got to the male and female figures’ respective groins (I have the nagging suspicion that my drawing did not include breasts, because at six, I had not yet even begun to consider that my chest could ever change shape). The class was fairly basic on the first day, I recall sketching a crude outline of a man and a woman and then labeling their body parts. Get ‘em, Grandpa.When I was six years old, my parents enrolled me in a two month sex-ed class at our Unitarian Universalist church. I guess the secret to living a long life is speaking your fucking mind. Just to put it all in perspective, this guy was born all the way back in 1919. “Holy fuck!” the elderly man goes on, “Jeez, I’m going to be an old fucking man.” “Your ass! I am not ninety-eight years old,” the man’s father claps back, when his son tells him his real age.
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The cursing senior citizen is 98 and will be 99 this summer. Turns out he was a few years off-about 19 of them, to be precise.
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“Seventy-nine,” the elderly man flatly answers. It starts off with the man’s son asking his father how old he is. If you're going to watch the video while at work, best to do it with the sound off because the dialogue is definitely filled with expletives. Such was the case for this badass nonagenarian, who cannot believe just how old he really is.
As the saying goes, “age ain’t nothing but a number.” But I guess after a certain point (if you’re lucky) that number may become a little hard to remember.