Sex. I've already said too much.

I have my best friend's computer for a couple days while she's out of town, since mine isn't an Apple and took a gigantic shit on me and I'm in the midst of getting it fixed. So my apologies for the back-to-back blog posts, but I've got a lot that's built up over the last month that I need to just get out. One experience, in particular, has stood out apart from the rest. Perhaps something I should share, and in turn, you share with your parents...so that this never has to happen to you.

This shit is about to get real.

~

I walked in on my parents having sex.

Friggin. Gross.

I believe it was standard missionary position, though I can't be certain, as I immediately suffered from hysterical blindness. I ran back downstairs to my bedroom, crying, and soon after my mom ventured into my room and I demanded to know why her and dad would be having sex if they already had two children. Was I not good enough? (PS, I'm adopted, there's no excuse for my parents to EVER be having sex. Ever.) She assured me that I was good enough, and I'm pretty sure she said some other crap about two people and loving each other but I chose not to listen. So that sort-of made me feel better. Besides the fact that the image has stayed with me and the last 15 years of my life have been torture.

~

So, I am going to write this blog [while peeking out from my covered eyes - because the topic is that scary,] to all parents, everywhere. Consequently the writing process with be arduous and take three times as long as usual, mostly because I'll be typing with my elbows. This does not necessarily effect you as a reader, but I hope it gives you a lot more appreciation for the pain and suffering I'm about to endure on  your behalf. I even had to TiVo my favorite show, Dogs With Jobs. Don't worry about me, I'll see Dogs With Jobs another time. I'll be left with the heart-warming feeling of seeing a dog with a job, which will help me to ease into the recovery process of post-parent-sex-writing....although then I will sink into a subsequent depression wondering, "If a dog can have a job, why is the unemployment rate so high?"

Now I'm just stalling.

In anticipation, I'm keeping an air sickness bag I stole from my last flight by my side, along with Gatorade and saltine crackers to help restore my electrolytes from the parent-sex-writing-induced vomiting. This will be unpleasant, much like a root canal or a pap smear.

You see? Even writing "pap smear" was gross.

Here goes nothin'...

Parents, you probably had a sex talk with your child when they were about eleven, not because you wanted to, but because your son started screaming uncontrollably at the sight of his giant erection, which he sustained while riding shotgun in the family Volvo on the way to Disney World. Whether it was the heat, the bumpiness of the road, his half-asleep state in which he was thinking about The Little Mermaid, or any combination of the three, you'll both never know. All you know is that stretch of road between Myrtle Beach and Orlando will always be seared in both of your minds as a turning point in your relationship.

The moment when there was such a thing as too much information exchanged between a parent and a child.

You have had plenty of conversations since then. Let's not forget the "I think about what my life would be like if I hadn't married your mother" talk. Or the, "I had my share of gay experiences when I was your age" conversation. However, since this was your first, it holds a special resonance.

Consequently for the rest of your trip, your son shied away from Cinderella and Belle for fear of a repeat incident, and has since beheld Disney cartoon heroines with a mixture of lust and fear. Actually, that's how all men view all women.

And never forget the conversation you and your spouse had later that night: "Honey, at least he's not gay." Not that you would have a problem with that, you'd love him the same, but there is some relief in knowing that in twenty years later he won't be visiting Disney World with his partner on "Gay Day". Because let's face it, that's just gay.

Or perhaps, your daughter walked in on you two doing it like no ones business, (Oh, God. I just got that feeling where your mouth starts to water before you puke. Okay, it's gone.) and out of guilt, you went downstairs to assure your weeping daughter that you weren't trying to have more babies because she wasn't good enough.

 Either way, there's no mature or normal way to talk to your kids about sex. Maybe you think someday they'll just come to accept it?

No.

And from my personal experience, do not book adjacent hotel rooms with your kids and think you'll get away with mounting like jack rabbits. Your kids aren't eight anymore, they're twenty-one, and completely able to comprehend what's going on. That's disturbing enough in and of itself, but then your kids get to thinking it's not very fair that you're having sex and they're not, so you're footed with a $200 minibar bill the next morning. Really, you deserved it.

Yes, it's good for you that you're super freaking old and still having sex. Huzzah! I hope you feel like Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair. Just keep your personal relations around your kids under the deepest of covers.

Soundproof covers.

Neither you nor your child should ever awcknowledge that the former or the latter has had any involvement in coitus

Please also refrain from telling your child the story of how they were conceived. Yes, you may have taken the entire family to St. Croix, (which children really appreciate cause we can't afford such luxuries!) but that does not mean you can recount the story, over a couple of pina coladas, of how twenty-two years ago you and your spouse engaged in crazy, tropical, island intercourse...that eventually resulted in your child.

In conclusion, please never mention the act of sex, nor utter the word "sex," even in the most sex-less of contexts, like, "the amoeba has no sex organs," or "Grandma hasn't had sex in forty years!" -Oh, wait.

Oh, God. Excuse me.

Cue projectile vomit into stolen airline receptacle.