Sex + Words = Confusion

I was reading an excellent article by Jill Lepore ("Too Much Information," New Yorker), and it tripped off some memories of my own.

Lepore's opening gambit is too good to pass up, so I'm quoting here:

It was in the living room. My father was reading the newspaper. I was reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. 'By Jove, Peterson!' said he, 'this is treasure trove

indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?'

               'A diamond sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.'

               'It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone.'

               'Not the Countesss of Morcar's blue carbuncle!' I ejaculated.

I looked up from my book.

"Hey, dad."

"Hmmmm?"

"What does "ejaculate" mean?"

He put down the newspaper and sighed. I never did find out who stole the Countess's blue carbuncle.

This made me laugh out loud on the Metro, a true test in whether something is funny or not! And it reminded me of some funny stories.

The first was while my sister was driving my niece (her daughter) somewhere. From the back seat, her daughter asked, "Hey, mom, what does 'erotic' mean?"

My niece was about 7 or 8, I think. My sister searched her mind frantically before settling on a calm, "can you tell me where you saw that word? That might help me answer."

"I see it right ahead of us, on the back of that truck: 'to report erotic driving, please call 1-800-xxx-xxxx."

"Actually, honey, that word is erratic."

The second was when one of my sisters decided to try veganism after reading the book Skinny Bitch. Never one to miss out on an opportunity to educate, my sister explained, in painstaking detail, the difference between a vegan and a vegetarian to this same niece (who was, I think, about 8 or 9 at the time). The conversation over, they started playing a game. In the middle of the game, my niece looked up and said, "I already forgot—are you a virgin or a veterinarian?"

My sister's reply? "Well, dear…"

The article also reminded me of my grade-school's efforts to provide some sort of context for puberty. In fifth grade, the boys and the girls were separated for a few hours one afternoon. The girls were shown a filmstrip and given an accompanying book—both entitled "Growing Up and Liking It." From what I could tell, there was not much to look forward to, much less liking. I was reading the booklet to see if there was anything new that I hadn't learned from my older sisters or the film strip as the boys filed back into the room afterwards. A girl sitting close to me hissed, "put that away!"

"Why?," I asked.

"The boys! They might guess what it's about!"

I shrugged and kept reading. From the look on the boys' faces and their averted gazes, I figured they had more on their minds.