At some point in 1992, the single-cell organisms on Nickelodeon’s Roundhouse—a true abyss of a television show—asked a question …

“Sex education, why does it make me nervous?”

Well, they sung the question actually, that was their schtick, but you get the point. Why did it make us so nervous?

No, you did not dream it up. This show really existed.

An uneasy feeling nestled itself in my loins at the mid-point of fifth grade as whispered rumors evolved into cold, hard facts. The day of reckoning was quickly approaching. The Reaper was coming for my innocence and thine name was Sexual Education.

Life was simpler up until that fateful day in fifth grade. Action figures, Super Nintendo (fuck Genesis) and a big orange couch ruled my life. Oh, how I long for the halcyon days of my youth. Those trouble-free days were unceremoniously shattered by a 45-minute presentation on all things sexual and then the subsequent growing of pubes.

The lead up to the first day of sexual education was nerve-wracking. We didn’t know what we were in for, only that Mr. Madeux—a grizzly old bear of a teacher—would soon be giving us a by-the-book explanation on a subject we already knew a thing or two about. Why couldn’t we finish the rest of this puzzle ourselves? Sure, we might have been lacking a few key pieces, but we would eventually put it together. It’s not like I’d stick it in someone’s nose if I didn’t get to see some VHS tape made in the 60s.

Kids aren’t stupid. We work together and figure shit out …

For example, there was the time on the bus in first grade when the kid that sat in the one-man seat in the way back (yeah, that kid) asked me if I liked to have sex with mothers. Seeing as how I didn’t even know what spaghetti was at this point in my life, never mind “sex,” I said, “sure, why not.”

“So, you’re a MOTHERFUCKER?” he replied.

That wily son of a bitch planted the first seed in my mind. There was now a base, a precedent for this carnal knowledge. "Earth ... " I thought. "There's a lot that you and me have to discuss. Maybe over milk and fig newtons sometime?"

Things only progressed from there.

I can still recall a conversation on the lunch line in second grade, when a kid named Dave first told me and Zubazkateer Nick Rude about sex and, in particular, “humping.” This enlightening moment prompted Mike, the kid standing behind us, to say that he wanted to hump his girlfriend in the dumpster. Not the classiest move in the book, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t want to take part in this “humping” as well. I really only had room for Ninja Turtles and Phil Collins’ “Sussudio” at this point in my life, but I certainly felt “humping” would be a fine addition to my interests.

Of course, I can’t keep going without mentioning the infamous third grade incident, when Rachel asked me if I was a virgin. I had no fucking clue what she was talking about. My only guess was that she was referring to Virgil, the WWF wrestler who would be challenging the “Million Dollar Man” Ted Dibiase at Wrestlemania VII in a few short days.

I didn’t wear shiny Velcro outfits and I as far as I knew, I did not descend from Africa, so the answer seemed fairly obvious.

“Uhhhh … no?” I replied.

“OOOOH, JIMMY HAD SEX!” she blurted out, with ZubazPants.com’s Curley looking on in dismay.

“Damn you Virgil, damn you to HELL!” I thought.

Serves you right

So, you see, I had a bit of a grasp on this sex stuff by the time I was in fifth grade. I knew that Chun Li’s magical “clothes disappearing” victory dance in Street Fighter 2 gave me a funny feeling in my pants and that the crack in between a woman’s boobies was pretty fucking stellar. I may not have understood the mechanics of it, but I’ve always been much more of a romantic thinker than a classical one anyway.

There was nothing I could do about it though, this day was coming, and I was fucking nervous for whatever reason. Why were we being divided into guys and girls? What did we really have to learn? Would an explanation on why Rogue makes my weiner point to the heavens be involved?

We marched down the hall to Madeux’s den and prepared ourselves for the unknown. The end had come, childhood was over, pubes might have well began sprouting as I entered the classroom. I was down with the latter, chicks dig pubes after all, but I didn’t want some big galoot teaching me about it. That shit was just plain embarrassing.

We entered the classroom and took our seats. It was a unique situation. No one knew what to think or say. Would there be a live presentation featuring a garbage dumpster hump?

I had the feeling that I was about to witness some groundbreaking shit, but never in my wildest dreams would I imagine the most hilarious 45 minutes ever were about to commence. Madeux gave us a schpeel about hairy armpits or some shit and eventually popped the video in the VCR. The FBI warning came up on the screen, and with our eyes glued to the television, some corny music began to play.

Girl loves boy. Boy loves girl. Girl and boy become Mommy and Daddy, and here comes baby. All that stupid shit.

Finally, they cut with the bullshit and let it rip. The dong shot. You could hear a pin drop in the room at that exact moment, but things were about to change for the dramatic.

It all started with one phrase …

“This, is your penis.”

“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA,” the classroom erupted in laughter. I was literally crying, it was just so fucking funny. Any tightness in the air or sense of nervousness was shattered in a nanosecond. I can still see the image of the cartoon schlong up on the screen, the semi-questioning statement still rings in my ears.

Madeux beckoned us to be “mature,” only he pronounced the word, “muh-terrr,” making the situation that much funnier. I was covering my eyes and banging on the desk, Nick Rude was having trouble breathing, and a whole cavalcade of kids were just going straight bonkers.

Of course, there were the few kids in the class that were trying to act “muh-terrr” by keeping a straight face and not laughing. But we all know that these kids are members of NAMBLA now, so the jokes on them, the bunch of perverts.

The tape rolled on and we really only learned about the names of things inside our dicks, like urethras and the mysterious vas deferens. I still don’t know what that shit does, so I guess the tape was pretty useless. We also got to see the wonderful cartoon diagram of the vagina, which is pretty much the least sexual thing you can ever imagine. Any hopes of a Cindy Crawford crotch shot or a Kathy Ireland nipple were quickly dashed. At this point of your life, a black-and-white, crinkled up, JC Penny’s lingerie ad from the newspaper could get you standing at full attention, even if it was in use in a birdcage and covered in shit. But this diagram made you go in reverse, like a fucking turtle.

Whoever made the video must have had a real twisted sense of humor. Rather than give us shots of the goodies, these assholes thought it would be fun to put the fear of god in us. Guys, you know what I’m talking about. Two words: Wet Dream. I for one have actually never had one of these things. Sure, I’ve had dreams involving the sex, but I never, ever, busted one out while sleeping. I give kudos to those who have been able to pull this off. It’s quite impressive, actually. How do you do it anyway? Telekinesis? I need friction, man, I can’t just stand there and fire away. Are there telekinesis porn videos that I am unaware of? Where there is no beej or handjob to produce the money shot? The dude just stands there, motionless, and fires a rocket into some unsuspecting chick’s face? That kind of shit is not of this earth. Maybe on Nebulon 37X the humanoid creatures are able to pull of that stunt, but not here, no sir.

I was forever scared shitless of waking up one day to a sticky mess in my bed. It was such a frightening prospect for a kid. Shit man, I didn’t even know how to do laundry until college, so it’s not like I could have cleaned the sheets in stealth mode. And how would this happen!? I didn’t even know how to get off properly! Was I just going to fucking explode in the middle of the night? There were so many variables in this situation. Way too much to process for an 11-year-old.

Thank god that shit never happened, but I’m certain those fuckers cost me a few years of life from all the worrying. Maybe they should have told you how to beat off properly instead. Jerking off was an unsolvable mystery until I finally figured out why I suddenly had a burning urge to pee at the peak of the “Beat That Meat Hour” (a situational comedy that played every other hour with the Benny Hill soundtrack playing on loop in the background). I toiled away some of the best years of my life trying to crack that riddle. Thanks for nothing, assholes.

Annnnnnnnnnyways … there was a second video after the basic sex education video had finished. This one was called “Good Touches, Bad Touches,” and it essentially was a 15-minute film explaining why we shouldn’t accept lemonade invites from neighbors with spider veins or wrestle in locked rooms with our uncles. And that was fucking bullshit, too. How come uncles always got the bad raps? My uncles have never been anything but class acts. I bet you some card-carrying member of the “Man Haters Club of America” put that video together, the goddamn propaganda artist. She probably went on to write for “Friends.” I shake my fist in your general direction, missus.

Okay, so maybe life didn’t drastically change after that day, but it sure felt like it at the time. Maybe things would have been different if we had gotten one of those teachers like the one in Florida that boinked her students. That would have been cool. I might have gotten statutory raped, but at least my sexual genesis wouldn’t have involved a frilly pillow, gobs of Vaseline and re-runs of “Webster.”

The mom, you perverts.

Questions or comments? E-mail Jim at BuffaloByrne@gmail.com

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