When I was a child, I was quite shy and what some would call a “good girl.” My mother was very strict with a side order of crazy, so I always thought if I was bad, something dreadful would happen.
I didn’t have very many friends, so I was tickled pink when Haley, the new girl from the wrong side of the tracks, asked me to play one day during recess.
I didn’t know much about Haley except that she got into trouble a lot and had a glass eye. Rumor had it she would take out the eye in the bathroom and show some kids, but I wasn’t fortunate to have caught a glimpse myself.
Haley seemed a bit dangerous, and this was appealing to me.
I was beside myself with joy when she asked me to join her club, “The Cat Club.” So far, she was the only member. I was the second. Since she was president, she assumed responsibility for initiating me into the club with a ritual called “The Cat Scratch,” which involved Haley digging her nails into the back of my hand. It left four raised red lines on my skin, but I didn’t mind, because it meant I was officially bad-ass.
I was in a gang, muthafuckas.
In her role as president, Haley felt justified in bullying and teasing me ruthlessly.
“You hump Ricky Farrell every day after school,” she said to me one day, for no particular reason.
Ricky Farrell was the yuckiest boy in class. He had buck teeth, a face like a basset hound and hair like Shaggy from Scooby Doo. He threw temper tantrums in class and ate a crayon once. Accusing me of humping him was deeply insulting.
Of course, I had no idea what “hump” actually meant. But judging by her tone, I was fairly certain it was not a synonym for “send invisible hate rays of death,” so I instinctively denied it.
“No, I don’t!” I said. “You do.”
“Nah-uh,” she said with a mocking smile. “I said it first, which means I’m right.”
I couldn’t argue with her. It was basic third grade logic.
Shit My Dad Says
That night, as my father was tucking me into bed, I asked him, “Dad, what does ‘hump’ mean?”
“What, you mean like a camel?” he said.
“No, you know, like when you hump someone.”
“Ohhh,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “You and I should have a talk this weekend.” With that, he kissed me goodnight.
What does he mean “a talk?” Was I in trouble? Holy crap, what did this one-eyed hellcat get me into?
That weekend, my father sat me down at our kitchen table, wielding a pad of paper and a pencil, and gave me my first lesson in sex education.
Many find it odd that my dad taught me about the birds and the bees, rather than my mom. But I assure you it was the right decision. My mother almost certainly would have mucked it all up and I’d have gone through life thinking a baby would pop out of my ass if a boy touched my boobs.
My father, on the other hand, was very thorough. He drew textbook-like diagrams of the male and female anatomy and introduced clinical terms like “vas deferens” and “fallopian tubes.”
When he finished, I was dumbfounded. I had thought my pee hole to be about the size of a sesame seed and couldn’t fathom how a boy’s penis would fit into it, never mind an infant coming out of it.
Regardless, I felt suitably armed with knowledge and could now confidently assure Haley that I did not, under any uncertain circumstances, hump Ricky Farrell.
On Monday at recess, Haley again told me I humped Ricky every day after school.
“No, I do not,” I said, with utter self-assurance. “He can’t even produce spermatozoa yet and my eggs won’t be released till I’m, like, 12.”
“What are you talking about?” she said. “That’s not what humping is.”
“Yes, it is. My dad told me.”
“You’re stupid,” she snorted, rolling her good eye. “Humping is when a boy puts his weiner in your kitty.”
She spoke down to me like I was an eight-year-old. Of course, I was an eight-year-old, but so was she, so I found her attitude entirely inappropriate. Nevertheless, the bitch trumped me again.
Why the hell didn’t my dad just say that?
Haley didn’t come back to my school the next year, and I never heard from her again. If I had to guess what happened to Haley, I’d surmise she grew up to be a Teen Mom or a stripper. Or perhaps both.
I’ll never forget that girl. My father taught me about the facts of life, but Haley taught me about sex.
So, how did YOU learn about the birds and the bees??
Categories: True Story