2 May 2011

May 2, 2011

I don’t think I was raised with a very healthy view of sex. To me, it was about on par with taking illicit narcotics, knocking over a 7-11 or joining some street gang that spray-painted genitals on water towers and rumbled behind the Cinemark Movies 14 on friday nights.

I remember watching a drama in high school where a young, innocent looking girl followed some jock looking guy off stage, and when they emerged (post-coitus, apparently), she was in handcuffs and part of a long line of other girls who, I guess, had gone backstage with the jock at some point in the past (he was a very good looking jock).

All the girls were crying. The jock couldn’t have been happier.

After that a teacher got up and read STD stats while a cloaked character, AIDS, ran up and down the aisles making ghost sounds and getting right up in our 9th grade faces.

At the end of the presentation, they passed out chastity contracts and BIC pens. “This is the only way to stay safe,” they told us, “the only way.” We all signed them because what else were we going to do, and brought them to the front of the stage. Our teachers were so proud they hung them up in the hallways.

A few years ago, I was talking about all this with a friend at UTD. She’d gone to a Christian school, too. She’d signed a contract. I asked if she’d stuck with it, if it had meant anything at all. She just laughed.

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