As I’m finishing up this most current version of my book proposal, chunks of copy drop like flies. This block of the former sex chapter didn’t exactly fit into my “left coast coartship” chapter in the new book, so here it is for your enjoyment (or not).

In my sixth grade health class, where many of my classmates were getting their fledgling education on sex, my mousy and shy teacher walked us through diagrams of male and female genitals. As we looked on in our textbooks, she read off each body part and gave us a medical definition of what it was. These are the testicles, they produce the sperm. These are the vas deferens, which transport the sperm. This is the labia majora, the outer part of the vulva. This is the anus, where feces exeunt the body.

But she skipped one. I was following along carefully in my textbook, and my teacher had definitely skipped one of the parts of the female genitalia. There was a small cashew-shaped portion of the diagram that the teacher had overlooked.

Ever the brown-noser, I raised my hand. “Excuse me, you left one out.” My teacher apologized, and asked me which one she’d omitted.

“You didn’t tell us about the clitoris,” I gloated, pleased with myself for having caught her in error. I had no idea what the clitoris was. Even my parents, in their liberalized “sex is ok!” mind frame, didn’t think that an 11 year old needed to know much about the clitoris.

The teacher answered simply, “Ah. The clitoris is the nerve center of the female genitals.”

“Huh, no wonder she left it out,” I thought to myself. “That sounds boring. Just nervous system stuff.” Little did I know.

Naturally, now I slightly resent this teacher for her glaring omission. Was it really just an oversight? Or was this some sort of morality call on her behalf — that girls don’t need to be educated about their own pleasure, only their baby makin’ plumbing? There are too many adults who have no idea where the clitoris is, and education begins early! Think of all those 11 year olds who could have been educated!

I’m certainly not suggesting that the teacher should have winked at the class and leered, “Hope all you kids are paying attention, ‘cuz if you know where THIS little button is, you’ll be very very popular in high school!” No, no. But at least she could have said, “Class, that’s the clitoris, the nerve center of the genitals and an area crucial to sexual health and well-being.” That would have been good. But she didn’t, so I went home to my mother’s books and did a little more research before I understood.

While my mother took care of my education about the physical aspects of sex, my father attempted to teach me about the spiritual ones. He was a Tantric sex workshop leader while I was in high school and college, and was eager to offer me advice on how this less physically focused, and more breath/spirit-oriented sexual practice might help me.

My first boyfriend was an absolutely chaste young man named Ned, who I met when we were both counselors at 4-H camp. He was in chicken 4-H, and I was in rabbit 4-H, and if that strikes you as funny you should know that my first date was with a boy who was in sheep 4-H. Despite being two years older than me, Ned seemed barely interested in any sort of physical contact, and he kissed me only two times during our three month long relationship. One of the times we kissed, he started crying from the stress of the whole situation. Needless to say, sex was not happening any time soon.

My father, not knowing just how little action I was getting, felt the need to have a long conversation with me, however, about how I could find the ultimate in sexual connection via Tantric breathing exercises.

He explained that while the desires of the flesh were strong, the powerful connection that two people share could actually been enhanced and explored through breath and meditation, and that really we shouldn’t even try fucking — we should just sit together and explore breath together. You can imagine how well this went over with me. At 16, I was totally not getting ANY, no matter how hard I tried, and here’s my dad telling me that I should try BREATHING with this boy who was so nervous he could barely hold my hand.

“Is it any wonder I can’t get laid with influences like these?” I wondered to myself, before stopping to consider if my father had at some point pulled poor Ned aside and infected his mind with this whole “no sex, just breathing” concept. I suppose I’ll never know.

Regardless, by the time I finally got around to losing my virginity, I was so overeducated that it was almost ridiculous. I’d like to think this made me intimidating, but my loss of virginity was a stupid and silly as most of them are, involving Valentine’s Day, my ex-boyfriend that I’d sort of just gotten back together with, and a turquoise lace bra and panty set from Frederick’s of Hollywood.

I have so much shame about the situation: turquoise lace? What was I thinking? Why did I let that atrocious lingerie touch my body? I’ll never forgive myself. Apparently, the sexual education my parents gave me failed to include warnings about the dangers of unfortunate undergarments.