.           At age five, my oldest daughter posed the inevitable “where do babies come from” question.  I was ready for this day and had no reservations in explaining the entire reproductive process to her, in what I believed to be age appropriate terms, bolstered by the abundance of internet parenting sites, a great support for the confidence of an “old world” mom. 

                        Born in Israel during the sixties to holocaust survivors, I am an obvious casualty of inhibition, conservative philosophy, religious ideals and a “non-tech” world.  I am reminded about how unapproachable my mother had been, when at the same age as my daughter, I had raised the same question.  All I was told was that that babies come from a mother’s tummy.  How it got in there or out, remained a complete mystery for many years. Too embarrassed to ask and nowhere to go for information, my mind had a field time with this very strange situation.  We went to visit a close family friend who had given birth and on the mantel I noticed a display of greeting cards, all depicting the same large bird, flying over a house with a baby in a blanket; “So that is how it works,” I reflected.  That certainly explained my “blankie” too.  I had needed that to follow me through my toddler years.  The fat tummy must be like some kind of nest waiting for the bird to bring the baby by. 

            As my daughter got older she continued in her quest for more detailed information; I became the bearer of books, many books, specifically designed for young impressionable minds, which answered her questions more effectively, through detailed diagrams and ideal vocabulary.  No such luck when I was a child.  My mother continued her silence on the subject until one day when she surreptitiously deposited a peach colored book next to my bed, about seeds and dreams, or something.  I believe I was supposed to learn something from that, but it was so veiled and guarded that I am not sure why it was there or how I was supposed to connect its lyrical “gobbledygook” to sex.  

            Being prepared and well informed, to the extent my child is, derogates from the dangers of unawareness.  I was ten years of age, in elementary school, when one day a friend showed up in class with a vanity case.  Only a few girls were permitted to peak inside. I was not one of them.  Then the friend with the case approached a few designated classmates and whipped open the case to reveal to these victims of this prank,   long white cotton things that looked like thick bandages, with hoops on each end. The girls would shriek with laughter each time someone fell prey.  I did not have a clue what these things were and realized by how everyone reacted that they all knew something that must have been quite a big secret and about which I had no information.  Later I came to realize that this joke had exposed our group of naïve youngsters to sanitary pads and hence the hint of something forbidden, secretive and unmentionable.  The scene haunted me for four years following, as I experienced its recurring embarrassment.  Once I commenced menstruating, I came to understand why I had felt so uncomfortable.  The ramifications of not understanding menstruation for lack of sex education of any kind, was exacerbated by this event.  I truly believed a period to be a curse upon women.  The damage was done and I felt very awkward and embarrassed by what was happening to my body.

            Unlike my daughter who has been raised in Marin County, an open, progressive and communication savvy society, I thought menstruation was something to fear. However in this vastly different atmosphere of acceptance and consciousness, my daughter unabashedly perceives adolescence as sacred and a milestone to be revered for its eminence in the lives of young women.

            From age five I read incessantly and it seemed there were never enough books in the library to satisfy my insatiable appetite for knowledge.  In those days we had no television in Israel, and were decades away from an internet.  I saw TV for the first time when I was twelve years old.  My only source for sexual elucidation would have been experiential, peer perception, parental advice, newspapers, books and magazines.

            My curiosity about sex presented early on, at the age of nine, perhaps due to my romance with romance novels; where passion was elucidated through the eyes of a “Cinderella” who would be swept up into the arms of a handsome hero and the ensuing embrace resulted in descriptions of feelings and sensations that I desperately wanted to understand.  

            I knew instinctively there was much more to these stories. I wanted to be that Cinderella turned princess, or so I thought.  I consciously decided to take action by approaching my handsome prince, I mean my young neighbor, whom I would sweep up into a kiss, emulating the heroes in my novels.  I believed I would feel that same exuberance so often described in my books and with that experience, albeit contrived, I would have an explanation for everything related to love and romance.  Much to my dismay, after grabbing the young neighbor and forcing my lips on his, I realized I was experiencing the overwhelming tang of “Mr. Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum;” there were no tremors, my body failed to melt; it was a set-up of the worst kind, those novels!  I had been deceived, by me!

            At this point I decided my romantic notions were best left to books and my “explore the anatomy phase” was triggered.  An older friend and I conspired to rent an anatomy book under the guise that it was for his mother.  It was a beautiful book with many pictures of naked people and peculiar diagrams.  It certainly was nothing like the peach book which completely confused me with its “seed and dream” analogy. This was proving to be more interesting than my novels.  I was fascinated by the illustration of the erect penis, by the very idea that babies came through the birth canal and into the world out of a vagina.  This book had all the answers.  I remember being quite shocked by the thought of the penis penetrating the vagina, in this sterile description of ejaculation. The secret had been revealed and it was gross.  What was going on?  Romance and love was ridiculous and sex looked like a very gross way to make a baby.

            I wished I had an adult who could tell me this was all true. This had to be science fiction.   It became my quest to educate all my friends and as I shared the book and its contents, one friend told me the book was in fact untruthful.  He told me he had tried to pee this sperm stuff out and nothing came out.  He was certain that this book was nothing but pure fabrication.  Now. with my curiosity festering,  I was determined to expose the fact that the book was a sham.  Somehow I would find something that refuted this story of a man’s penis going into a woman, and white stuff coming out, to produce baby.  This was simply not possible and absolutely inexplicable.  I wondered if sex was not the method for bringing babies into the world then what was it for.

            I continued my conscious search for the truth by reading more books. My endeavors finally proved fruitful, but only when I was able to add the experience of my own relationships into the mix. For me it was through relationships that I received my enlightenment on all aspects relating to sex and sexuality and it was only then that all the myths were dispelled.  My journey required a lot more than vanity cases, peach books, incoherent novels and anatomy books.  What had been sorely lacking until this time of experimentation was the sensible guidance of an adult.   

            At the age of seventeen and a half I made a decision that it was time end my virgin status. At that time I was living on a kibbutz as part of my army service and each kibbutz had volunteers from all around the world. I had found a target.  He was a good looking, tall, blonde, blue eyed British dancer, nicknamed “Tarzan.”   I explained to him why he had been chosen; we went to his room and after the act I told him I was a virgin.  He complimented me saying that he would did not believe that it was my first time but the little bit of visible blood had convinced him.  Although he was a caring lover, I never really felt the big boom that I had been expecting.  

            I had been under the misapprehension that I should seek my mate in a person of the opposite sex.   The fallacy was that I had tricked myself into thinking that was my only option.  It took me many months past my first sexual encounter to realize that this was indeed a false assumption, as I soon came to realize I was attracted to the same sex and that I was gay. 

            One’s sexual journey ought to be viewed as an adventure. It is an expedition through life and clearly a concomitant of the times and environment.  Whereas I grappled with isolation, falsity and misunderstanding, my daughter will be well guided and fully enlightened, with minimal chance of misapprehension, resulting in an elevated sense of self, thanks to the vast resources, from designated age appropriate literature and media to high-tech communications.