PRUDE AND PRURIENT

I don't remember when I was ever a prude. Naive -- yes, but never a prude.

In my day (yikes, I'm actually old enough to discuss differences between my generation and the current one!), the norm was for girls -- even women -- to feign ignorance about all matters sexual. In fact, it was almost mandatory that we appeared shocked or horrified whenever the topic was discussed publicly. We're talking about a nearly apoplectic -- brightly flushed cheeks, bulging eyes, hand covering the mouth to barely suppress a gasp, and mild seizures -- kind of reaction here. But I would have none of that; I always believed doing so gave all sexual power and control to men (or boys for that matter). I may have been too young to fully understand the politics of sex in those days, but I was convinced the more I knew, the better off I was.

I didn't even flinch from marching into the drugstore to buy condoms, even while wearing my school uniform, as my boyfriend sat in the car (I remember how I wished a transporter beam would grab me and take me away, however, when at Mercury Drug the sadistic clerk lifted the box of Trojans in the air and shouted for a price check). Many years later, when my father's friend asked him to bring back an XXX-rated video from one of his trips here to visit me, I dutifully accompanied dad to the store and gave him my (albeit unprofessional) review of his selections ("No dad, that one sucks. Here, get this one from Vivid instead; much better production, and the girls are prettier."). And when Sandra and her then-boyfriend resorted to phone sex to help their long-distance relationship survive, I selected a suitable vibrator for her to use upon his request (small and discreet so easily concealed during surprise visits to her apartment by her mother), and queued up until it was time for her to scurry over from her hiding place and pay for it. I was not amused, however, when the transvestite clerk mistook us for lovers ("She's not my girlfriend! She's not even my type -- please.").

Let me clarify that I'm never the first to bring up the topic: I just don't hesitate to offer my opinion or knowledge when asked for it.
I also know when to exit the conversation; for instance, when someone is hoping all that sex talk results in similar action and is just waiting for someone to bite (sorry, I'm not a fish and I don't respond to bait). My secret (well not anymore) wish is to be like Sue Johanson of Oxygen Channel's "Talk Sex" when I'm in my 60s. Dr. Ruth is OK but she always seems to toe the line between being a genuine sex educator and a novelty act; Johanson, in the meantime, reminds me of an unflappable college professor.

Yesterday I was going through all my books stored in the garage (yes, still working on that project). I opened a box, turned it over (to get rid of insects), and sifted through its contents to figure out what to keep and what to donate.
There were two boxes packed with erotica and sex-related non-fiction. The one that caught Arnel's eye was "302 Advanced Techniques for Driving a Man Wild in Bed : The New Book by the Bestselling Author of 203 Ways to Drive a Man Wild in Bed" by Olivia St. Claire. It might have been the bright red cover or the provocative title, but Arnel spotted it from three meters away despite his nearsightedness. "Hon, the books you read!" he exclaimed in mock exasperation (or was it real?). "Maybe this is something you can lend to (his little sister), what do you think?"

I just rolled my eyes; what did I expect, after all? This is the same guy who hid my books on the Kama Sutra and fellatio when Charmaine and Mike housesat for us one week while we vacationed in Manila. He was busy scouring the room for hiding places as I protested, "Why are you hiding them? As proper hosts we have an obligation to provide our guests with interesting reading matter." This is the same man who refused to allow me to buy a basket of condoms for our friend Joe, who nursed a broken heart one summer by having unprotected sex with almost anything in a skirt that moved. I have good intentions no doubt, but Arnel often wishes I just don't act on them.

However, there is one thing that thoroughly freaks me out and makes me wish I were a cloistered nun: when close family relatives (I can't say who or what they are to me because even the thought makes me squeamish) talk about anything even remotely related to sex. I may act cool, composed, and objective -- but deep inside me I have my fingers plugged into my ears as I loudly sing "lalalalala" to drown out the noise of their voice. Thank heavens my prudish mother is nothing like me; she has a "don't ask, don't tell, don't ever want to know" policy when it comes to her daughters -- or perhaps anyone else for that matter. I know it's considered healthy for parents and their children to have "the talk" before teenage hormones go amok, but in my case it probably would have resulted in post-traumatic stress disorder.

One day, if I get my way, I'll have my own call-in show like Johanson. But I'm issuing a warning to all my relatives right now: please don't call me, I'll just send you the book. You're even welcome to drop by and look through the boxes in the garage. Just don't forget to ask Arnel where he hid the rest.

Comments

[thebee]

"In your days!?" How can you say that? How old are you? (not being rude, just curious) I'm 34, and you are right, the sex thing makes a lot of people squeamish, especially us Pinoys. I'm not prudish myself, and I've noticed that when you are frank about discussing sex people tend to think you are slutty. How odd.

[Gigi]

Hi there!
Fortunately I'm at an age where I have the luxury of living my own life as I pretty much please. Plus I don't have kids, I'm not in politics, and am not a celebrity -- so I can afford not to really care if someone wants to call me slutty. I completely agree with your observation, but fortunately it seems like times are changing slowly in our favor (I'm basing this, of course, on what I read in Filipino magazines and newspapers).
PS: I'm in my 30s but not yet 40. :)

[thebee]

This is kinda freaky--my sis-in-law's name is Charmaine (spelled that way), and her guy's name is Mike. Cue "Twilight Zone."

[Gigi]

I'm sure Charmaine's reading this now and her hair's standing on end. If she got married in Vegas on Christmas Day, too, that would just be too freaky.

[AnP]

hahaha hilarious pero tama ka dyan!

[Gigi]

Hi AnP,
Ay naku, I almost wrote in this post about how my dad's bags were inspected at Customs on his way back home, and the inspector pulled out the video I helped pick out. My dad was in a wheelchair pa because he was sick -- and the guy pushing him slapped him on the back and said, "You dirty dog, you!" My mom wanted to disappear -- and gave me the dirtiest look. I was dying of laughter.

Oh well, I guess I told the story anyway. :)