My mother knocked on my bedroom door one night when I was fourteen, and asked if I could spare a few minutes for her. I assumed she needed something from a high shelf, which was my standard purpose in the house. So I agreed, having no concept that I was falling directly into an elaborately planned trap.
I followed her to her dressing room, which was normally completely off-limits. It was painted storm cloud gray, with matching marble countertops. No matter the environment elsewhere, that room was always cool and quiet as a tomb. As we entered, I saw she had prepared for my arrival: There were little bottles and jars carefully laid out on the counter.
“Don’t be upset with me, but you are getting older, and that means you have to pay more attention to your skin.”
Here she gave a sweeping gesture to supplies she’d laid out. She then patiently explained how to properly wash my face and apply astringent, then opened a jar of oatmeal mask and demonstrated spreading the sweetly rancid glop on her face. I followed suit, and we stood back, waiting for it to dry. I watched my features harden in the mirror under the mask.
I followed her to her dressing room, which was normally completely off-limits. It was painted storm cloud gray, with matching marble countertops. No matter the environment elsewhere, that room was always cool and quiet as a tomb. As we entered, I saw she had prepared for my arrival: There were little bottles and jars carefully laid out on the counter.
“Don’t be upset with me, but you are getting older, and that means you have to pay more attention to your skin.”
Here she gave a sweeping gesture to supplies she’d laid out. She then patiently explained how to properly wash my face and apply astringent, then opened a jar of oatmeal mask and demonstrated spreading the sweetly rancid glop on her face. I followed suit, and we stood back, waiting for it to dry. I watched my features harden in the mirror under the mask.
This was fun. Weird, but fun.
“You know,” she said, gathering a shallow breath. “You’re growing up... so fast. I can hardly believe it. Um, and if you have any... questions... about, oh, you know, anything... you can ask me OR YOUR DADDY, and we can. Talk. About it. It’s fine. Really.”
My God. Mama obviously had lost some sort of bet with my father, and had been forced to find a way to have the Sex Talk with me. And by making connections only my mother would find, she had determined the best way to handle it was combining the Sex Talk with the Skin Care Demo.
“You know,” she said, gathering a shallow breath. “You’re growing up... so fast. I can hardly believe it. Um, and if you have any... questions... about, oh, you know, anything... you can ask me OR YOUR DADDY, and we can. Talk. About it. It’s fine. Really.”
My God. Mama obviously had lost some sort of bet with my father, and had been forced to find a way to have the Sex Talk with me. And by making connections only my mother would find, she had determined the best way to handle it was combining the Sex Talk with the Skin Care Demo.
I wondered what expression I would have, had my face not been completely immobilized.
“Son,” she said, her eyes growing larger as cracks began to appear in her whiteface. “Do you have any questions?”
Oh boy, did I ever have questions. When Randy Devers came over and let me give him head, why did he always run to the bathroom just before he came? And why would he never talk about it? If I liked boys, did that mean I’d grow up and be a hairdresser? Should I be planning for that? What if I liked girls, too? Did I have to pick, or would one or the other just stop one day?
But I didn’t ask any of these questions.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I can’t think of any.”
So we rinsed our faces, and that was the end of Skin Care/Sex Education at my house. The next afternoon, I returned from school to find a copy of “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys” waiting on my bed. It was a compelling text that I read with great interest. I learned nocturnal emissions were quite normal, but you should strip your own bed when they occurred. It was a book on puberty for WASPs that placed high importance on making certain you don’t inconvenience anyone in the process of becoming a man.
I craved having someone with whom I could speak openly about all the confusion, terror, and exhaustion I was experiencing. But teenage boys don’t talk like that with their families, or even with each other. Instead, I read my book and waited for it to end.
My roommate Kit just took his first hormone shot, marking the unofficial start of his own journey towards manhood. He’s always been a guy, but his birth certificate unfortunately disagreed with his assessment. So, proactive spirit that he is, Kit is setting out to make the outsides match the insides. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of what trans people experience, but I do remember a thing or two about bouts of raging testosterone. So when Kit returned from his first appointment, he found a copy of a book on his bed: “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys”.
“Son,” she said, her eyes growing larger as cracks began to appear in her whiteface. “Do you have any questions?”
Oh boy, did I ever have questions. When Randy Devers came over and let me give him head, why did he always run to the bathroom just before he came? And why would he never talk about it? If I liked boys, did that mean I’d grow up and be a hairdresser? Should I be planning for that? What if I liked girls, too? Did I have to pick, or would one or the other just stop one day?
But I didn’t ask any of these questions.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I can’t think of any.”
So we rinsed our faces, and that was the end of Skin Care/Sex Education at my house. The next afternoon, I returned from school to find a copy of “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys” waiting on my bed. It was a compelling text that I read with great interest. I learned nocturnal emissions were quite normal, but you should strip your own bed when they occurred. It was a book on puberty for WASPs that placed high importance on making certain you don’t inconvenience anyone in the process of becoming a man.
I craved having someone with whom I could speak openly about all the confusion, terror, and exhaustion I was experiencing. But teenage boys don’t talk like that with their families, or even with each other. Instead, I read my book and waited for it to end.
My roommate Kit just took his first hormone shot, marking the unofficial start of his own journey towards manhood. He’s always been a guy, but his birth certificate unfortunately disagreed with his assessment. So, proactive spirit that he is, Kit is setting out to make the outsides match the insides. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of what trans people experience, but I do remember a thing or two about bouts of raging testosterone. So when Kit returned from his first appointment, he found a copy of a book on his bed: “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys”.
And now I can be the sympathetic ear I craved when I too was becoming a man.
