Tag: sex

On vocabulary

On By Luther M. SilerIn Reading2 Comments

I learned a new word while reading a sex scene tonight, and I’m both surprised and a little alarmed by that. I thought I knew all the words for the different ways humans can rub their bits together! I did not.

(That’s all I’ve got. My students shit the bed on another test today. If someone can explain to me what I need to do to keep 8th graders from consistently, from year to year, underperforming on anything I call a test, I would absolutely love to hear it, because nothing I’ve ever tried has worked. You’ve seen this post before, and I’m pre-exhausted by it without even writing it.)

On Nazis and pregnancies, but not at the same time

On By Luther M. SilerIn StoriesLeave a comment

I’ve been playing Sniper Elite 5 on the PlayStation 5 lately, because setting the difficulty to something obscenely low and shooting Nazis in the face from a hundred yards away has been about where my brain has been at lately. I like this series, but not as anything I take seriously; I don’t want to be challenged in Sniper Elite 5. I want to be an invincible force of death. I want the Nazis to tell their children that I’ll find them if they’re not quiet and well-behaved, and then I want those kids to tell me where their parents are, because their parents are Nazis and that means I can shoot them in the face.

Also, it’s the anniversary of D-Day. Also also, any time the anniversary of D-Day rolls around, I start thinking about my grandfather, who wasn’t actually at D-Day but joined the Allied assault in France a bit later, eventually being wounded in the Battle of Nancy, being handed a Purple Heart, and rotated back Stateside with a piece of a mortar shell in his ankle that, presumably, is still in his coffin with him, since the surgeons never bothered to remove it.

And today something hit me: I have an aunt named Nancy. And I tried to think about the timeline, and ended up calling another one of my aunts, the one I can bother relatively early in the morning with nonsense like this, and asked her about the timeline between Grandpa getting home and Nancy being born and named. Had my grandfather named my aunt after the battle in which he’d been wounded? It seemed possible, at least; I had to know.

No, as it turns out. Grandma was pregnant with Nancy when Grandpa shipped out, and she was born while he was overseas and named him herself. Tantalizingly, though, apparently my grandmother named Nancy herself and wrote Grandpa and told him the name, and my aunt tells me that his response was that she should “take it (the name, not my aunt) out and bury it, because it stinks.”

It is perhaps indicative of the type of woman my grandmother was– this is the one the name Siler comes from, by the way– that she ignored his, uh, suggestion, and her second daughter kept the name that she gave her. It’s also possibly an indication that Grandpa knew when he wrote the letter where he was heading and where he was likely to see combat, but I’d have to know a lot more about timelines– they’re both gone, so who knows where those letters might be– before I could make a supposition like that.

This led, somehow, to a conversation about the timing of the conception of various and sundry of my relatives; turns out one of my cousins is the product of a “lunch quickie,” and that my grandparents were in the house when another of my cousins from her was conceived. I changed the subject as soon as the phrase “lunch quickie” came up, by the way.

(My birthday is July 5; my mom’s was October 3. I have always assumed I was a birthday present; Dad, if that was not the case, I don’t need further details.)

REBLOG: Sex positive parenting: the book we are going to burn

On By Luther M. SilerIn Parenting1 Comment

I endorse this message.

emmamassonoakden's avatar

tumblr_m1idj8LS0U1qkmogjo1_500

My wife and I are huge book lovers, the word ‘bibliophile’ definitely comes to mind.  On top of this, we are also very sex(uality) positive when it comes to parenting, both wanting our four children to grow up with a healthy understanding of sex and sexuality, theirs and in general.  Our eldest daughter is 11 now and is going through puberty; she loves reading puberty books, demolishes the damn things, then reads them two, three, four more times… and a month later will get them out from the library again.  It got to the point we ended up buying the books for her.

A few months back we were in our regular secondhand bookshop, perusing the shelves full of booky potential.  I came across a hardcover book – ‘Questions Kids Ask about Sex: Honest answers for every age’, Melissa R. Cox (ed) – and thought HEY!  THAT SOUNDS FUCKING…

View original post 1,632 more words

I get the weirdest search queries…

On By Luther M. SilerIn idiocy6 Comments

Screen Shot 2015-01-31 at 8.56.27 PM

oh my god this is REAL?

On By Luther M. SilerIn Parenting12 Comments

So I heard about this last night on the twitters and I thought it was a hoax.  It’s not a hoax. It’s a real thing that is real:

B6B7gHTIMAAA6JmSo, long story short: the extruder for some new Play-Doh toy that a bunch of people got for their kids for Christmas looks exactly like a goddamned dildo.  You have got to go to the Facebook page and go there right now;  the carnage going on in the comments is the Internet distilled into its purest form and is completely hilarious on every imaginable level.

Thank me later.  Click the link now.

Oh shit I almost forgot

On By Luther M. SilerIn idiocy, Teaching4 Comments

I confiscated this little gem from one of my girls today.  It’s behind a jump because it’s crazily, hilariously NSFW; you want to click through, though, trust me:

Continue reading “Oh shit I almost forgot” →

In which I alter society to fit my whims

On By Luther M. SilerIn idiocy7 Comments

bbarkerOn the one hand, anyone good enough at staying alive to have a 9 in any but the last digit of their age really doesn’t deserve to have me blowing shit at them.  On the other hand, holy shit dudes Bob Barker is scary as hell all the sudden.

I do not actually want to live to 90– given the wild variety of aches and pains and various iniquities and inabilities that being merely 37 has inflicted upon me, I literally cannot understand how anyone over 50 is even alive.  But if I do make it to 90, I’d like to think that I would terrify small children.  Way to be, Bob.  I’ll spay something for you.

I don’t normally link to Slate, but when I do, I do it twice in a week.  This article is not typical Slate Contrarianism like the last time, it’s something far more inexplicable:  apparently some study has determined that 1 in 200 pregnant women claim that they are virgins.  A British medical journal– well, actually, it’s apparently called The British Medical Journal (I would have thought there’d be more than one)– apparently spent fourteen years tracking the lives of some 8,000 post-adolescent girls.  During that time, just over five thousand reported a pregnancy.  Of those five thousand, 45 managed to achieve pregnancy without achieving sex.  While I don’t know if the survey tracked creative use of turkey basters or artificial insemination, the authors (or at least Amanda Marcotte, who wrote the article) have thus concluded that those 45 young women believe themselves to have given virgin birth.  This line from the study is wonderful:

While more virgins gave birth to boys (59.8%) or may have learnt they were pregnant during Advent, these trends did not reach statistical significance.

That, right there, is quality snark, kids.

Let’s talk about virginity, just for a second, if you don’t mind.  And you don’t mind, do you?

Virginity is fucking stupid.

Don’t misunderstand me:  I’m not claiming that being a person who has not had sex is stupid.  That’s fine with me.  Glory in yo’ spunk, as BB King might say.  Or, y’know, glory in being eight years old.  Whatever.  I don’t care if you have sex or not.  You’d probably like it, if you tried, but I haven’t ever had a whiskey sour and people say good things about those too.

What’s fucking stupid is that we have a word for people who haven’t had sex, and that, worse, we perceive this state of non-fucking-ness as a thing that is lost when either your penis enters a vagina or your vagina is entered by a penis or whatever other definition you’ve constructed in your head to determine whether your sex “counts” or “doesn’t count,” which no doubt is determined mostly by how interested you are in disappointing your mother.  And baby Jesus.  Who hates sex, apparently.

Think about this:  there is no other thing, in the English language or any other that I’m aware of, where we have a word for someone who has not done something but no word for someone who has.  I’ve never killed anyone.  There’s no word for me.  I kill someone, I become a murderer.  I’ve never lived in Paris.  No word.  Once I do?  I become a Parisian.  

What do you call someone who has had sex?  Well, okay, fucker, but that’s not actually what anyone means when they say that, although maybe they should, because that word really isn’t versatile enough.  Sexer?  Nope.  That’s someone who can tell whether a chicken is a boy or a girl. Which, by the way, is fascinating.

(Click the link do it do it DO IT YOU WILL LEARN THINGS)

(Then imagine what you might find if you GIS “chick sexers,” and then find out for yourself.)

The hell was I talking about?

Oh, right.  Virgins.

(cough)

Here’s the point: these young women, if they even exist and aren’t some sort of bizarre statistical anomaly in this survey, are in need of something very badly (no NOT THAT JESUS SHUT UP YOU PERVERT):  comprehensive goddamn sex education.  They’ve clearly not been getting it (SHUT UP) and they need it (QUIET) and they need it now (OKAY FINE YOU WIN I GIVE UP).  No one should be so pig-ignorant about how their body works that they think they got pregnant in a swimming pool or from a toilet seat, and if we’re in a world where we hope that people are lying because the alternative is scarier, we’ve still got a problem.

Here’s what we should call people who haven’t had sex: people.  Here’s what we should call people who have had sex:  older people.  This entire concept that there’s purity of some vague metaphysical sort attached to a state of non-sexytimes is destructive and stupid and  as a culture we should squash it dead right the hell now.  Virginity is stupid, and no one should be one. Death to useless concepts!

(It’s been a long day.  This is the best I can do.)

(True fact about me: my last blog was something like the #4 Google result for years if you for some godforsaken what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you reason chose to search for the phrase “duck cock.”  The duck penis, also, is fascinating.)

I’m in this job for the paperwork

On By Luther M. SilerIn Parenting, Politics3 Comments

paperworkRandom, before I start: my neighbors have big (thirty feet? I’m bad at estimating distances) columns supporting a portico (or are the columns part of the portico?  I’m also bad at architecture) in front of their house.  There’s an honest-to-god woodpecker at the top of one of them; I heard the bastard when I got out of my car after getting home this afternoon.  He’s wailing whaling (bad at homonyms!) away up there.  Is that something I should tell them about?

Anyway.  It’s bullying awareness week, or some such bullshit.  Or maybe it was last week; I’m not aware enough to be sure.  Here is how most people think bullying works:  A bunch of children mercilessly pick on one poor bullied student, causing him to be very sad and blah blah blah.  Here is how bullying actually works, most of the time: everyone involved is an asshole and a bad actor and everyone involved is doing their best to make everyone else involved miserable as best they can, and the ones who are either the sneakiest or the quickest to file paperwork get to be the “victims” while everyone else gets to be the “bullies.”  Oh, and every time the word gets used I have a legally-mandated two days to “do an investigation” and a bunch of complicated paperwork to fill out, only to find out that Suzie told Allie that Shelly said that Sammi said that Sharon said that Allie said that Sheryl was a slut, only it turns out that Shelly didn’t actually say that, Sharon said that Allie said that to Shelly but Suzie is dating Sammi’s ex-boyfriend and Sharon’s mad at her because of it so Suzie actually said that Sammi was a slut because she was defending her on Facebook and today this is a world-ending crisis and the very second I’m done with the paperwork they’ll all be best friends again and oh never mind we worked it out until they hate each other again next week.

If you think I’m exaggerating, you’re not a teacher.  I have been doing this job for twelve years and I can count the number of unambiguous instances of clear bullying that I have witnessed on one hand.  Everything and I mean everything else has been mostly-mutual teenage bullshit of some kind or another.

That said, one of the events I’m about to describe so far may actually be pretty clear-cut, but I haven’t done my investigation yet.

Keep in mind, by the way, that these are seventh-graders.  Thirteen-year-olds.

My third and fourth hour got wrecked because of some vile combination of the following events:  1) One student suggesting to another student that she’d be open to a threesome with her ex-boyfriend and one of his friends; 2) That student reporting to the ex-boyfriend and the buddy that said threesome was a possibility; 3) Upon being asked about the possibility of said threesome via Facebook message (I’ve not seen this message, but other staff members have) the original young lady replied “No… well, maybe… LOL” and then was 4) surprised somehow when the two young gentlemen in question told everyone they knew that this was going to happen.  And then during art today there was apparently 5) an attempt to get the threesome bargained down to some oral sex for the non-ex-boyfriend while the ex-boyfriend, apparently, watched.  Throw in a different ex-girlfriend of the same dude doing her best to keep her nose in their business and one of the two guys deciding to try to get everyone to ostracize the second girl in the first conversation and you have eaten my entire day, as all four of the principals involved are in my third and fourth hour.

Note that, legally, this isn’t bullying, and I know this because we just had a meeting where we went over the legal definition of bullying in great detail.  And also note that none of it took place in school and yet it destroyed not only my entire day but at least two other staff members’ days as well.  (And while we’re noting things, note that this still qualifies as sexual harassment and it’s not being ignored.)

I’m leaving the school counselor’s office after spending the first half of my prep period with her and one of my paraprofessionals hashing all this out and making sure we’ve written down everything and notified everybody we need to notify.  I’ve done no actual preparing during my prep period.  I never do any preparing during prep; that’s Fireman Hour.

I walk to my room, sit down at my desk, and start composing an email.  The teacher next door walks into my classroom with another kid in tow– a student who I had in sixth grade two years ago who I just last week had referred to a risk-assessment psychologist on account of she’s cutting herself.  The student is being disruptive and making her job impossible and can she stay in my room for a bit? Sure, why not, this email’s gonna take me a few minutes and I’d prefer to have a good excuse to stay in my room if I can have one.

Less than five minutes later, I’m taking her back to the nurse because she’s started shrieking and ranting about how ridiculous it is that anyone thinks they can stop her from hurting herself because it’s her body and she’s gonna hurt herself if she wants to.  Well, fuckin’ great, let’s go talk to that psychologist again.  I go get the counselor (whose office, remember, I’ve just left) again and that eats another fifteen minutes of the only break (to do everything else I have to do but teach) that I have each day.  I have just enough time to run down to my room and get something that I need to have photocopied by the morning; I make it down to the photocopier as the bell is ringing and discover that the photocopier is broken.

Well, great.

Off to the gym, where I make the seventh and eighth graders sit where they’re supposed to and call off buses as they arrive.  I spot one of my (7th grade) homeroom girls, normally the sunniest, biggest-smiled kid you’ve ever seen in your life, sitting in the stands, bawling her eyes out.

No goddammit don’t ask this can only cause trouble what are you doing jesus this day is long enough don’t you NO GODDAMMIT YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHY ARE YOU WAVING HER OVER JESUS STOP IT NO NO 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

I consider simply replying “Bullshit” and don’t; there are a few buses gone by now and there are a bunch of other teachers in the gym, so I can pull her into the hallway without officially abandoning what I’m actually supposed to be doing.

We go into the hallway.

“Let’s try that again.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath.  Sobs again.

“Sweetie, there’s absolutely no way I’m letting you get on the bus like this.  Tell. Me. What. Happened.”

“(Eighth-grade dumbfuck) won’t leave me alone.  He asked me out yesterday and I said no and he just keeps asking and he’s been bugging me about it all day.  I can’t get him to stop.” And she starts bawling again.

Which: again, not bullying.  But is, again, at least at first blush, a pretty damn clear-cut case of sexual harassment.  By some sort of divine providence, the dumbfuck in question is part of the reason that the wrist-cutter earlier got put into my classroom; the two of them were feuding about something too.

I note that he’s already left and ask her if he has her phone number and if she thinks he’ll be calling or texting or Facebooking or anything like that tonight or if he knows where she lives or if she will be quit of him until school starts tomorrow.  She confirms that he has no way to get in touch with her and I tell her that we’ll talk about this tomorrow morning.  I reflect that she has many older brothers (like, seriously, at least four, plus at least one sister) and consider simply making sure that they have this kid’s address.

I put her on the bus and stop in the counselor’s office on my way out, asking her if she has any room on her lap left, and (as I am mandated to do by law whenever I encounter instances of sexual harassment or bullying) notify her as to the content of the conversation I’ve just had and that I’ll be following up with my official within-two-work-days investigation during homeroom.

At least I know what I’ll be doing during seventh hour tomorrow.

OH WAIT SHIT I FORGOT THIS PART edit:  I end the conversation with the counselor early because there is a parent in the office who is screaming at the attendance secretary so loudly that I can hear it halfway down the hallway through two closed doors.  As it works out, both the principal and the assistant principal have been out of the building all afternoon at different meetings and so there is really no one in the office who the secretary can refer her to.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I’mma go deal with that,” I tell the counselor, and leave her office, attempting to summon my Calm Face.  Luckily for (very likely) everyone involved, by the time I got down there another teacher had intervened already and maneuvered the lunatic into the hallway and out of the office.  As it turned out he was apparently who she was looking for anyway; I hung around for a minute until I decided he didn’t really need any help (turns out that kids who are angry psychotics tend to have angry psychotic parents; who knew?) and went down to my room to get my stuff, the music of her discontent accompanying me the whole way.

The end.