The Who, What, and Why of Sex Journalism?
Well, before I can answer that, I should probably explain what the hell it is we do.
Sex journalism is a very fine line between science and pornography. We basically get paid to write about other people getting laid (or not getting laid, whichever the case may be). We must take the role of both student and teacher, accept criticism along with praise, and often share a very intimate portion of our lives with our reader. So what’s the “personal” payback?
It’s simple, really. How many sex therapists/sex journalists do you think are living a non-fulfilling sex lives? I’m sure there are a few, but if there is one thing we actually have a chance at being successful at, it’s sex. We may fail at cooking, finance, and programming the clock on the microwave, but put us in a room with no lights, a cigarette, and at least one willing partner, and we will probably come out with a grin, a lit cigarette, and one hell of a story to write about!
Truth or Dare
When I was in preschool I was dead-set on becoming a garbage man. It seemed like a glamorous job at the time. They operated big giant Tonka trucks and received free cookies during the holidays. Not a bad gig in my opinion. My family was very religious as I was growing up, and we did not talk about sex. I can remember my first wet dream as a teenager of an unknown woman with a black void on the front of her hips. It looked like an alternative universe from the SyFy Channel, but it was the best I could muster with such short notice from puberty. I’d had basic sex education in school, so I knew the general location of the vagina, its basic function, and purpose, but exactly how everything worked was still a mystery.
Over the course of grammar school, I found myself becoming increasingly curious of the female nation. I had your typical crushes on the various female stars at the time—Pat Benatar, Olivia Newton John, and Bo Derek. But as unattainable as these choice specimens seemed, I settled for the attention of three young ladies who lived around my neighborhood.
Being that the neighborhood was rather Y-chromosome deficient, my parents never thought much about it, initially. We played house, G.I. Joe, jacks... and the ever classic, Truth or Dare. As the old cliché goes, most of the action that happened during these days took place around the back of an old tool shed or in the garage. We’d head out there and dare each other to do such things as eat dog food, lick toads…and take our clothes off.
I know that just about every kid in the world has played the, If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine game, but this was serious business to me. I wasn’t satisfied with a quick flash. I had to get up close and personal with my Spiderman flashlight. Me and Spidey saw a lot of action over those early summers.
I remember the day our mutual exchange of knowledge came to an end. I was in the garage with one of the girls. She was naked, and Spiderman and I were in the midst of some prepubescent journalistic inquiry. There was nothing sexual going on mind you—just pure, simple, and honest curiosity. Then came a rather loud rap at the door from her older brother. She got dressed so quickly, she forgot her Strawberry Shortcake underwear. Having nowhere else to stash them, I tossed them into the dog food bag and emerged holding a few wood slivers and hammer, claiming we were just about to fashion a couple bird feeders. When my Dad found the evidence in the dog dish later that evening, I was forbidden to be alone with any girl from the neighborhood from that day forth. This is where my sex education would take an unexpected leap into the solo-exhibitionist realm.
The “Wonder” Years
With no one to play with, I turned my attention to myself. I had my first orgasm when I was eight, before I even knew what sex or masturbation was. It was purely by accident. I was lying on my bed naked, with Winnie the Pooh and Snoopy on either side of me…and pop! This was long before my testes were producing sperm, so the whole process was guilt and mess-free. Some might say these were early indications of what many would consider a serious premature ejaculation problem, but it was actually the initial steps to understanding and mastering Tantric Sex (a topic I would find myself writing about many times over my career).
By the time I was ten, I had a relatively mature understanding of my sexuality, and realized that sex was going to be a very important part of my life. I didn’t know why or how, but I knew I had stumbled upon something that was very good, and I wanted to share it with the world. Little did I know, the world already knew about it.
Over the next couple of years, I distanced myself from women. I’d taken to books to satisfy my curiosity. I read everything from Vatsayama’s Kama Sutra to The Joy of Sex. The lateness of my sexual blooming became quite an impediment to dating in high school. It would not be until quite later in life that I would see my first naked, mature woman, but at least, I was well-prepared.
In college I studied English, Psychology, Theater and Natural Sciences, with an emphasis on everything and anything sex-related. I also took quite a few campus art classes, painting nudes. One of the most erotic moments of my freshman year was painting a nude portrait. The girl was lying on my dorm room bed. I was a virgin at the time, and had no inkling that James Cameron would one day steal my thunder with his famed love scene in Titanic. But unlike Jack, I did not get laid that night. I did, however, take away a very deep appreciation and understanding of the naked female body.
After college, I went on to date several sex therapists who were 20 years my senior. If you ever want to learn about sex, a man in his prime (18 to 24) combined with a woman in hers (40 to 46) is a potent combination that will help advance any person’s understanding well beyond their years. I was brought back to those early moments in my bedroom with Winnie and Snoopy. I was elated to be a sexual being, and wanted to share it with the world—and I have. So I guess in the end, I did get my Happily Ever After. I got laid, it was good, and I found my one true calling in life: To write about getting laid—and get paid for it.
I still get an overwhelming urge to run around in my underwear every time I pass an unoccupied tool shed. Perhaps one day Spidey and I shall reunite in some elder care facility, where I shall spend the remainder of my days playing, Remember? or Dare (You to Look)!