My father never had "the talk" with me. Not that my mother didn't push him to. He kept saying he'd get to it, but never did.

Instead, when I was 11, my mother walked into my bedroom, handed me a book, and told me to ask her if I had any questions.

The only question I had then, and now, is why did she get me a sex-ed pop-up book?

It was The Facts Of Life: Three-Dimensional, Moveable Illustrations Showing the Development of a Baby from Conception to Birth.



I remember reading it and thinking I was aware of everything in it. I have a much older brother, after all. For years afterward, I vividly remembered my impressions of the section on male reproductive cells. Which is why paisley makes me uncomfortable.