I see London, I see France, I see your underpants.

In first grade, I attended a Catholic elementary. My only year of serious religious enforcement. Could you imagine how more fucked up I’d be had I been a lifer of parochial schooling?

I have a LOT of random memories from that one year of grade school. But sadly, an almost complete loss of memory from second to fourth grade. It’s odd, but so obviously coincides with my parent’s divorce.

Back to All Saints (heh, right?). We had to change for gym class in front of the entire classroom, separated by gender. Ours was a female teacher, but thankfully not a ruler-smacking nun. The boys went to the hallway while the girls changed into yellow and brown monstrosities. Although I would likely love those short-shorts for derby today. I know, what. a. tramp.

During this changing session, the  boys were not prevented from peeking into the door’s window. The little boys were already obsessed with the naked body of opposite sex. And I was already in lurve with Luke Citriglia, but I’m fairly certain he would not let me see his weiner. Why the hell didn’t the teacher provide a blind or a bathroom or such… or I don’t know, an effin chaperone? Catholic School: creating a lifetime of pervs.

It was still another few years before I asked my (male) neighbor to see his penis. He was maybe eight or nine, not like the creepy guy who drove the blue van around the neighborhood. It was a hilarious threeway bathroom nonsense. At an age less than ten, I was fully into the exploration of not only the male anatomy, but I realized the appeal of polyamourous relationships.

Do you remember at what age you began discovering or exploring the anatomy of your opposite gender? I mean, I started making my Barbies have sex when I was five, but I’m talking about a REAL penis or vagina.

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