I never grew up thinking my existence began with a stork kidnapping me from a cabbage patch and shoving me in my parent’s letter box. I remember always being a somewhat rational and realistic child. I don’t ever recall getting “the talk” either, and I think it is due to the unfortunate placement of my bedroom next to that of my parents.
If only…. oh, if only…
Through the bangs and groans and slaps and ooohs pounding through the walls and into my fragile ear drums, I learnt at a very young age that *gasp* my parents had sex. And it angered and disgusted me. I would lie awake at night, exhausted already because falling asleep was always an arduous task anyway, blocking my ears and yelling shut the hellll upppp to no avail.
Through this, I believe a deep subconscious disdain for the sexual world began brewing in my soul.
Yeah I’m an adult now, but fuck the excuse it’s what adults do when they love each other and other bull crap to create an excuse for it. Well, no, you were just not giving a shit about how your children will react or think about it. It scars the fuck out of your soul. I didn’t realise how much this has pissed me off until it randomly came up during couples counselling the other day when the psych was asking about attitudes towards sex growing up. Years and years later, and thinking about it still makes my body react and want to vomit.
So now I’m blaming their sex for my non-existent libido and invisible wall inside me that doesn’t let me release my full sexual potential. Yes parents, my sexual disfunction is your loud and moaning fault.
Moral of the Story: if you’re going to roast the broomstick, have the courtesy to make sure that your children are 150% oblivious to it, or you can be royally soiling their mind.