Don’t go in thar, Timber.

As I mentioned in my “Sex is out of the question” post, I don’t discuss carnal topics with my parents. Yet Daddy used to bark at Mother’s beehonkus in front of my friends and still praises other women’s physiques.

Now that Daddy has joined the gym Mother already attends, he can both exercise and scan the female patrons.

“How is the gym going, Daddy?” I asked during my last visit home.

“It’s goin’ great. There’s a good-lookin’ woman who comes in thar.”

“Really, who?” (Calhoun is a small town, so I figured I might know the lady to whom he was referring.)

“I don’t know her name.”

“Mother, who is he talking about?”

“I don’t know. Robert, is it the blond woman?”

“Daddy, does she have blond hair?” I probed.

“I didn’t get that far,” he said.

I’m happy Daddy appears to still have a healthy libido. When in fourth grade, I invited a friend from “the city school” over to play. In an attempt to impress her, I suggested we dig through Daddy’s closet. Beneath the mounds of clothing and Vietnam photo albums, we exhumed his copy of The Joy of Sex.

We stared giggling at an illustration of a penis for 30 minutes until Daddy waltzed through the door.

“Hurr. Hurr. Hur-hur-hur,” I snickered. “Daddy, why do you have a book called The Joy of Sex?”

“So I could learn about the joys of sex,” he answered even-keel. The next time I tried to find the book in Daddy’s closet, it had been moved.

I eventually wanted to purchase my own book about the joys of sex. Out of touch and having blossomed late, I realized I had a lot to catch up on when in college. I ordered a comprehensive literary achievement from Amazon.com called The Guide to Getting It On! (The Universe’s Coolest and Most Informative Book About Sex). Since I didn’t have a credit card, I had to charge the book on Mother’s Discover card and pay her back in cash; the Discover card was linked to Daddy’s Amazon account, which was set up to email him with payment and shipping details. When the order confirmation arrived in Daddy’s Inbox, he freaked.

“Good gawd!” he hollered. “Who ordered…the Guide to Gittin’ It On, the Universe’s Kewlest and Most Informative Book About Sex?”

“That was me,” I admitted. “I want to go ahead and read up on this stuff, so I’ll know what I’m doing when I get married one day.”

“Yeah…” he skeptically muttered.

Daddy always has shuddered at any hint of my sexuality. In one of my first memories of toddlerhood, I sat naked on the living room couch playing with myself. Intrigued and oblivious, I yanked on it violently during an episode of Hee-Haw.

“QUIT IT!!!” Daddy screamed when he entered the room, expecting to enjoy a performance by Loretta Lynn. I assumed what I was doing was wrong or bad.

Finally at age 18 I couldn’t stand it anymore. After watching a Mary-Kate and Ashley movie, I stomped to my bedroom determined to masturbate. I would like to think Mary-Kate and/or Ashley had nothing to do with it, and that the film and my decision happened to collide. After realizing what I had been missing, I touched myself every day. At one point I started taking longer baths, and I guess the sound of rhythmically sloshing water alarmed Mother.

“Honey? Are you OKAY?” she knocked on the door.

“Yeah, thanks…” I slurred.

Another afternoon I commenced a session in my desk chair. The wheels rolled loudly back and forth across the hardwood floor. Even though it sounded like a choo choo train, I kept going while Timber passed my room in the hall.

“Don’t go in thar, Timber,” I overheard Daddy warn her.

I came to a screeching halt and learned to exercise more discretion.

Daddy doesn’t want to hear about this aspect of my life – and I care not to imagine that part of his life either. However, I grew up knowing he is madly in love with and fiercely attracted to my mother: something many children cannot say. Daddy’s adoration of Mother’s beehonkus is a memory I always will adore.