SEX EDUCATION ///Shawna Ervin
Three. The bathwater is warm, The washcloth covers me, stomach to mid-leg. I push from one end of the tub to the other, water rushing into my ears. I need to help you wash. His voice is high, almost singing. I close my eyes. Strawberry soap foams over my arms, legs, between them, his fingers moving in circles. I shake my hands in the water, listen to the noise. I hum a song my dad taught me, Jesus Loves the Little Children. Nine. The door is locked, I need to go. The secret key is not a secret. Dad grunts. Mom lies like she fell from a few stories above, her arms splayed out, a knee bent, legs apart. Her face turns away. Dad’s butt rises, falls hard. Mom’s puckered, post-birth stomach jiggles, the rest of her body still. Is she dead? Ten. Black and white drawings, crinkled on the overhead. Adult figures, after the puberty I wish would begin. A man, standing sideways, his penis drooping in a lazy arc, tubes labeled. Urethra. Vas deferens. It looks like my dad when he leaves my bedroom at night. Will they tell us not to cry, to be still, and honor our fathers? Ten. A tissue box covered in green butcher paper. Questions. Anonymous, the teachers said. A man with thinning hair, his back bent. A woman, nervous; her head jerks to the windows, the door, her fingers tug on her light brown hair. Questions about us, puberty, the slides. I 22 SANSKRIT
want to know why Kendra, the first to wear a bra, takes it off at recess under the slide, gives it to a boy, why he wants it. Does she get it back? I didn’t ask. The box was empty. My handwriting, and everyone else’s, was distinct even from the other side of the room. Sixteen. Circle where your dad touched you. Do you know what an erection is, what it looks like? Did your dad ask you to touch him? Did he touch your breasts, your boobs, your body, take off your bra? Stand up. Show me how you stood, put my hands where his were. I need to know exactly what happened. Twenty-four. The handcuffs cut into my wrists, pink fur itches. Blindfold too tight, I cannot blink. Something sharp inside me. Taste this. Celery. Eat it. Don’t spit. Don’t be gross. The camera clicks. I can’t wait to show my brother. He wants to do you. Twenty-four. I don’t say no. No means nothing. You’re going to like this. Hurry up and change. Leather. Tied down, the room black. Something wet and sticky dribbled over my stomach, between my legs. He licks me, watches my body betray me, jams his tongue into my mouth, licks again. Jams a baby carrot into my ass. Eat this, bitch. Thirty. Second date. I hold his hand to my mouth, close my lips around each finger, suck, think he’s like the many others, watch his face, his pants. No. He pulls away. I want to know you first. I’m not ready. I wanted to be ready too.
