There are very few men in this classroom, and since I am, at least on a conceptual level, a man, it falls upon me to deal with the man things that arise.
It is only fair, since all the ladies around here have to deal with all of the many lady things.
I once attempted to deal with one of the lady things but I did not do too well.
My intrinsic unfamiliarity with the objects involved left me gagging and useless.
I would draw you a picture of the event so that we could parse it out to see where exactly I went wrong, but I hope to win a Caldecott one day with this blog and I do not want to do anything to sabotage my chances.
We have a man student in this classroom who claimed to be actively having intercourse with his equally developmentally disabled lover, and his mother wanted me to talk intercourse talk with him.
"Were you naked?"
"I'm glad we had this talk."
Actually, that is a facetious simplification of what really transpired.
I spoke to his mother on the phone and she assured me that, as his mother, she believed "Timothy" could neither achieve nor maintain the necessary erection levels to successfully complete an act of procreation.
Is it "achieve nor maintain" or "or maintain"?
I assured her that, having interrupted Timothy on several occasions when he was taking some time to calm himself in the bathroom, I knew with certainty that when a need arises or is coaxed, he could indeed produce a state of rigidity that would fulfill most of the purposes that spring to mind.
She was quiet for a time.
Normally when another human being is quiet in my presence, I assume everything is awful, awkward, and my fault, which causes me to blather on to such an extent that no doubt I call even my meager bits of intelligence into question.
But in this instance, I let the blessed silence fall and fill the space between us.
Again, as his mother, which was a fact by now well established yet apparently necessary for her to perseverate upon, she was certain she would have discovered evidence of.....something....as she was the one responsible for washing the sheets in the home.
There were so many variables to consider at this moment, but none of them were easy or pleasant to talk about.
I was not sure if she knew enough about the male reproductive system to know that ejaculation and erection were not synonymous with each other.
The absence of one does not necessarily negate the existence of the other.
I chose this moment in the conversation to assure her that I would sound Timothy out about the subject, so as to take a reading of how far his sexual explorations had progressed.
We were driving along a few days later, and my mind struggled with how to bring it all up.
Timothy has never shied away from asking the hard questions, and when there was a break in the conversation, he abruptly asked me if I get dung.
Now, it should be pointed out that Timothy has the condition of Down's Syndrome, and the sizable proportions of his tongue in relation to the cramped condition of his oral cavity causes a moderate to severe impediment to his speech.
This usually means I have to ask him to repeat himself.
Given the oddity of the question "Do you get dung?", I knew this was one of those moments when clarification was needed.
"In your mouf."
After a bit of creative pantomime, I realized Timothy was referring to the act of French Kissing.
Conveniently, the delay in my understanding put off my having to answer the question long enough for me to throw it back upon him.
"Are you and your girlfriend French Kissing?" He was eating a cheeseburger, and when I asked him this question, he smiled broadly enough for me to see that he had recently taken a bite yet not begun to masticate it.
"Yes. It's pretty good. I like the way it tastes."
Professional objectivity aside, this statement made me feel icky in my tum-tum.
"Sometimes I do it on my sandwich."
"What?" I asked.
"When I eat my sandwich, I lick it all with my dung. I say, 'oh baby, Stacy." Stacy is his girlfriend.
He proceeded to show me what such a thing might look like, cupping the air with his hands to suggest a sandwich and then snarfling all round in it.
One must be so careful when discussing these things.
"Are you guys having sex?"
He smiled again.
"Yeah. Alot. With our clothes on. She does me and I do her."
Imagine you are passing me now, driving by me yet headed in the opposite direction. You peer into my dirty silver Honda Civic and see a chubby oldish man with sick, tired slits for eyes, gripping his steering wheel with white knuckles and staring only ahead. Next to him, in the passenger seat, a young, virile person with Down's Syndrome gyrates his pelvis into the air to better illustrate what sex between two people can look like.
This year is ending and I noticed lots of bloggers are writing posts with titles like "10 Christmas Gifts You Have to Have", "10 Naughty Christmas Gifts You Have to Have", and "Surprise! I'm Gayish!"
I fear I have no such gifts for you, my dwindling readers. Parumpy pum pum.
Other bloggers are writing things like "Here's my book!" or "I was nominated for best of something this year!"
But I cannot claim such things, oh loyal clingers-ons.
I can assure you, however, that Timothy and Stacey, it turns out, were only "going through the motions" of sexuality, and no clothing had been removed.
"Dry humpin'? You mean they just dry humpin'?"
Please don't say that to me anymore, Timothy's mother, please don't keep saying 'dry humpin' into your telephone. It is just...it just really makes me uncomfortable.
Every year, I get a few presents from the students. One year I got a really big spoon, which I rather liked, and last year someone gave me a mug with really old caramels in it. The caramels had sealed themselves to the bottom but the mug featured a lovely graphic of a porcupine giving a thumbs up and pronouncing, "Seasons Greetings!"
I got really drunk that night, pissed into the porcupine Christmas mug, and told all the world to go screw itself.
Just kidding. I am nowhere near that cool of a person.
Though, in college, one of my friends thought it would be a hilarious act to defecate into a mug and then leave the mug under someone's bed. It turns out that such a thing is not really too funny, but actually very smelly and regrettable.
In high school, I knew someone who defecated into a hot dog bun and tried to get someone to believe it was an actual hot dog and therefore consume it. No one was fooled because hot dogs, as they are, already have an uphill battle proving their appetizing qualities; one that smells like a dooker to boot is dead in the water.
That person is now a drug abuse counselor and is the lead rapper/keyboardist for a rap keyboard
The mug pooper is a financial planner living in Washington D.C.
People are coming back for Christmas and I dread the approach of reconnection.
The text will come: Back in town. Want to reconnect?
My wife will text back for me because my thumb pads are too beefy to effectively communicate via small buttons.
The person you are trying to reach is no longer using this phone.
They cannot talk because they are emotionally dead inside.
They are seeing therapy and cannot be friends.
They are me.
Merry Christmas, last vestiges of Gweenbrick fandom.