You owe it to your child

My Journey or Why I Wish My Parents Had Readied Me To Face Puberty

Learn from my experience

Can any of us forget the hell that went hand in hand with puberty?

For a naïve thirteen-year-old, the transition from childhood innocence to adolescence was fraught with danger. For me, puberty was when I experienced loneliness, traveling alone without a map to guide me. I imagined myself as a soldier, making my way through an enemy minefield on a pitch-black night.

I suppose it sounds cruel and ungrateful to criticize my parents for their shortcomings, but that’s how it was. They never prepared me for puberty. I guess my dad thought I’d learn about sex in the schoolyard, likely as he had. Put bluntly, my parents were as helpful as tits on a bull regarding sex education. They were oblivious to what was happening to their little boy.

But that’s how it was back then, and I was just one more confused teenager.

I’ll admit to being perplexed when staring into the bedroom mirror. I saw the gradual transformation of the boy I’d known all my life. Gradually he was becoming a stranger, someone bearing only a vague resemblance to the old me. Perhaps my passion for ghoulish horror movies hadn’t helped. I’d watched Invasion of the body snatchers, and it was my body being snatched. Too much imagination?

Worst of all was the bathroom with its all-seeing mirror. Every morning I’d stand in front of it, searching for the latest imperfections that had erupted overnight. It magnified my reflection, homing in on each new defect.

I saw myself turning into potato man, a budget version mainly consisting of the left-over bits from an old toy. Worse still were the zits. Masses of the little motherfuckers that moved in, turning my unblemished rosy cheeks into fly-infected peaches. They ended up resembling the lunar surface, cratered and ugly. Worst of all, the potato man’s nose resembled a massive overripe strawberry.

The effect on my fragile teenage psyche was cataclysmic. The body snatchers had taken control, and I was becoming an alien monster I didn’t recognize.

My body wasn’t the original I’d been born with and become attached to. The changes were happening overnight. Bits had moved, changing size and shape, with one specific part growing far too big for comfort. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d begun sprouting hair, and I’m not talking about the stuff you’re okay to comb in public.

By now, you’ll be thinking that the young me had to be one of the dumbest kids on the block. Which is valid. I was when it came to puberty.

I was too much of an introvert. You could count my friends on the one hand, and it pissed me off that they were as naïve as me about adolescence.

Naturally, I knew that men had hair down there. I mean, down below. But, for some ridiculous reason, I’d thought it didn’t apply to me. I wasn’t stupid. I guess I’d expected to remain hairless into my old age because I didn’t want to be hairy like other men.

I hated admitting it, but I realized I was neurotic at thirteen. So acute was that neurosis that I fixated on the changes. One morning, when Mum and Dad were out, leaving me with the house to myself, I reached a decision. The time had come to put an end to my torment.

So far as I can recollect, Dad had always shaved with an electric. Two weeks earlier, his birthday present from mum had been a brand-new razor. I found the device in the bathroom, and I was in business.

I blamed my lack of success on a faulty razor. With the wisdom of experience, I learned that you must trim the hair with scissors before completing any deforestation. With the stubbornness that comes with youth, I wasn’t deterred by my failure. However, my second attempt was postponed when Dad sent his new razor for repair — twice. A year later, he replaced it with another one. By then, I’d been forced to move on and tackle another problem.

Mum and dad were proud of me because I was in the church choir.

In our house, religion was a big deal. This was significant because our church had a reputation for its choral excellence. More importantly, I’d been granted the privilege of singing a solo at the Christmas Day service. Knowing how proud my mum and dad were during the weeks leading up to the big day, my anxiety levels skyrocketed. By Christmas morning, my insides had become a blubbering mess. But I was determined to be a pro, or as they say in theatre; “the show must go on”.

Imagine the church. All seats were taken, and latecomers were forced to stand wherever they could find an unoccupied space. The minister began the processional down the center aisle, with me walking a little behind him. I spotted the beaming faces of my parents, plus my little sister, who was sticking her tongue out at me. For an eight-year-old, she could be so childish!

Beginning my solo as we’d entered through the church’s front door, I’d sung the first verse. It was perfect, and I was so happy, not to mention relieved. For once in my life, I’d made them proud!

Once in Royal David’s city

Stood a lowly cattle shed.

Etc

By the end of the verse, it had met expectations, and I was flying high. Then, without any warning, puberty struck mid-solo. My balls had dropped with a dull thud and what ought to have been a sweet treble rendition of the hymn became an adlib impression of a choirboy strangling a frog. Mind you, I did get a few bits right.

My parents were in their pew, with their heads turned and gazes directed straight at me. But they were no longer smiling, and I didn’t have a suitable vocabulary to describe their expressions.

My parents waited for me at the vestry door when the ordeal was over. Not for them a place in the queue at the front entrance where the congregation was backing up. Christmas morning was when our minister insisted on a personal greeting for every parishioner. The scene lacked one prop to achieve its greatest dramatic effect. Dad should have had a blanket to throw over my head to hide my identity as we escaped. It was the worst Christmas ever. Trust me when I tell you that I can recall plenty of stinkers in our household.

For months after, we kept receiving the newsletter from our old church. There was no mention of the debacle, and that surprised me. It had been the most exciting event in the otherwise dull church calendar. But the humiliation had been too much.

Mum and Dad decided it was time to worship at another church and chose one without a choir. I wasn’t surprised. At last, I had my choir practice nights to myself.

No longer the engaging boy soprano, attending the new church changed everything. My dad warned me in no uncertain terms that I was to mime the hymns’ words. I was not to attempt to sing them under any circumstances. I often wonder if Josh Groban suffered the same humiliations brought on by his puberty as I did. I somehow doubt it.

I’ll confess that, reaching fourteen, I felt all grown up. My birthday present from Mum and Dad even confirmed that. Tearing away the paper wrapping from my present, I discovered my first-ever electric shaver. It was a different brand than what mum had bought for dad. If anyone reading this is curious, I cared for my new razor. I made no more attempts at giving myself a Brazilian. I was reconciled to living with pubic hair attached to my nether regions.

Remember, I was fourteen and still learning what my teenage body was capable of. Would any teenage lad willingly admit to the cause of the stains on his sheets? Loading them into the washer myself saved the embarrassment of discovery. My mum thought I was just a good son eager to help. Little did she know!

I was equally diligent about flushing my used tissues down the toilet. It avoided awkward questions such as why were they stuck together? Worse still would have been a heart-to-heart with Dad. It was too late for that, and it would be so friggin embarrassing for both of us. I can already hear the reader muttering in an impatient tone of voice, What the f..k has that got to do with the new minister? The sad fact is that it had everything to do with it for this poor sap.

I never thought much about sex until my fourteenth birthday.

There was one encounter with a girl at my school. She offered to kiss me — and I was curious enough to say yes. There’d been no hints. In fact, there was zero subtlety of any kind with her approach. Afterward, you’d have sworn that a single kiss was enough for her to fear that pregnancy was a distinct possibility. Hence the urgency of signing me up as her official boyfriend. I was dumb enough to say yes, and we lasted two whole weeks.

Her kiss had done nothing for me, and for the first time, I think I admitted that there was something different about me. Sadly, knowing it and accepting it were two very different things.

And then there was my cousin. Every year I’d stay with the family for two or three weeks during the summer holidays. It was a perfect arrangement, what with the beach being a bus ride away and the forest a five-minute walk.

You’d think that by now, the passing of years would have somehow diminished the memory of those summertime treats. They haven’t, and I still manage a few goosebumps when I recall them.

As the reader, you need to understand my uncle and aunt. They were a working-class family with three daughters and two sons. My aunt attempted to team me up with my older cousin. I imagine she thought we’d have more in common. He played water polo and football — and he liked girls, which showed how little she knew about me.

I had more in common with my younger cousin. The two of us shared a huge double bed so soft that you sank into it.

My uncle worked a night shift, which meant that we’d suffer eviction from the house until teatime each day so that he could sleep. That’s how aunty and uncle liked it, only catching sight of us at breakfast and dinner. It was an arrangement that allowed Eddy and me the freedom to take our bikes and explore.

Each night the pair of us would climb into bed, and with the light out, we undertook explorations of a very different kind. Didn’t all boys play husband and wife with their younger male cousins?

Also unusual was how we played more advanced games like doctor and patient. There were games where in-depth physical exploration was the norm. I’m happy my cousin and I did our medical training. It was a perfect distraction from our ongoing puberty. Perhaps those exciting nights prepared us for the day we’d emerge as men.

Sunday approached, and we headed to our new church with my face freshly shaved and suitably dabbed with the aftershave that my grandmother had bought me. Usually, a Sunday morning service wouldn’t garner much enthusiasm, but it was the new minister’s debut. His arrival and the accompanying gossip meant that the place was abuzz with excitement.

By then, my naivety had been well and truly tested. Dealing with God on reaching thirteen or fourteen is as much a case of God dealing with my so-called sins. Innocence has been replaced by Eve’s apple tree sporting a big sign inviting you to EAT Me. I know the thrill she probably got when she took her first bite.

But I’ve digressed. I was telling you about the new minister’s arrival.

The church was packed, and the only pews unoccupied when we arrived were the front rows. We’d been avoiding them in case anyone heard my singing. Mum and Dad were as paranoid as ever after the great Christmas processional disaster.

But that morning, there was a buzz of excitement while we all waited to meet our new minister for the first time.

The rumor was that he was young because he was fresh from the seminary. I must have been the only one in the church who wasn’t wetting my jocks with excitement. Seen one, you’ve seen them all, was my opinion regarding the clergy. Besides, tell me what was sexy about a man parading around in a black and white frock. Barely five minutes went by, and then he appeared.

Unfortunately, my beating heart stole my attention away from my real problem. My heart was pounding so fast that I panicked for fear that I might be having a heart attack. A coronary at fourteen, such a tragedy.

In the space of two minutes, I’d had an erection. It was not so unusual, as it was almost a permanent state by then. But that time, it was different because, apart from anything else, my dad had seen it. In fact, it was so evident that it was unmissable, and before long, the new minister, standing opposite me, would cop an eyeful.

I really wasn’t after attention. Honestly, it was a freak accident.

My dick had weathered puberty better than the rest of me and had grown so much that, playing any compulsory school sport, I had no choice but to wear a jockstrap.

Perhaps I ought to have worn it to church? As I said just before, it was an accident. I’d started wearing bikini briefs because they allowed me more freedom, and just before we left home, I’d gone for a pee.

Unexpectedly our new minister smiled at me. His smile was the best I’d ever seen from a man in drag. As luck would have it, he’d stood in front of us, and I had the opportunity to check out some essentials. Firstly, he was tall, and he had big hands. That had to be a promising sign, or so I hoped. Then there was his mouth. For some reason, I’d begun paying extra attention to mouths. Maybe it was my youthful imagination thinking about what you could do with them.

He’d been standing for maybe five minutes, addressing the congregation and thanking them for their warm welcome. Then, without meaning to, I made the choir solo disaster pale to insignificance the moment he looked straight at me. I’d been unaware of the personal, extra warm welcome I’d been giving him until I followed his gaze and saw the obscene bulge. It was threatening to burst the fly of my best trousers.

Back home my little sister had come flying into the bathroom, I’d been flustered. Not wanting her to get an eyeful of her brother’s tackle, I’d rushed to tuck it back into my briefs.

The problem was that it wasn’t inside my briefs but hanging free to put it crudely. Friction was rousing it from its slumber. By then, I had the attention of the minister, mum and dad, and my little sister. They were all staring at my predicament, which wasn’t helped by my sister. The echo of her childish shrieks and cackles resounded throughout the tiny church.

Later that night, preparing for bed, I mulled over the day’s events and reached earth-shattering conclusions. The first one was acknowledging that my puberty was, well, and frigging truly over. The second was admitting to myself that I was gay. The third was that I was in love with the new minister. Lastly, I reflected on my religious experiences, beginning with the Christmas processional.

Looking back, I didn’t have a good track record. It didn’t take a genius to see that. It would upset mum, but it would make sense if I avoided churches for the foreseeable future, leastways until I’d learned to control myself.