Mrs. Moser and the Sex-ed Class

I've told an abbreviated version of this true story in the comments section of a few blogs, but I'd like to expand on it here.

When I was in sixth grade, Mrs. Moser's class was "taught" sex education in two hours; two horrible, frightening hours. Mrs. Moser, our teacher, was about a week away from the century mark and had shrunk three full inches from September till May. She was a tiny, mean-spirited gnome who may have dated Hitler back in the old country. Someone told me they saw her at the grocery store smoking a corn-cob pipe, but I don't know if that was true. What I do know is absolute fact is the bitch was crazy, and not excentric crazy but straightjacket voices in her head crazy.

Once she told us if we were quiet the rest of the day we'd get to eat lunch at McDonald's on the following Friday. When you're a kid, there is nothing better than eating McDonald's on school time. All we had to do was keep our mouths shut for another hour, and kid nirvana was ours. The dream ended when Mrs. Moser feigned having a heart attack. She clutched at her chest and fell to the ground. When we all started screaming and leaping from our seats to help her, she jumped up and said we'd broken our promise and weren't going to McDonald's. That's right, she pretended to drop dead and when we expressed concern, not for a second believing an adult role model would lie about such a thing, we were screamed at and punished. That Friday I sat in the cafeteria eating fish sticks, each disappointing bite a bitter reminder of Mrs. Moser's all-encompassing insanity.

Against the backdrop of being cripplingly afraid of a midget on the cusp of death, listening to a boring sex education lecture didn't sound so bad. I have never been more wrong in my life. The first thing they did was separate the girls from the boys. The girls went to the auditorium, ostensibly to see a filmstrip, but I was convinced they went off to have a top secret tickle and pillow fight while stripped down to their bras and panties. The boys were sent to a large room and introduced to a doctor, who happened to be our principal's physician. The principal introduced him, made a lame joke about not wanting to "cramp our style" and left the room.

The doctor stood up. The first words out of his mouth were, "So, who here has seen an actual pussy?"
The liars and sister-gazers raised their hands while I had to sell my soul to the devil not to shit my pants.
"The pussy," the shock doc continued, "is where you put your dick when you're fucking a girl."

Right now my five regular readers, who know I'm a foul-mouthed prankster, are convinced I'm making this up, but I'm not. It happened.

I sat there for two hours in absolute shock as "dick", "tits", "cocksucker", "fuck" and a few words that were pretty offensive steamrolled out of the doctor's mouth. I had heard adults talk like that before, but they were mostly unwashed carny folk and slack-jawed hill people. This was an educated man.

I didn't live my childhood in seclusion; I knew these words. I needed the clinical terms. Those I didn't know. Too bad this medical professional was less interested in teaching than appearing cool in front of a bunch of kids.

The next day, when Mrs. Moser ripped the textbook from my hands, tossed it across the room, and then made me go get it, I just smiled. At least the word "cunt" didn't come from her mouth.