I had my first orgasm when I was eighteen. You might wonder what took me so long. I’m sure all the other guys blew their first load way before then. I liked women just fine—their beautiful hair and faces. The internet didn’t exist yet, but I’d seen their wonderful boobs and curves in magazines and liked what I saw. I was drawn to them like a magnet. The problem wasn’t a lack of interest on my part. I blame my education.

Sex ed in school taught me the mechanics but fell short when it came to practicalities. Take orgasms, for example. They told us orgasms happen when you’re married to a woman and you want to make a baby. They never once mentioned masturbation, so the idea that I might make myself have an orgasm never occurred to me. They told me about intercourse, too, for all the good it did. They said you put your penis in her vagina, and you have an orgasm. I didn’t even know I’d have to rub it in and out. They never told us that.

My parents didn’t help. I can’t even picture them having sex. How they brought me into the world is anyone’s guess. I’ll wager immaculate conception.

It simply took me a while to figure things out. Maybe I’m just a slow learner.

Here’s how I got my education.

* * *

It was the middle of summer, right after I’d graduated. I still remember the buzz of locusts high in the neighborhood trees. I had a friend down the street, Jason, and I walked over to his house with a basketball under my arm, hoping to play pickup in his driveway. I didn’t bother with a t-shirt, not when it was that hot.

In my neighborhood, everybody’s house had nasty little aluminum frame screen doors. I hated knocking on them because it sounded like beating the crap out of a garbage can. Instead I shielded my eyes, pressed my face against the screen, and announced myself.

“Hey Jason. Wanna play pickup?”

When my eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight, I saw his sister Julia laying on the couch reading a book. A tight white t-shirt, hiked up to expose her midriff, barely contained her breasts. Two tanned legs seemed to burst out of her faded cutoffs.

Julia was home from college for the summer. I’d known her for years. She used to walk to school with Jason and me when we were kids. When I started to learn guitar, she taught me some basics, and I still remember her arm around me, teaching me how to finger chords. But I’d never thought about her in a sexual way. She was a year older than me and seemed out of my league.

“Oh! Hey Michael,” she said, tucking a lock of her shoulder-length black hair behind an ear. She told me their mom just took Jason to the dentist and wouldn’t be back for a while.

I turned to leave, and as I was walking down their front steps, I heard that flimsy screen door opening behind me.

“Hey! You want some lemonade?”

Man, that sounded good. She held the door open.