S-E-X, Private Body Parts, and Other Perils Braved by Prudish Writers
November 27, 2019 § 24 Comments
By Kim Hinson
When I belly up to my computer to write about certain spicy procreation events it becomes an all out, downright puritanical pickle.
I blame it on my mom. Of course I do. And you would, too.
My Victorian sensibilities started at our live-in gas station, in my childhood (of course), with my mother’s straitlaced, spur-of-the-moment description of childbirth. A feisty, lipsticky customer named Tina stopped by the station a few days after she’d given birth to her eighth child and couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d named that new baby. Later that day, Mama, my five-year-old little sister Dawn, and I sat in the car waiting for Daddy to join us so we could drive Hansen’s Truck Stop for supper. Into the silence, Mama said, “That Tina. She just had her eighth baby and she can’t even remember what she named it.”
Little Dawn immediately piped up, “Where do babies come from anyway?”
I barely breathed for listening. Seven years old and happily ignorant, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t like the answer. There was a tiny, pregnant silence while Mama’s librarian brain zipped through the card catalog in her mind. She gazed through the windshield at the night sky darkening over our backyard junkyard and said breezily, “Oh, they come from down there.”
My face froze in horror, and Dawn said, “Wait. What!? Like where exactly down there?”
Mama gave a little cough. “There’s a little hole near where you pee,” she said, getting as close as she’d ever come to saying an actual private body part word. Without waiting for more questions, she leaned forward and flicked the car radio on to the only station we knew—KFIL True Country Radio—and cranked the volume way, way up. Little Jimmy Dickens cut loose with May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose and I sang along as loud as I could.
To my shame (but also a great deal of relief), I never talked to any of my three daughters about s-e-x. I don’t say that word, and I don’t put that word down in Scrabble, even if the x lands on triple letter and the whole dang word scores quadruple points. Raised in Minnesota, land of Lutherans, soybean farmers, and conversations that consist entirely of beating around the bush, I just don’t.
Flash forward forty years, to the day my nineteen-year-old daughter, Megan, wanted to start a horse breeding business. A horse breeding business that involved something called “in-hand breeding.”
Swept up in Megan’s enthusiasm, and deeply content with my innocent mindset, it never even occurred to me to say, “Wait. What is in hand!?” My Internet research on in-hand breeding turned up more mentions of private body-part words than I’d seen in my whole life. Well, I thought. This could be awkward. I don’t say private body-part words. I don’t even whisper them to myself. Like a silent but powerful family tradition, my people keep private things private. I’d certainly never asked Megan if she knew anything about it. Because that would involve talking about…“it.”
Then again, this was about horses. Surely this was different. A few months earlier we’d had a baby miniature horse born on our Texas farm just by-golly out of the blue. Nothing to it. We saw nothing. We knew nothing. Like immaculate and invisible conception. Just the way I liked it.
And then I became a writer. I knew the in-hand breeding escapade made for a hilarious story, and I knew I wanted to write about it. But, the instant my fingers hovered above the keyboard, I faced the most priggish of predicaments: How could I write about an activity that involved several private body parts and all the various private activities involving those body parts in a modest, respectable, yet comical way?
So, like a good writer, I turned to books for guidance and genteel examples.
Frank McCourt, in Angela’s Ashes, chose a couple of vaguely descriptive terms which, when read in context, clearly represented the particular body part in question. McCourt’s first word choice, “boyo,” is short, informal, and almost amiable. The expressions “my excitement” and “the excitement,” came next, representing not just a particular body part, but also the proceedings involving said body part. Sadly, none of these cheery terms quite fit my own writing voice, so I moved on to the next book.
Anne Lamott, in Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year, had obviously faced a similar dilemma when writing about her son’s circumcision. She resolved the issue brilliantly by writing, “I was scared…that I had, after all, made the wrong decision and now…he would need emergency surgery on his wienie” (24). Now this I liked! Thank you Anne Lamott for such an absolutely cute, yet meaningful and even accurate word choice! It also turns out that we have a choice of spellings: wienie or weenie.
Giddy with relief, I pulled myself together to write the in-hand breeding story, cheerfully adopting the word “weenie” to reference our stallion’s…weenie. My writing group, upon hearing me read my piece, snorted, guffawed, clutched their stomachs and all but fell off their chairs laughing. They wheezed and gasped things like, “Just…NO!” and “Don’t!” and “You can’t!” They couldn’t stop laughing, which, for me, is the exact reaction I’m shooting for every time. Still, for a variety of reasons, they didn’t think I should use the word “weenie.”
Thankfully, Lamott chose a couple of other words that filled the bill modesty-wise and also felt right to me voice-wise: Unit and missile. I used them both as follows:
“…wedging Mercury [our stallion] next to the pipe fence with her shoulder, she reached down and took ahold of his hyper-enthusiastic unit. Well, that certainly brought Mercury around.”
“Mercury reared up, feet planted firmly in the gravel, towering over us. But the mission was darn near impossible. There was the missile. And there was the target. But there was way too much water, and all the vital body parts were far too slippery.”
Anyway, like I said, it’s my mom’s fault. All I could do as a mature, grownup writer was to develop coping mechanisms to, well, to cope with the brunt of the backlash of this puritanical skeleton in my family’s underwear drawer.
To prudish writers everywhere: My therapist says it’s not our fault. You’re welcome.
Kim Hinson is an outside-loving, forever optimistic, yet chronically worried writer, professor, and mother of three daughters. Find out more about Kim at http://kimhinson.com and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/KimHinsonAuthor
This REALLY resonated with me! Puritanical is a pejorative word to which I freely plead guilty, but in mitigation m’lud I would offer an alternative ‘fastidious’? The words in English for anything sexual are vulgar. The Indians do it better with their ‘yoni’ and their lingam’ Both sound affectionate, and give the body parts more that the status of unfortunate ‘parts’!
Oh! I love the Indian terms! And you’re so right—they sound adorable, lovable, and affectionate all at the same time. Thank you for sharing!
Loved! Thanks for the laugh today.
You’re so very welcome, Emmy. I’m glad it made you laugh!
“I don’t say that word, and I don’t put that word down in Scrabble, even if the X lands on triple letter, and the whole dang word scores quadruple points.”
Love this! I have yet to write a graphic sex scene in all my writing, and wonder from your article how I’d handle it. Thanks for a great start to the day.
🙂 Thank you Marilyn! It’s a tricky subject, so if this helped you in any way that makes me soooo happy 🙂
Hilarious. I’m forever torn between my very conservative religious background (still in the foreground) and the writerly voice that knows that the, uh, procreational stuff makes for the funniest writing. Still wrestling. Happy for you that you figured out a neat line to walk.
Dearest Conflicted, I’m with you! Not in the physical sense, of course! Heaven forbid! I wish you such good luck with your wrestling and pray you’ll figure it out in some hilarious, yet genteel, writerly way :-).
LOL! This was hilariously realistic to all too many! I can’t say any body parts were ever mentioned in the house I grew up in (not to say that they were not in evidence, oy … but that’s another story), and it took some deliberate decisions to make words fit anatomy once I grew up. Fortunately, I’ve no issue utilizing anatomical designations in conversation, though I can pretty much sense my mom cringe if she’d ever read them in my writings … 🙂
Very fun, I’m so glad you could relate 🙂 Happy, happy that it made you LOL 🙂
🙂 It did indeed … 🙂
This made me laugh. It’s funny, I can be NOT a prude in my real life, chatting with girlfriends and stuff, but then freeze when I sit down at the keyboard. Anyway, thanks for this morning’s chuckle.
Aww, thank you Priscilla. I’m soooo glad it made you laugh and you’re so very welcome for the morning chuckle 🙂
Such a terrific tale and so resonant for those of us who struggle to write about sex.
Thank you for your kind words Elisabeth :-). That’s what keeps me writing 🙂
Thanks, Kim. I love the scene in the car. Let’s hear it for intrepid sisters!
You’re so welcome John! And, wowzer, that scene in the car! It came to me in the middle of the night after a workshop leader had begged me to please examine where my prudish-ness came from. I got the silent giggles, remembering that little scene, tears just streaming down my face. Yay for my intrepid little sister!
This couldn’t have come at a better time for me. It describes my dilemma perfectly. I recall that when I was a child I came across several vinyl record sleeves that had been defaced by either my mother or my aunts because the artists were revealing cleavage! Thanks for the laughter!
Awww, I’m so glad this came at a great time for you! And you’re so welcome for the laughter…that’s my big goal every time 🙂
Not only a thought-provoking article, the thought of calling a horse’s “unit,” a wienie is beyond hilarious.
Hi Luanne! Oh! You just made my day! I finally made it to BH ~ Beyond Hilarious! Yay! Funnily, when I had my tough, Texas husband read the draft with “wienie” he snorted a laugh for the first time ever when reading my stuff (he’s looking for mistakes so says he has to remain serious). So when he finally, actually laughed, I thought, “Yay! I’m definitely going to use “wienie”!!” But even he said, “No, no, no. You can’t use wienie.” HA! I’m glad I included that I at least considered it so I could move to Beyond Hilarious 🙂 Thank you!
You did it!!!! LOL!
Reblogged this on Keeps No Day-Book of the Days and commented:
This reminds me of how many people I actually knew or know who artificially inseminated cows. All those years at USDA and those live births at the fair… sex in the city rings far more true.
Oh! Your comment just reminded me—the dad of one of my friends growing up in the middle of nowhere Minnesota did artificial insemination! I’d completely forgotten! Memories… 🙂