People are so weird about sex

“Sex is like glue, Jessica,” my mother said, demonstrating her point in the living room, after we arrived home. She held up two sheets of construction paper, the white presumably representative of me, and the red “your husband,” she said. With glue, she pressed the two sheets together and twisted her palms. When she pulled the sheets apart, a rip began in the middle and by the end, there were only tatters of paper abundant with holes, frayed red throughout. “See,” she said, holding up the sheets proudly, “bloodied, damaged and destroyed.” I was horrified.

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