Tweet HBO recently announced that the network will reboot Real Sex, its human sexuality documentary series, in January. It's the year , you're going to a sleepover, and everything is weird all of the time because you're Your body is a monster, and other people are monsters, too. Adults, kids your own age, younger siblings—nope, no thanks. Basically you trust dogs, some cats, and the cafeteria aid who doesn't notice shit and loaned you a quarter for a soft pretzel that one time.
Every sleepover needs entertainment, and a sleepover doubling as a birthday party for a friend you've had since the third grade, even more so. It's in the bag. Literally in a backpack. The night just got Like, you grew up with a view of sex filtered through Monica Lewinsky, the movie Showgirls , and v. After video games and drinking soda you'll always remember as being Surge, because, why not, the tape comes out. You're huddled in a group around the basement TV. The volume is low.
The shag carpeting over the concrete is thick and smells vaguely of mildew. Without warning—dipshit dubbed Real Sex poorly and didn't record the title intro—you're in a regular type kitchen with two women opening a dishwasher filled with wobbling and dripping penises. They're khaki-colored, the dildos, like what you picture when you think of the word "Dockers.
You've been in kitchens like this many times in your life, with a sink positioned before a window that looks out into a yard, and with a counter where someone's parent makes the dinner. So it's a bit of a mindfuck, all these dildos coming out steaming from this familiar dishwasher. A blow job class for women the approximate age of your mother. That everyone at the sleepover realizes this at about the same time sends the group diving for the remote. And then the pile of sweaty hands on the same remote feels gay—remember middle school homophobia?
The blow job class speeds by. No lessons are learned and the damage is irreversible. This is not the Real Sex anyone bargained for.
This is so much weirder than what Health class prepared you for, which is of course what makes it real. There are lots of things two people can do to each other when they're naked, and you realize you only knew about, like, three of them. Aren't they worried about toe jam? Is this fluid bonding? And then the toe-sucking begins. Neither is the—holy Christ—erotic slam poetry jam, or the segment on people who like having their bodies smeared with wet food items. It wasn't supposed to be this way.
And yet some of the group will store a stray shot as masturbation material. Well, that one lady, before the baked beans hit her chest, she was pretty hot. Or maybe one of you realizes that this is your favorite thing, and so you'll forever have trouble keeping it together when you take a date to a soup-and-salad bar. Thank you, Real Sex, for unlocking this part of me that lots of people won't understand! These things will out themselves eventually.
And when you're a year-old virgin, before you've been with another human, you have no real way of knowing what you're into in the first place. It won't be until first lovers imprint themselves and their bodies and those early experiences on you that you'll gain any sense of what you like beyond what you can find on late-night cable. Right now, late-night is telling you about writhing in a baby pool slick with a liquid that might be runny pudding, but looks purple under the weird orgy lighting.
Greater unease about all these people and things you don't understand, more hormones. You don't know yourself, you don't know each other.
You could always ask someone if—nah, that would be too strange. Next year, HBO is going to do this all over again to a new generation of teens.