The first time I saw boobs I was watching the movie “Stripes” in the basement of the house I grew up in.  I was probably 5-years-old, more or less, and I was laying on the floor in front of the TV, my mom on the couch behind me.  I don’t know who else was there, but I remember the women’s shower scene perfectly, when the idiot lieutenant was peeping on them with a spyglass.  My mom said, "Aimee, close your eyes."  I did not. Would I ever have those?  Gross. I hoped not.

So imagine, here I am walking on the Venice boardwalk, wearing the product of sex in a carrier on my chest.  My son proclaims that I'm no prude.  I've had sex.  There, I said it.  Guess what, all you ultra conservative anti-sex advocates out there – babies come from sex.  And Venice Beach … it exudes sex.  From all angles.  No pun intended.

My 5-year-old, mid-western self would have been in absolute heaven, had she seen Venice Beach at that age.  There are boobs everywhere.  And butts and bushes and cocks and teeth and hair and tans and beautiful, ugly, stinky people up to my ears.  Sitting on the grass near a tattoo parlor is the most beautiful homeless man I've ever seen.  His bright blue eyes stand out against his tanned torso.  He is a snake charmer, a magician, a fairy in disguise, waiting to pull me into his clutches.  He would fit right in at a Grateful Dead show, among the twirling nomads and nitrous tanks.  I reminisce, and stroll.

I imagine my son at five, looking around the jewelry shop that I'm browsing.  Not only jewelry, but also percussion instruments made out of gourds, incense, carvings.  Would he stare with fascination at the carved, wooden mermaid with huge jugs?  I stare myself, so I'm sure the answer is yes.  What happens to kids when they see a statue of a chimp fondling his gigantic erection?  What happens to me?

I remember the embarrassment I felt when, at my Aunt Carol's (who wasn't really my aunt, but my mom's cousin, I think) two dogs started humping in front of everyone at the barbecue.  The adults drank their Budweiser and laughed while someone got the hose.  Is that what I'll do, when my boy goes to Venice Beach and sees the T-Shirts proclaiming "Sex Instructor:  First Lesson Free"?  Shake my head and eat my corn dog with no further explanation?  Hopefully, he'll look at me with questioning eyes, and I'll say, "We should ask your dad what that means.  Now let's go get a Snow-Cone."

BB

FINDING SEX

by Aimee Willis

photo by Ethan J. Antonucci