Judy Dykstra-Brown says it all in this poem. I was always told not to bring any ‘trouble’ home. It wasn’t until I got to about 16 that I realised what my mother was going on about! When I was at school, chastity was the norm, and girls who boasted about having sex were regarded as tarts. Now all morals and self-control have gone out the window, and girls just take the contraceptive pill and do what they wilt. The NHS STD and obstetric/gynaecology clinics have to pick up the pieces when it all goes wrong.
It’s a rite of passage. At the beginning of the chase,
we make do with kisses all about the face
with our mother’s staunchest warnings that we should wage a war
to maintain our chastity as in days of yore.
But TV is an oasis of fleshy predilections,
a veritable manual of “how to” sex directions.
Add to that the internet and to our folks’ remorse,
we can view every possible form of intercourse.
No more that gentle manual slipped into our hand
by an embarrassed mother whose speech is neatly canned—
birds and bees and butterflies, instructions prettified—
that certain code of etiquette that could not be defied.
So the twenty-first century deals with acts of love,
presented not with gentle push, but with a mighty shove.
Leave the loving out of it. The act is what we’re after.
Forget the gentle wooings, the tenderness and laughter.
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