So I mentioned before that my Dad tried to have The Talk with me once, during a road trip to Toronto. Lets step back a bit and see exactly where I got the fruit of knowledge.

I learned about the mechanics of sex from a series of books so cleverly left out in the upper hallway bookshelf for all to see. It was similar to a collection of encyclopedias (really thin encyclopedias) that if my siblings caught me looking at, I would endure days of ribbing and head-knookies. Each tome touching on certain physicality of sexuality such as “Your Body”, “Romance & Love” and “The Act of Creating a Baby” or some such titles. The 5 or 6 books in total were called “Your Health Yourself” or something. The title evades me, but I vividly remember the pink/blue colour scheme and trippy, almost “Joy of Sex” style illustrations. As I type this, I just now realize that maybe my parents left them there for us to leaf through without hiding them or without comment to avoid talking about sex with us. Which is cool, by my standards, because they did try.

These books were where I started to suspect something was up with me. While there was no mention of homosexuality anywhere in the books, I can remember going through a mental checklist of all the things that were happening to me as an adolescent …and coming up short on a couple points.

The book mentioned the arrival of “Pubic hair” …Can’t wait!

The book foretold “Zits” …Gross, but oddly excited about it!

And then the book dropped the prophetical “the desire for female companionship and dating”. …Uh?

One particular passage insisted that I would start to invest more interest in girls and would want to spend more time with them. I remember sitting, staring at that particular part and delving deep into myself and coming up empty every time. Nope. No feelings there. Then I would scoot over to the line drawings of penises. Penii?

I would hunt out other books too, like a particularly odd passage in Peter Benchley’s Jaws, where the lead character takes what his wife thinks is an abnormally long piss, bathroom door open while holding a conversation. Now, I don’t have a yellow hankie fetish but at the time I was fascinated by that part and would re-read it often. Partially because of the thought of a man airing his beans and sausage and because of the total lack of privacy the character seemed not to need while peeing. In a house of 5 kids brought up Catholic, to urinate without being shy was beyond imagination. I also recall a book that lived in our TV room for the longest time I think called “The Grizzly” or “The Bear” (an obvious pulpy Jaws rip off from the 70s) where in one chapter, the author describes a woman attempting to make love to a near-tamed bear with disastrous results. But the greatest, most obvious book that formed my emerging sexuality was discovered while wandering downtown Toronto on one of my father’s business trips. I discovered the Sexuality section of the World’s Biggest Bookstore and their copy of “The Joys of Gay Sex”. My mind was blown. I couldn’t afford it and if I could, I doubt I would have had the charcoal-drawn cahones to even attempt the transaction. So I spent many an hour reading it while keeping a sharp eye out for meddling shop clerks.

I would later on encounter “The Joy of Gay Sex” tome when my father left it on the kitchen counter for me. Suggested reading when he learned that I was going to a gay club in a near by city… “Just to dance!” I would explain.