So you can imagine my surprise when he finally decided to address the issue—when I was 27 years old. It’s too late now.” My father’s brown eyes widened. We spent the next four days pretending our conversation never happened.

Sex chating betwen mother and son-81

The worst came from my friend Chester, whose father used a hot dog, a bun, and a bottle of ketchup as props to demonstrate how babies were made. All I wanted was to get back to the house, pour myself a giant glass of spiked eggnog and forget this whole conversation ever happened. “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” poured from the car’s speakers.

If Chester’s experience was any indication, I knew I was in trouble. Perhaps he was too embarrassed, or he assumed I learned it in school. “I realize that sex isn’t a joke,” I said, “but I’m 27 years old.” “What’s that got to do with anything? I watched the houses go by as the music pervaded the vehicle, filling the space between my father and I that, with each passing year, seemed to grow ever wider.

I’m not sure—frankly, as a teenager, all that mattered to me was that the conversation never take place. When I graduated from high school and we still hadn’t discussed the birds and the bees, I assumed I was in the clear. ” “This conversation should have happened, like, a decade ago, Dad. We spent the next 15 minutes or so in complete silence, the tension in the car almost palpable, before arriving back at the house, which looked smaller than I remembered.

Any time I do something to piss off my mother, she accuses me of being like my dad. ” she’ll scream, as though she bears no responsibility for my existence.

But in many ways, I confess, I am very similar to my father: We share the same appreciation for vinyl records, the same distaste for green olives, the same receding hairline, and the same ability to drive my mother crazy.

We’re also both horrible at communicating with each another.

As a teenager, I knew that any time my father suggested we “go for a drive,” it really meant he wanted to talk about something serious.

Over the years, I suffered countless agonizing father-son chats in his blue Pontiac Sunbird.

The topics ranged from puberty and to my parents’ break-up to the suicide of our family dog, Brady—who killed himself by leaping down a flight of stairs.