Let's talk about sex, kiddies

Ndumiso Ngcobo remembers being a horny teen, with hormones surging through every vein of his gangly, ill-proportioned body — and knows his kids are just the same

Kelly locks eyes with Joe. She walks over to him and declares breathlessly, "Oh Joe, I knew you would come back to me eventually." They look deep into each other's eyes for what seems like an eternity.

The first bars of Peabo Bryson's If Ever You're in My Arms Again come on and they rush into a passionate embrace before locking lips hungrily ...

Ok, calm down. This is not my foray into teenage soft erotica. What I have just described was a common scene in one of the first daytime soaps in the mid-'80s: Santa Barbara.

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As a horny teen, with hormones surging through every vein in my gangly, ill-proportioned body with the force of the Albert Falls, I used to look forward to these scenes. There was only one problem. Both my Granny Margaret and my Aunt Ndingilizi were also ardent fans.

When I was watching alone, as soon as I heard the first bars of If Ever You're in My Arms Again I knew what was about to go down. So I'd concentrate carefully to get a good look at how Joe puckered up to get a grip on Kelly's lips. But when my gogo and auntie were in the same room, I'd start panicking as soon as the song started.

I'd shift uneasily on the couch and start rubbing the back of my neck. Then I'd execute a long, unconvincing fake yawn with arms outstretched exaggeratedly before feigning a coughing fit. Aunt Ndingilizi, sensing my unease and need to escape, would help me out.

"Maybe you need to go drink some water?" I would leap out of the couch faster than Usain Bolt at the Olympics.

I talked to my friends Sandile and Sabelo about it. The problem, we agreed, fell in the "damned if you do, damned if you don't" category. If you stayed and watched, feigning innocence, things would get really awkward for everyone in the room.

If you got up and left, it meant you knew something about sex, hence the escape. And as everyone knows, parents don't ever acknowledge that their children are sexual.

It's total BS, of course. By the time I was five, I was already playing a game we called umasgcosi. It was essentially playing house, with a twist. Thandaza, the oldest girl in these games on my street, would pair off a boy and a girl as umakoti nomkhwenyana (bride and groom).

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Every couple would then have to hold hands, and if you were bold you even stole a kiss from your makoti. And then Thandaza would choose one of the boys to be the "father" of this dysfunctional family. They would disappear into a nearby maize field to "do it". No man; not really. By "it", I mean gyrating against each other with their clothes on.

Our folks never acknowledged that they knew what we were up to. I think there was a collective, mammoth, unspoken effort to turn a blind eye to it. Surely this is a game that had been passed down through the years? No?

In any case, there was always some goody-two-shoes tattletale who went and blabbed about how Samke and Sphiwe were "doing it" in the mealie field above Mkhulu Sokhela's house, prompting a witch-hunt for the rest of the culprits.

This is when I would join my best friends Thiza and Phillip in our own version of MK recruits crossing the border into neighbouring "Lesotho". We'd hide until sunset in a gorge separating Mpumalanga township and Mophela, before returning home just in time for the evening bath and supper.

I was reflecting on this the other day when one of the midgets wandered in while I was watching a re-run of the US series The Affair. I was so engrossed that I forgot to tell him to bugger off and go play his Minecraft elsewhere. No sooner had he settled down than things started heating up on the screen. I shifted uneasily.

Mrs N and I consider ourselves to be realistic parents about sex; I had "the talk" with each of the midgets after they turned seven. But, as Noah Solloway started disrobing, I squirmed. Every time I have the talk I explain that sex is not "dirty" at all.

But I also stress that it is not appropriate for them to consume any sex acts online or on television. So what to do, Ndumiso? Think fast! What could I ask him to fetch from the bedroom?

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Just then, the most curious thing happened. The midget stretched out his arms exaggeratedly and emitted a loud, fake yawn. This was closely followed by the most convincing fake coughing fit I've witnessed anywhere.

I made a quick mental note to organise an acting audition for this future Oscar winner. And then I raided my Aunt Ndingilizi's coffers: "Maybe you need to go drink some water?" True to the script, he bolted in the general direction of the kitchen.

Maybe I'm the only one who struggles with the best approach to dealing with our offspring and sex. The truth is our children are sexual at a much earlier age than is comfortable for any parent. In that regard they are no different from us.

Each time I have palpitations about the approach we've taken to sex education, I remind myself that we have a 21-year-old who is at university. Our approach seems to have yielded positive results with him. When he felt he was ready to do "it", the first person he called was me.

But I have to warn you. Having a conversation with your child about the propensity of latex to dry out and the need for KY jelly is not for the faint-hearted.

E-mail Ndomiso Ngcobo at lifestyle@sundaytimes.co.za and follow him on Twitter @NdumisoNgcobo