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Night School
Sometime around midnight Donna and I heard a voice from the doorway of our bedroom, "Mom... Dad... hey..."
It was our twelve-year-old daughter, Megan. We hadn't noticed her come into the room as I had been busy under the covers gently, yet firmly pressure testing Donna's bartholin's glands and she was preoccupied moaning and begging me to, and I quote, "hurry up and stick it in [her]". One thing we were certain of is that Megan had been standing there a little longer than any of us would have liked.
"Get the hell out of here!" I instantly reacted.
"And close the door behind you!" followed Donna, catching her breath.
I have no idea how much our little girl knows about S. E. X. I have a suspicion that it is more than I want to believe, FAR more than Donna would like to believe but still a healthy distance from complete. This is as it should be, she's twelve. We know we can't stop her from finding out more than we could imagine being comfortable with but we had at least hoped she would have picked up most of the details from... well...I don't know... somewhere other than the open doorway of our bedroom.
This morning, when I asked Megan about what happened, she played dumb. "I don't even remember going to your room last night, daddy."
"I just want you to know that I'm not mad at you and you didn't do anything wrong."
"Whatever, Dad. Can you correct my math?"
Ah, at least I managed to successfully teach her denial... or at least lying. Either way, she's well-equiped and I was happy to have the subject changed.
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I admit to having to look up "Bartholin's gland" (in more ways than one!). Did you see the sketch they're using? Was that vagina in a train wreck?