I don’t lie about major things, or at least the kinds of things daytime television dramas seem to think people lie about — I am straightforward about myself to my partner, friends and employers; I have never needed to seek paternity tests for illegitimate offspring, never broken down in front of someone and said anything along the lines of “there is something you should know about me”, nor have I ever ended up in one of those sitcom moments where my lie about former work as a chef finds me needing to bake 150 ricotta tarts for my roommate’s sister’s wedding, stat, and I am bumbling around a kitchen still trying to convince people I know what I am doing.

I myself have a unique habit of lying and I cannot explain what exactly compels me to do it, but I enjoy my fabrications immensely.

No, no, that’s just plain silly. I myself have a unique habit of lying and I cannot explain what exactly compels me to do it, but I enjoy my fabrications immensely. Perhaps it is simply in my blood — my dad likes to tell people his name is “Bob Benfield”. I remember one summer taking a cave tour with my father and sister. The guide asked everyone to introduce themselves and my dad told them his name was Bob Benfield.

My sister and I thought this was HILARIOUS and it got even better when the tour guide assigned my dad the task of walking behind the group so no one got lost on the tour — there is nothing more side-splitting to my 9-year-old self than the booming voice of the tour guide echoing off the walls of the cave, “Hey Bob, still bringing up the rear?”.

My own career as a liar began early on. I discovered that if you told people you were allergic to something, rather than did not care for it, you would not be forced to try a bite. As time went on, I discovered lying was not only excellent for practical purposes, but it was also quite fun. Once, around age 5, my dad thought I was showing signs of being a Gifted and Talented student — GAT students had the opportunity to attend a better school for free, especially if they tested young. He told the tester I had a strong vocabulary, so when we went in the testing room, the tester started with some very challenging words and asked if I knew what they meant — I said I knew them all.

He was impressed, and asked me to use them in a sentence, so I did, to which he furrowed his brows and said “I thought you knew the meanings of these words?” I assured him I did, and that I used them all the time. “Please tell me what melancholy means,” the man said.

I gave it some thought.

I explained to him a melancholy was when a group of melons come over from Europe to grow in America, and they live in a melancholy, there were 13 original melancholies.

The man was not impressed — he gave me another word: popular. Well, I remember thinking, this one is easy! “Popular” I explained “is a way to describe things that pop. Popcorn and bubbles and bubblegum are very popular”. The man, apparently not enjoying this nearly as much as I was, ended the test and brought me out to my dad. “She is not eligible” he said, and with that turned a left me there. My dad didn’t really question what happened in there, but drove me home where he got out his old guitar because I had been inspired to write song lyrics containing all the new words I had learned. The lyrics to “Bubbles Are Very Popular” and “We are Melancholy” (set to the tune of We Are Family) were never recorded, but I am sure if there was a GAT program from the musically inclined I might have had a shot.

I never really stopped enjoying the art of lying — it was fun, it was a creative process, and often allowed me to live out my fantasies. I used to pretend to be speaking in different languages to my mother in the grocery store, I would tell kids I met at the playground I had to go home to my piano lessons (I don’t play any instrument, and my dad, despite owning a guitar, is tone-deaf), and sometimes even convinced them I was getting ready for a big move to Paris or Kenya or Ireland to live out various situations I’d read about in books.

I’m going to tell you more about them tomorrow. But for now, I must go and reply to this urgent email I received from the President.

We knew there was a much bigger issue to tackle, something called S-E-X

A while back at our very first Chaos Thaoghaire (more like a test-run) we told stories about ‘first tries’ (appropriate because it was our first try at hosting an event). I stood up and told a fairly ridiculous and embarrassing story about my first kiss. The story was heavily influenced by childhood friend Brigit Eno – Brigit was the kind of friend who was willing to help you solve all of life’s mysteries, and was pretty sure she had a lot of the answers. To tell you the truth we were both just very creative and very eager be considered sophisticated by our friends.

Naive children we were not – we were poets, possibly on the verge of great beauty (as soon as the braces come off, the spots clear up, the boobs fill in, my mom lets me pick out my own clothes and someone can teach me to walk in heels, I’ll show them!!!), and most importantly we took ourselves seriously (you set yourself up for failure at 13 if you try and take yourself seriously, but everyone does).

The thing about Brigit is that, following her mother’s remarriage, she had moved to our neighborhood from another school – one where the other students were clearly twice as sophisticated as our lot, apparently they were basically like the cast of 90210 (a show I was NOT allowed to watch) only they weren’t all white and rich. Between Brigit’s wealth of knowledge and connections and my insatiable quest for knowledge we were fast friends, and by age 13 we had tackled first kisses and were preparing to enter high school, where we knew there was a much bigger issue to tackle, something called S-E-X. Here is what we heard from a friend of a friend whose older cousin knew the deal: Apparently people in high school do it all the time. In fact, they even did it at school, all over the place, in front of each other, we had this on good authority.

We spent many Saturday nights truth-or-dare quizzing everyone we knew trying to get the facts straight, highlighting passages in magazines, and watching films that might offer us some insight if we could manage to get them past her mother, who was worried about us growing up too fast, but slightly less mortifying to bring into a video store than my own parents.

I would say by the end of the summer we had some facts sorted out…

Facts About Sex According to My 13-Year-Old Self:

1. It is actually true that some people have sex in their mouths. Seriously.
2. Sex involves moving around, which goes against what I understood a few years ago when Barbie’s were placed face-to-face against one another for approximately a minute and a baby got made.
3. People put their sperm into things so they don’t have babies. They call these things tampons.
4. From a magazine article we concluded people touch each other’s ‘parts’, they don’t just remove clothes, stand close to each other and allow nature to take its course, as previously understood.
5. There is something called a ‘boner’ that happens to boys. It sticks out.

Brigit and I and other girlfriends had also speculated on other possibilities, such as the what-goes-where issue, but mainly we had a lot of questions. Do people talk during (though my friend from the Catholic school was certain that nice girls close their eyes and say nothing, possibly kiss during), do you stay under the covers or would a boy really see you naked, what does a P look like, how exactly are boobs involved, and is it true boys sometimes pee in the girls V (one friend ASSURED us this is how sperm goes in). When Brigit announced her older half-sister was coming for a visit I was sure we had answers – this was the sister who had once told us all the precautionary advice we needed for kissing. Her sister arrived and set up in Brigit’s room, and a few days into the visit Brigit surfaced with answers.

We met in the park, gathered together on a blanket on a quiet grassy knoll, someone brought snacks their mother packed for our “picnic”, and someone had smuggled along a single cigarette. Sophisticated women that we were we prepared ourselves to finally learn The Truth. Her explanation went something like this:

It’s hard, the boy is, and it goes in (how? I donno, like a hotdog in a bun sort of. Oh.) And it moves around and you kiss with tongue. Then inside every girl is a red ball called a cherry and when it goes in the cherry explodes and there is blood EVERYWHERE (wait, really? Yes really, my sister told me!). Then it’s over and you go to sleep.

(Oh.)

Mystery solved. My facts about sex list could be completed. Yet somehow I suspected we were missing some important details. Nonetheless it was something to go on. It was like learning that Haley Mills played both characters in the original Parent Trap – shocking at first but quickly you see how non-earth-shattering and somewhat obvious it was all along. The exploding cherry was a worry, but as long as we were prepared it was better than the poor girls who went into things with no idea. I’d like to say this was the end of the obsession, but quite frankly it was merely the beginning, and now at 25 I am still going to great lengths to get as much information as possible, and we arrive at Sex Chaos.

I hope this month’s story tellers will help me fill in those gaps, until then perhaps a “game” of sorts – Chaos readers, please add to my list; “Facts About Sex from my Younger Self” (state the age you were when the fact seemed relevant, then present us with you best facts, myths and misunderstandings in the comments below). I look forward to some brilliant over-shares while we anticipate what things will be learned from Sex Chaos in February!