A quite engaging topic fell upon me the other day. A friend of mine, who has an eleven-year-old son, told me they went to the doctor, the doctor tells the son changes are afoot, son gets curious, friend decides to have the "talk" with his soon to be young man.

I was immediately fascinated and sadly not from any sort of intellectual point-of-view, no mine was more prurient because I was more excited to hear what sort of slang he used when talking about the hoo hoo and he he.. I also asked if he immediately started his conversation with "You know son, when a man loves a woman..." He rolled his eyes and my poor attempt at humor.

Anyhoo...

I never got the talk when I was a kid. I had to watch a film in 6 th grade with my mom in attendance because my dad was out of town. When he finally got around to talking with me I was 18 and off to college. The conversation last about 20 seconds (about the same amount of time another first time happening) and consisted of my dad asking if I knew about condoms, why they're important in the grand scheme of things and if I had any questions. I said, "I'm square" he said, "So did the Mets win last night"?

But as my friend was graciously tending to my juvenile tendencies and giving me the laundry list of dirty slang terms he told his son about, I got to thinking, intellectually, for about a minute, and realized something; the "talk" shouldn't really be about the, pardon the pun, ins and out's, but the humiliation, regret, insecurity, and sickening girlish way we may act when dealing with the opposite sex.

If I ever have a son, I'm going to lay out the "talk" like this.

Those "drive by" moments - I'll tell my son about those nights when you, after a few drinks, decide it's a good idea to take drive by the ex's house to see if she's home and the fun little thoughts that race through the brain when her car isn't there....( censored) no good tramp. You may do this a few times in your life. You'll tell yourself, "hey, I'm not a stalker, I'm just concerned about her" If it smells like ( censored) it must be ( censored).

Strippers-They don't want to sleep with you and yes, whatever she tells you, she says it to everyone. When a stripper comes over to you, sits down and starts to "flirt" with you, she doesn't like you, she's on the clock and when you go home...alone, you'll be punching your own clock. The sooner you know this, the better off you'll be.

The Lonely Nights-Look, right out of the gate, we can't all be Hugh Hefner or George Clooney, or some dude in a boy band, we're ( insert own name here) and for the first few years of your adulthood, you'll have a dumpy car, a ridiculous job that pays you next to nothing, a small ugly apartment in a seedy part of town with hand me down futon furniture. You'll also spend some Friday and Saturday nights alone, sitting in front of the TV, watching that Reba McEntire sitcom, eating hot dogs and drinking Bud Dry, falling asleep by 11pm.

Desperation Calls-Calls to the ex or that girl you met at a bar some Thursday Penny Pitcher night 6 months ago. You'll pick up that phone and say something embarrassing. You'll think you're being incredibly witty/suave, but there's nothing witty/suave about "Hey, you should come over and test my theory that my shower can comfortably hold two people, so you need to call me back right away okay or just come over, okay, it will totally be worth it okay". You'll probably call a couple more times, just in case she never received her messages. The next morning you'll awake, still sitting in your futon, that's by the phone, you'll check for messages...none. Some will lick they're wounds and walk away feeling sorry for themselves because "nobody likes me". Others will actually call that person back, leaving yet another message. This message goes into furious detail on how you were way trashed when you left those messages the night before, and that they should call back so you can totally hook up later on.

Foolery---You're at some party and you've had one or eighteen beers. You spot the girl you've had a crush for longer than should be allowed by law. Because you're a wiener and never talked to her, any fleeting interest she had in you is gone. That won't stop you though from going up to her and literally begging her to go upstairs to one of the bedrooms because you have "something" to show her. She clearly isn't interested, but for the next 20 minutes that "NO" won't matter.

Awkward Friendship- Sure she told you that it would mean so much to her that you remain in her life, but tell me about the feeling you get when you ask her to meet for coffee, thinking you have a shot to get back in the game, and she either 1) talks incessantly about, or 2) brings along, her new boyfriend.

The First Time-The stars will align and yes, it will happen...quickly and you won't be that good at it. Whatever you felt you've learned through adult videos, or the internet, or some friends older brother, you're going to be the bull in the china shop, despite any flights of fancy that you look like Andrew Stevens from those Night Eyes movies.

Puppy Love Stupidity- You break up, you'll write her a letter/email/text message, send flowers to her work, sulk around thinking you're soul mate got away. You'll spend countless hours talking the (censored) out the situation to friends who really don't care. She'll have that one friend who still talks to you, and you'll spend countless hours talking the ( censored) out of the situation to her. Everyone in your life will at some point want to kick the ( censored) out of you. It's inevitable.

Dancing-Yes, there will be those nights at the club and because you're geared up to 11, you'll dance thinking that a way to the bathing suit area is busting out some pop, lock and drop it move, and like the first time, you won't be any good at it. There will be a few times when you start to dance with some girl because you think she was checking you out, but she wasn't and you've just clicked time off your life throwing down the white man's overbite. Again, it's inevitable.

Looking after the kids.

Till the next time.

Your Friend,

Paul Hughes