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September 18, 2015 at 8:00pm PM EDT

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I wasn’t ready for my son to begin a sexual relationship with his girlfriend. When he did, I had two choices: deal with it or freak out. I chose to use his admission as a teachable moment for both of us.
It was a cold winter afternoon in January, just after my oldest son’s 16th birthday, when he cornered me in the kitchen and said, “I think my girlfriend and I are going to have sex. Actually, I know we are. We really want to.”
He looked a little scared, a little excited and a whole lot like my baby speaking a strange, foreign language that I couldn’t process.
It took me a few painful seconds to plaster a compassionate smile on my face and speak in a calm, collected tone. “So,” I said, “what are your plans?” Like a detective, I knew better than to say anything that would cause my son to hesitate telling his story.
He told me they had already figured it all out. They would pack a blanket and, because they wanted to be smart, a bunch of condoms. He said they planned to “do it on the beach at night,” because (romance isn’t dead) that’s where they met.
Let’s pause here for a moment. My son told me he planned on engaging in his first sexual encounter, in public, in winter. I had a few seconds to respond in a way that kept him talking, but didn’t betray my real feelings of, “ Holy shit! Are you insane? ”
“Hmm,” I replied. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” He looked insulted. I could see the light of teenage subterfuge in his eyes. I remembered that look well. It was one I often gave my own parents and it said all I needed to know: He was doing this whether I liked it or not.
I had a split-second decision to make. Should I forbid him from fornicating? Should I say nothing? Should I allow it? All the options seemed wrong. If ever there was a time I felt “damned if I did, damned if I didn’t,” this was it.
Throughout both of my sons’ lives my husband and I had been open and honest about any topic they broached, including sex. From the time they could ask about anything that piqued their curiosity, we answered. This was done with the belief that trust was pertinent to healthy parent-child relationships and that arming our kids with facts, not fairy tales, would help them make smart decisions.
This was especially important to me because I was once a teenage mother and high school dropout. I didn’t want either of my sons to make the same choices as I had and change the trajectory of their lives, just because they got horny.
My kids were both well versed on my views of premarital, underage sex: I didn’t condone or encourage it, but if they chose to have sex, I expected them to be smart enough to wear a condom, every single time. I also wanted them to be picky with who they chose — since even the most careful sexual encounters could lead to pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases.
With that being said, I was smart enough to know that I couldn’t stop the inevitable. There comes a point in each parent’s life where he or she has to let go and accept that his or her children are growing up. Sex is a natural progression in everyone’s life. I couldn’t keep my son from pursuing physical intimacy with someone he loved anymore than I could keep him from growing taller.
So I did what every parent at some point must do — I had to accept my son’s decision even if I wasn’t ready for it. One benefit of being open and accepting with my son was that he trusted my advice. It made it easier for me to convince him that public lovemaking in temperatures below 50 degrees F was a dumb idea, for anyone.
A few weeks later, “it” happened. It wasn’t outside, it wasn’t unprotected and my son felt comfortable enough to talk to me about the experience.
Was it weird to hear my son tell the tale of losing his virginity? Absolutely. But the open line of communication only helped us grow closer.
He has come to me with other adult issues that he may not have felt comfortable sharing had I been more closed-minded or judgmental. Each step has been new and a bit awkward, but ultimately helped me understand who he is as a young man and what he values.
And as for the girlfriend? It’s been two years and they’re still together, still in love and planning a big, grown-up future with each other. Thankfully, I’m included in the discussion of their plans and dreams, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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10 New "Why Me" embarrassing stories for May 23, 2008 By Audrey Fine PUBLISHED: May 23, 2008
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"For winter break, I went up north to learn how to snowboard, and it turned out that my instructor was a major cutie, so I was even more excited! But just when I started to do well, I fell on my butt in the middle of the snow. I started crying because it hurt so bad, but to make everything worse, the cute instructor came up right behind me and smiled at me in a 'You're pathetic' kind of way."
"I was in the drugstore with my best friend buying tampons, and we were debating on which ones we liked better. Right as my crush walked by we crouched down, thinking he didn't see us, but then he turned the corner and came up to us and said, 'Wow, I only thought girls were like this when they were shopping for shoes!' It was so embarrassing!"
"One day I was outside playing with my twin brother in our swimming pool. He was chasing me around, and so I got out and ran over to the front yard. Finally, he caught me and he reached out to grab me by my pants, but he accidentally pulled them off and I tripped into the mud with NO pants on. As my brother was walking over to say sorry, I noticed one of the cute guys from my school taking a picture of me with his phone. He ended up showing the picture to everyone at school! I was mortified!"
"It was that time of the month and I had forgotten my pads at home. My friends told me it would be better if I went to the nurse and got a pad there, so I did, and then went into the bathroom to put on the pad. However, she went into a long ramble about pads, tampons, periods, etc., and was talking superloud. I was so embarrassed when I walked out of her office and saw that my crush was right there, listening to everything."
"I'm a cheerleader and I'm at the top of the pyramid. I didn't realize I had my period, and as I stood at the top, I heard someone holler, 'Hey, Maria. Did you sit on some ketchup or something?' I was so embarrassed, but luckily only three people noticed and they were pretty close friends, so they didn't tell anyone."
"I'm the captain of the varsity cheerleading squad, and at one of our games my friend Maria told me that part of my cheer uniform skirt was stuck in my spanky pants! I quickly pulled it out and looked around to make sure nobody saw it, but the entire football team was laughing hysterically!"
"Last winter I was over at my friend's house and we were bored, so we decided to go in her hot tub. We went skinny-dipping since it was so cold outside and the hot tub was superhot. Afterward, we decided to go jump in the snow outside. Well, what we didn't know was that my crush lived on her street and was out taking a walk. So, when we ran to the front yard and jumped in the snow, he totally saw us! I was so embarrassed!"
"One night I was staying at my friend's house and I had my period. A little later, during dinner, my friend's brother came screaming down the stairs, yelling, 'Who has their period?' It turns out that the dog had gotten my tampon out of the trash and chewed it up on her brother's floor! I was so embarrassed!"
"So, I was sleeping over at my friend Emily's house, and when we were eating breakfast, I excused myself to use the bathroom. I had to go pretty badly, and I walked right into the bathroom as Emily's older sister was just getting out of the shower! She just stared at me, and then I ran out. I was so embarrassed!"
"My best friend, Britney, and I were at this clothing store trying on bras when my former best friend came in. She works for the school paper and she secretly took pictures of us trying on embarrassing stuff! The next day, the school paper had me on the front page! So embarrassing!"
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Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
In October 1985, I attended a pop concert against my parents' wishes. By the end of the night I had been gang raped in circumstances similar to those alleged by the 17-year-old girl accusing several men, including Premiership footballers, of raping her at the Grosvenor House hotel. The men who raped me weren't celebrities and they weren't even rich. In reality they were nobodies. But to me, a 14-year-old girl, only 4ft 11in tall, with very limited experience of the world, they were glamour personified.
The men, who were about six years older than me, were in a pop band, playing village halls and occasional support slots to bigger bands. They talked about a world I knew nothing of, a glamorous world of recording studios and record contracts. Their faces pouted out of photo- graphs in the local paper. They were local celebrities. They were a gang with catchphrases I didn't understand, mostly referring to sex acts, and little hand signals that my best friend and I emulated and giggled over in the playground at lunchtime.
That night, I watched them on the stage high above me and when they smiled at me, pointed me out and waved, I felt grown-up and glamorous, and important. I had been seeing one of them, Liam, for three weeks and had met Phil and Simon once or twice. Liam asked me to arrange to stay out the night of the concert. He suggested I lie to my parents and say I was at a girlfriend's house, so we could "spend the whole night together". I would have done anything he asked because I had fallen in love with this man who spoke of grown-up things, who said, "I can't believe you're only 14, you look so much older" - though the photos I gaze at now tell me that I didn't. He also told me that he couldn't believe I was a virgin when I first met him. Couldn't believe his luck, more like.
So I arranged my alibi and went to the concert. I wasn't plied with champagne but with cheap vodka. I didn't drink much of it and certainly wasn't drunk. I was never a teenage drinker. After the concert, the men were on a high, enjoying the attention of their groupies. I waited while they circulated for half an hour and then they came over to me. Liam asked if I had made the arrangement to stay out. I said yes and he shuffled me out of the door quickly, followed by the others.
Liam asked if I would like to stay at Simon's house where we would "all be together" or go back to the fourth member of the band's bedsit. (He was also a model and actor and was having a party.) I didn't understand the hidden meaning. I thought he wanted us to spend the night alone together at Simon's, so this was what I chose. This is what, he later told me, he took as my consent. Asking me where I wanted to stay was taken as consent to group sex.
The year before, our county had been terrorised by a rapist known as the Fox. Malcolm Fairley broke into houses during the night and raped women at gunpoint in front of their husbands. My father, desperate to protect his family, would stay up all night after barricading the windows. He was determined no rapist would get near us.
I felt safe, with my father watching over me. That was what I thought rape was, a man climbing through your window in the night. I never thought it would happen at a local music festival, the first I had ever attended, after days of begging and pleading with my parents. I didn't think Liam would spend three weeks getting to know me, before passing me on to his friends.
I was taken to a small modern house. There was a black leather sofa, black ash veneer furniture and Athena pictures of semi-naked women. It was a 1980s bachelor pad, I suppose, though I had never been in one before. I still had a Pierrot duvet cover. The men said they were tired and that we should go to bed. I followed them up the stairs, led by Liam. When we reached the room I looked around, confused. I asked Liam where we would sleep. He said, "We'll all squeeze in together."
As the other men got into bed I asked Liam if we could sleep downstairs, but Phil was growing impatient and told us to hurry up because he wanted to sleep, and Liam jumped at his command, hurrying me along. I left my shirt and underwear on and got into bed next to the man I had trusted, feeling embarrassed, knowing that I wouldn't sleep a wink.
The light went out and Liam started touching me. I whispered, no, said it wasn't right with his friends there, and asked again to go downstairs. But he wasn't even listening. He had sex with me. I won't say this was rape, though it was statutory rape because of my age, but I was uncomfortable and uncooperative, hating every second of it. I thought that if I just let him do it, it would be over and I would be able to wait out the long hours until it was safe to go home without arousing my parents' suspicions. But then the light was on and Phil said, "Can we join in?" And Liam said, "Be my guest." None of them asked me.
I won't torture the reader or myself with the details of what they did to me. Suffice to say, I was the victim of a "ramming" - one of their catchphrases. I was raped by Simon and Phil in turn, each with the "assistance" of the other. To this day I can still feel the chill metal of Phil's nipple-rings pressing against my flesh as I was torn apart in every sense. I often wake from nightmares where I am having the breath squashed out of me, a huge weight pushing down on me and the smell of his aftershave in my nose.
In Nicholas Meikle's words, like the 17-year-old girl, I "stayed for breakfast", though I didn't eat a thing. I watched them stuff their mouths with fried egg sandwiches and waited for them to drive me home. I couldn't call my parents or go home early, or they would know I had lied and, like many teenagers, I was scared. So I waited and they drove me home. I ran a hot bath and began a ritual that would last for years, scrubbing my flesh in an attempt to get clean. Friends frequently joke about how obsessive-compulsive I am when it comes to cleaning but the truth of this obsession lies in that night.
I have lived with the shame and consequences of their actions for the past 18 years. The emotional repercussions have been enormous. Soon after the attack I attempted suicide but I never told a soul my secret. The men, however, bragged about the "three's up" as they put it. It wasn't seen as rape, though. It was seen as me being a slag, a willing participant in group sex even though I was a child with no experience of men like them, and almost no experience of sex. I have suffered from clinical depression, panic attacks, nightmares and many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder ever since.
The physical consequences of that night scarred me, too, and the physical damage I sustained during the attack has had serious health implications for me ever since.
I have dealt with my disgusting secret without therapy or help of any kind, other than the endless support of my husband and family. But now, everywhere I turn, I am faced with the story of a teenage girl who says she was gang raped by a group of men who had wooed her with their celebrity. It is in every paper, on the radio and the television. It isn't hearing about it through the media that causes my anger, but rather the comments and opinions of others who question what she was doing drinking in those sorts of bar, pursuing those sorts of men, going back to hotel rooms with strangers, and in their judgment of her behaviour, I feel judged - though they know nothing of what happened to me.
Teenage girls will always be impressed by older men, particularly those who promise a world of glamour and glitz that is far away from their experience. For some girls it might be a premiership footballer but for others it will just be the lad in her class who everyone fancies, or the singer in a local rock band.
I applaud the 17-year-old
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