The sex instruction I got from my parents was pitiful nothing, including, yes, only crude jokes from my Dad (example: Handicapped man with uncontrolled palsy quivering decides to treat himself to an ice-cream sundae.
“I’d like a sundae, please.”
“Yessir. Chocolate, strawberry and vanilla?”
“No, it’s palsy.”)
Which had the function of showing he was extremely uncomfortable talking about sex with his son. The up side was that he was uncomfortable talking about sex with sexist men, so he didn’t inculcate any of the bashing of those Martians-with-boobs-among-us that all too many of my peers got.
My Mother was basically silence. And a determination that I shouldn’t get any sex information from porn novels or films or paintings or anywhere, really. About all that happened was that her cousin once remarked in my presence: “Well, at least he’s all boy!” [i.e., Not Gay] to which my response in my head was “What the heck do ya mean?”
But the repulsive, enduring truth is that the porn-bashers almost never have a clear plan to replace smut with smart. They want to stamp out filth and replace it with flowers and bunnies that don’t have sex like rabbits.
Did I mention that I just found my copy of I Am the Beautiful Stranger (not with this classic wonderful cover, dang it) in a basement box?