Today I learned about sex, or rather, I learned what my nine year old son knew about sex. Which turned out to be nothing. Nada. Zilch. That would have relieved any parent's mind, right? I was relieved for a split second because that meant he wasn't watching R-rated movies, wasn't talking to his friends at school, or hiding girlie magazines under his stuffed teddy bear. Or at least I'm pretty sure he isn't doing any of those things. 

How did the discussion of sex come up in our day? It didn't happen because my son had an overwhelming curiosity about it, or at least I think he doesn't. I didn't bring up the subject. All I did was ask him what his best friend, Shane, was going to be for Halloween.

"A pimp." 

"A what?" I asked. Okay, I'll admit it wasn't said with such calmness. 

It was more like, "What just came out of your mouth young man?" After all, hearing that word coming out of my young son's mouth was as disturbing as if I saw a cigarette dangling from his lip. Wasn't he just watching "Sesame Street" and "Teletubbies" four short years ago? 

He didn't answer. He cried. Big tears that swamped his face and fell dramatically on his Spiderman T-shirt. Oh great, this isn't when the talk was supposed to happen. And I wasn't the one that was supposed to give the talk in the first place. 

I was always glad we had had a boy. I was smug thinking it wouldn't be up to me to tell my child about the wonders of human sexuality. His father was supposed to be having this conversation with him, not me. But it wasn't to be. I was stuck. 

"If you're going to say that word, you need to know what it means. That way you won't use it again, ever, until you're twenty."

I did what every good parent would do in this situation, I stalled for time. I called my sister. She wasn't home. Instead, I spoke with my fifteen year old niece.

"What's a pimp?" I asked her. She was always coming in the door greeting everyone with the phrase, "What's up pimp juice?" I assumed she knew what it meant. 

"A player," she said with authority. 

Oh, that helped.

"No, I mean how should I explain it to Nate." 

"Do you want me to explain to him?" 

Um, mmm, that would help. It would get me out of doing it. I almost caved, but I couldn't do it. I mean, she obviously thought a pimp was a cool person. I wouldn't want the blind leading the blind even if it would get me out of this torture. 

"No, that's okay. I'll do it. I'll look it up in the dictionary."

I can't be sure, but I think I heard her laughing as I hung up the phone. 

Webster's New World Dictionary defines a pimp as a prostitute's agent. This was getting worse by the minute. In order to explain a pimp, I would have to explain a prostitute, in order to explain a prostitute, I would have to delve into the deep dark territory of SEX. I would have to use my personal knowledge on that front because I wasn't about to look it up in the dictionary. Things have a way of snowballing, it's like when you clean one part of the room like the kitchen counter, and five hours later you're under the sink, scrubbing mildew of the water pipes. I always assumed when I had children there would always be open and honest communication about everything. Including sex. After all, I let my son eat dirt when he was two years old so he could experience it first-hand, or first taste, or whatever. Now, I was shrinking like a wallflower, pushed up against the wall of the, 'not now, dear, I'm cleaning the medicine cabinet,' category. 

All this time, I was silently cursing Shane's mom. What parent in their right mind would allow their nine-year-old to be a pimp for Halloween in the first place? And why do they even make that kind of costume to fit a nine-year-old?

"Mom."

Oh, yeah, I still had to explain a pimp. I was going to wait until my husband came home, but conveniently he was working the late shift that day. 

"Are you sure Shane's not going to be a bullfighter for Halloween? I mean, you could have gotten the costume confused. A bullfighter looks an awful lot like a pimp." (I apologize in advance to all the bullfighters in the world. Please, no emails or phone calls).

"No." There is a small glint of recognition.

"Maybe he's going as a member of a Mariachi Band?" I stared at him. 

Then I see it. He's trying to squirm out of this with me. "I think you're right, Mom. I think he's going to be a bullfighter for Halloween."

"Good. I mean, just remember a pimp is something bad. Now, go watch cartoons or something." 

"Why is it bad?" 

"Cause it just is. I have to clip the dog's toenails now. Just remember one more thing, you can ask your father about anything. Anything at all."