The business of free tadpoles

few weeks ago, I had a conversation with my son during which I told him that SA was politically closer to the Bible Belt in the US than the liberal New York and Los Angeles he consumes on Netflix. (He’s 19, which means he can identify with references about Texas, Mississippi and Alabama far more than Upington or Brakpan).

It’s with this realisation that I offer this disclaimer upfront about the content of this week’s column. Bible thumpers are people too, you know.

This country has one of the most liberal constitutions in the world. A friend argues that it’s actually a libertarian constitution.

I’ve never been inclined to disagree with her contention.

This doesn’t negate the fact that if we subjected same-sex marriages or the termination of pregnancy to a referendum, both clauses would be defeated by a popular vote.

And this is precisely why both are so protected from the whims of folks such as our former (and future?) president who’s made it clear that he’s singing from the same hymn book as that other brilliant African mind, Yoweri Museveni of Uganda.

This is my long-winded way of saying that I understand the discomfort some people harbour

Aabout the subject of sexual selfgratification. I’m raising three teenagers, which precludes me from burying my head in the sand regarding the subject of sex with oneself as the sole participant. I accidentally stumbled upon the practice as a 13-year-old in boarding school. I was deeply engrossed in a typical Louis L’Amour Western (cowboy) paperback in which the main protagonist was getting heavy and sweaty with his darling Lorelei when... oops!

Unfortunately, raising teenagers will erase any semblance of coyness about the topic. One has to grab the bull by the horns and tackle the issue head-on — all puns and innuendo duly recognised. At some point, one has to tell one’s (16-year-old) son that they won’t go to hell because they throttle the lower abdominal turtle from time to time.

At 12, I was sent to boarding school at Inkamana High in KZN. This meant that I shared living spaces for five years with a bunch of horny boys. I’ve never been swayed by any argument for why public bathroom stalls have doors that don’t reach all the way to the floor, and why you can stand on any adjacent toilet and peer into the next stall.

Whatever the reason, someone figured out that there was some handto-organ action going on, on a random Tuesday afternoon in the dorm bathrooms.

They called everyone to stand on the seat of the neighbouring stall to witness the spectacle. The perpetrator would never live down the moment and he didn’t return the following year.

And while it is on my mind, no-one warned me that turning 50 comes with certain responsibilities I didn’t sign up for. One of those is paying attention when people over 50 start whining about dating and sexuality.

First things first; 50-something-year-olds doing “the nasty” is just eww! I know. I know. I’m being crude and ageist. But still; eww!

I have a circle of female friends with whom I’m in a WhatsApp group. That’s almost the only thing they talk about; how much they need to take care of their carnal needs by themselves. I get it. During my varsity days, I was unfortunate enough to be part of a bunch of students waiting on the third floor for biochemistry practicals. I witnessed a fellow student strangling his snake in his Honda Ballade in broad daylight.

When he was done, we gave him a loud, standing ovation.

Stay with me here. I’ve never understood why folks get the urge to get tattoos. I don’t have one. I’ve never been a member of any prison numbers gang, but I sharply understand that Pollsmoor culture. I appreciate the significance of those tattoos out in the real world.

However, I wasn’t ready for an experience I had last year, about August. I have friends from Newcastle that I love dearly. They’re a pair of twins; Khule and Pepelo. During the latter’s nuptials last year at eMadadeni, I was seated next to Khule in the marquee when I noticed that both his arms were covered in tattoos. So I naturally inquired about the inspiration for them. He painstakingly took me through the names of his fathers, uncles and other seniors, which populate the surface area of his right arm.

So, I asked him what the prime real estate of his left arm had been reserved for? He told me that it was for all the names of his brothers from his extended family.

And then he paused for a moment and added, “I didn’t think this through properly. I’m right-handed, but I have to use the left arm for self-service because I can’t bring myself to subject my fathers on the right arm to the rigours of the one-armed struggle.”

I don’t know where I’m going with this column, but if it helps just one person feel normal about self-service, my job here is done.

At some point one has to grab the bull by the horns, tackle the issue head-on and tell one’s teen they won’t go to hell because they throttle the lower abdominal turtle from time to time