I thought if I discussed vibrators enough, if I kissed enough people, if I forced myself to use the word penis in conversation at least three times a week, one day things might be different. The thing is, I was wrong. I am a prude for life, and no amount of sex or therapy or drugs will change that. Sure, I can continue pretending to be someone I am not, but why live a life of shame and embarrassment? I first heard the word "prude" when I was thirteen, and even though I had no idea what it meant, I knew it had to mean something bad. Prude sounds like prune, and prunes taste terrible and look like roaches and make people have to shit, which is gross. (Or, at least, it's gross to a prude like me.) "A prude is someone who has never kissed a boy," my friend Josie from Staten Island said at summer-camp. "Oh," I said. "Interesting." From that second on, I was determined not to be a prude. And losing one's kissing virginity at sleep away camp is never that difficult. If only losing true prudity was as simple. Dictionary.com defines a prude as "one who is excessively concerned with being or appearing to be proper, modest, or righteous." I disagree. A prude is someone who cannot talk about sex or smell a fart or see someone else's hickey without feeling repulsed. Sure, I make attempts. When I was fourteen, I was talking to a boy I liked on the phone: "Do you have, an, umm, erection? Like right now?" I asked. I was young perhaps. Na‹ve, certainly. Inexperienced, for sure. But I was trying. "Sort of," he said. "I'm at, like, half-mast." "Oh, cool," I said. "I have to go." More recently, I told a story that involved the word "lube." I only giggle when I hear the word "arousal" occasionally. Still, I will never be cured. The other day, a perv woke me up, pretending to be delivering a message from a friend. "Do you want it soft or hard?" he said. "What?" I asked, genuinely confused. "It's meant to be a joke," he said. "Umm, soft...?" I said. "The answer is hard, but okay. Do you want it gentle or rough?" "God, umm, gentle." "Well, the answer they circled was rough, but okay. Now, this part you repeat after me. Ok?" "Ok..." I said. "Oh." "Oh." I said in a tiny voice. "Ohhhhhhhhhhh..." "Oh." "Yessss. Yesssssssss." Silence from me. "Come on," he said. "Or I won't continue." "Yes." "Ohhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." "This is insane," I said. "Whatever," he said. I hung up. The problem is not that I couldn't revel in the call. Only nasty-ass characters in Todd Solondz movies do that. It's that I didn't even realize what was happening. "I've always wondered what idiots don't just hang up the phone when freaks call," my friend Ariana said. "Ha. People like you." The realization that I was inextricably a prude occurred when, after receiving one inappropriate phone call, I called the police.

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