By the time my youngest sister Lynn and her friends came to me for The Talk™, I'd lived. I'd learned. I had notes. Highlighted. Tabbed. Possibly laminated.
It started like every other chill movie night. Pizza. Pillows. A few cans of Dr Pepper. Four teenage girls sprawled across my parents' living room in a tangle of pajama pants and hormonal dread.
Tasha kicked off the chaos by asking, "Okay, but how do you actually do it right? Like… when you're giving head, how much is too much teeth?"
I blinked.
Raquel leaned forward like it was a TED Talk.Brenda looked like she was about to ascend to heaven out of pure embarrassment.Lynn turned red. Not pink, fire truck red.
And me? I just sighed. "We're really going there, huh?"
They nodded. All four of them.
And let me be clear: these girls didn't want vague metaphors.They weren't here for "wait until you're in love" speeches.They wanted logistics. Technique. Strategy.
One asked if gag reflexes could be trained. Another wanted to know about angles. There was a genuine debate about whether putting a pillow under your hips actually did anything or if that was just Tumblr propaganda.
They were seventeen. Smart. Informed. But they didn't have safe people to ask. Until now.
Eventually, the questions shifted to sending nudes. Because, of course they did. And when they asked if it was actually illegal to send a photo to your boyfriend if you're both under 18, I didn't flinch.
"Okay, serious question," she said, mid-bite of cheese stick. "If you send a nude to your boyfriend but you're both, like, 17… is that illegal?"
The room went dead silent.
Raquel dropped her soda.
Brenda gasped like I'd just said "moist."
And Lynn, my sweet, shy baby sister, made a noise like a dying balloon and rolled off the couch in shame.
"…What?" Tasha blinked. "I'm asking. It's educational."
"You're asking me?" I asked.
"You're the adult," she said. "Kinda."
Rude. But fair.
I took a deep breath. "Yes. It's illegal."
They all stared.
"Even if he's your age?" Raquel asked, like she was on the witness stand.
"Yes."
Brenda squinted. "What if he doesn't save it, though?"
"Yep," I said. "That's considered the distribution of explicit material involving a minor. Even if you are the minor. Even if you want to send it. Even if he's the same age. The law doesn't care about your intentions. It cares about the evidence."
Tasha blinked. "…What if you used Snapchat?"
I looked her dead in the eye. "Do you trust a boy with a screenshot button?"
Raquel went pale.
Brenda whispered, "I need to reevaluate some things."
Lynn pulled a blanket over her entire body. "Can we talk about literally anything else?"
"Nope," I said cheerfully, "we're just getting started."
They groaned in unison, like a Greek chorus of regret.
"All right," I said, flipping around to face them like I was about to give a TED Talk. "Here are the rules. You wanna send a photo? Fine. I'm not your mom. But listen closely."
So I gave them what I call The Rules.
1. No faces in pictures. Ever. Unless you've been in a long-term relationship and really trust the person. Not just "we held hands at lunch" trust, but "they've seen you ugly-cry and still brought you ice cream" trust.
2. Ask yourself: If this picture got out, how would I feel? If the answer is "I'd fall into a hole and die," then don't send it. Seriously. Don't.
3. If someone pressures you, they don't deserve you. "If you loved me, you would" is emotional manipulation in a hoodie. Hard pass.
4. You get to say no at any point. Even if you sent one before. Even if they're nice. Even if they're hot. Even if you thought you were ready.
Brenda finally whispered, "But what if he says he'll break up with you if you don't?"
Tasha snorted. "Then bye."
I pointed at her like she'd won Jeopardy. "Correct. Someone who respects you won't threaten you."
We talked about pressure. Shame. Power. Consent. What it means to enjoy yourself versus perform. I told them that sex isn't a transaction you owe someone. It's something you should want for yourself.
I didn't preach. I didn't scare them. I didn't roll my eyes. I answered every wild, inappropriate, hyper-specific question they asked. Because better they get too much truth from me than bad advice from the internet, or a boy whose entire sex education came from stepmom videos and Reddit comments.
"Your body is not a bargaining chip. It's not a favor. It's not a prize for good behavior. It's yours."
I wanted them to feel powerful, not punished. I wanted them to know they could be confident, curious, and cautious, all at once.
Truth doesn't have to come wrapped in shame. It can come from a girl in a sparkly dress holding a vibrator-shaped cupcake at a bachelorette party who says:
"I've been there. Here's what I wish I'd known."
That night, I didn't just give them permission to ask.
I gave them permission to know, their power, their choices, their worth.
And I'll keep doing it, every time, for any girl who needs it.
I used that same advice later on, with my own daughter. My son, too. Because I believe in raising teenagers who understand consent, confidence, and caution, not just shame.
I want them to know that their bodies are theirs. That their choices matter. That they never have to trade discomfort for validation.
And if it means I get the occasional eye roll for being "too honest" or "too much" that's good.
Let me be too much. I'd rather that than too late.
Because if I don't tell them, someone else will. And I'd rather the truth come from someone who loves them.
Like I told those girls that night:
"You're not bad for being curious. You're smart for asking. And you're powerful when you protect your own story."