Sex Educator Jokes
Last night I spent the evening at my local bar, sipping gin while creating a lesson plan, the intention of which was to teach pre-teens how to avoid HIV, STDs, and unplanned pregnancy. A dapper gentleman approached, politely introduced himself, and began to wax poetic on how beautiful the glow from my laptop made me look, that it perfectly illuminated my “features” (whatever those are), and how, combined with the pencil protruding from the bun atop my head and the stacks of notebooks surrounding me, I appeared “studious and, well, just absolutely perfect.” I was genuinely surprised because I’d always assumed uplighting was terribly unflattering and enhanced the numerous wrinkles and imperfections that decorate my far-from-porcelain visage, but no, he insisted, I looked positively angelic. Now I’m just bragging, but even though this sounds like bullshit it’s all incredibly true, so whatever, fuckface.
The twee little man proceeded to ask what I was working on, and upon learning that I was jotting up a lesson plan, inquired about the subject. ”I’m a sex educator,” I replied, trying desperately not to smile. It’s very difficult to refrain from giggling when telling people you’re a sex educator, because it sounds absurd, like you’re one of those simple white fellows in fraternities who sport shirts that say “FBI: Female Body Inspector,” or think it’s hilarious to claim they’re a gynecologist. I often find myself quickly insisting “no seriously, it’s a real thing!” immediately after revealing my profession, attempting to assuage the inevitable chorus of raised eyebrows staring me down.
My suitor was taken aback (they always are) and began to laugh (they always do). ”In that case,” he said, still chuckling, “I’ve got something for you.” He explained that he comes from a “very old-timey Italian family that enjoys telling very old-timey jokes,” and would I perhaps like to hear one that pertained to my line of work?
“WOULD I?!”
So here’s the joke:
A beautiful woman and a businessman are sitting next to each other on an airplane. After spending several hours working up the courage to talk to his seatmate, the man finally asks “so…where are you travelling to?” The woman answers, ”I’m going to a conference on sexuality. I’m teaching a workshop focused on busting sexual myths.” Shocked, the businessman stammers “Sexual myths? W-wh-what do you mean?” ”Oh, you know,” she replied. ”Basic stereotypes. Like, people think black men have the biggest penises, but really it’s Native Americans. And while everyone says the French make great lovers, Jewish men are actually the best in bed. That sort of thing.” She notices the man is sitting in stunned silence and begins to apologize. ”Oh, I’m sorry. Here I am going on and on, and I don’t know a thing about you. What is your name?” The businessman pauses, then turns, looks her square in the eye, and says:
“Tonto Goldstein.”
How killer is that joke? I’m not exactly sure what qualifies it as “old-timey,” but I suppose being a narrative that mixes sex with some innocent racial humor makes it at least somewhat classic. The best part about this whole thing is that my adoring, “old-timey” funnyman was indeed liberal with the compliments, but didn’t even try to sleep with me. So all in all, it was a pretty great night.
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