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Sex Ed
Author: Z.B. Heller




All names of superhero’s are ed by Marvel and DC Comics. Coke is ed by the Coca-Cola Company, and Chucks are ed by Converse. Chulapa and Taco Supreme are ed with Taco Bell.



Dedicated to John and Judi, who gave me their DNA.

Thank you for cleaning my tushie when I was little.

Now I can prove people wrong when they say I'm full of shit.



“Comedy is serious - deadly serious. Never, never try to be funny! The actors must be serious. Only the situation must be absurd. Funny is in the writing, not in the performing. If the situation isn't absurd, no amount of joke will help.”

-- Mel Brooks








Pubic hair.

That’s what I was currently scribbling in my sketch pad. I was drawing a panel of my comic book, a secret project that I have been working on for the last few months. I paused and studied the page in its entirety. There was no doubt that the villain’s hair resembled pubic hair. A big, bushy, seventies-style ‘fro that leaked out the side of bikini bottoms, not the clean, manscaped, modern-day porn kind. Although, it would have made a great hideaway if one of the villains in the comic were trying to hide from the hero. I jotted that idea down on a notepad.

I ripped out the piece of paper from my pad, crumpled it up, threw it behind me, and put my head in my hands. There were several discarded balls of paper covering the floor, because I could not get my head on straight. I had been struggling with this concept for weeks. I took off my black-framed hipster nerd glasses, as my sister called them, setting them on the desk. There were ink stains all over my fingers, and I needed to remember to check my face before going out to see if it smeared anywhere. Once, I rubbed my face, left the house, and couldn’t understand why people were saluting me like I was Hitler. After I had seen my reflection in a store window, I realized that I had a blot of black ink right under my nose. The hazards of a wannabe comic book artist.

I looked up from my desk, and displayed on the wall above were several renditions of my creation staring back down at me. It was my Frankenstein; the object that I brought life, the one thing I thought would bring me fame. The most fearless, life-threatening, soul-crushing character in all of comic book history: Ninja Bunny Warrior, or Bunny Fu for short.

I have been a comic book enthusiast since the day I discovered them in first grade. I used to spend hours a day drawing Spiderman, Captain America, and Batman. Or I would get in trouble for staying up past my bedtime, because I was so engrossed in reading about Iron Man’s next adventure. I lived and breathed comics, and there was nothing more that I wanted than to have my comic series in other people’s hands.

But sadly, that wasn’t the case. I’m just an average twenty-three-year-old, who at five foot eleven does not have a superhero build. Oddly, I do have some muscle, probably from lifting heavy boxes around the comic book store where I work. My stylish wardrobe consists of graphic T-shirts, jeans that hang too loose off my hips, and variety of Converse Chuck Taylor shoes in all colors and patterns. My auburn hair is a blend from my redheaded mother and brunette father. It is perpetually messy, and my sister keeps buying crap to put into it to make it intentionally look messier than it already is. My top quality is my eyes, which my mother claims are the color of cornflowers. In normal-people terms, they’re blue.

The idea of Bunny Fu came to me in a dream after I ate a questionable burrito from an even more questionable eatery. The dream was about a giant rabbit that gallantly fought against a manager from Taco Bell. He used nunchucks against a Taco Supreme, brought a Chulapa down in one kick, and ate the Tostada while doing it all. I woke up the next morning and sketched out the warrior rabbit. With that, Bunny Fu was born.

My love of drawing never waned, and I took every available art class in school. I was also the quiet kid, though I didn’t have much of choice in that because of my twin sister, Sophie. She talked for the both of us, from the very beginning. When someone asked what kind of ice cream we wanted, she would point to me and say, “he wants chocolate chip, and I want the rocky road.” To this day, she still speaks for me. Once someone asked what we looked for in a relationship, and she replied, “I look for a dick, and so does he.” My pet name for her is whore face, but I love her more than words can say.

Yes, I’m gay.

My acceptance of this was solidified around middle school, when Jason O’Connor had me over to his house. We snuck onto his dad’s computer to pull up saved porn sites. While Jason was all excited over fake boobs and disturbingly shaped vaginas that looked like hairless cats, I was excited at the view of Jason’s enormous erection. The giant gay bell rang pretty loud at that point.

But coming out wasn’t easy. In fact, it was the kind of thing that scars people for life. How I came out of it alive is beyond me, and the fact that I’m not in life-long therapy is a modern-day miracle.

I came home one day, my freshman year of high school, to my parents and uncles sitting on the couch and love seat in our living room. They all looked up at me as I put my backpack on the floor, their expressions somber. My dad rose up from the couch, walked up to me, embraced me in his arms and said, “Son, no matter what, know that I will always love you, and that I had nothing to do with this.” Fear struck me. Was someone dying?

My dad had me sit between my Uncle Ryan and Uncle Brandon, who are a married couple and aren't my biological uncles. Ryan has been my mom’s best friend for years and she says that their relationship extends further than my dad’s penis.

Ryan put his arm around my shoulder, squeezing me, and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Just remember who your favorite uncle is after this.” He leaned back and pointed to himself with a wink and a nod.

My Uncle Brandon whispered into my other ear, “I promise to buy you a lifetime supply of your favorite comic just for sitting here.”

Then, there was my mother. To say that my whole family is batshit insane is one thing, but my mom is the topper on the crazy cake. There was a reason her name was Moxie, which loosely translates into someone who has lots of balls. That, she has in spades.

There was a box of tissues sitting on the glass coffee table in front of me, and my mother had one of the tissues balled up in her hands, along with a folded piece of paper. Well, shit. This set-up did not bode well for anyone, especially, me.

I waved my hands around. “Does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” I said, looking at my dad for guidance.

“Perhaps we should do this like charades. Brandon can do a hell of a mime impression,” Uncle Ryan said.

My mom narrowed her eyes at Ryan. “Mimes scare me. They’re like clowns, except someone ripped out their vocal cords and probably sautéed them, feeding it back to them and causing them to choke and turn their faces white.”

“Maybe that is something you should talk to a therapist about,” I said under my breath.

Mom clapped her hands to get everyone's attention. “Excuse me! We are here for Jaxson during this very troublesome time. He needs our love and support during this, so pay the fuck attention.”

Mom also had the mouth of a sailor.

She unfolded the piece of paper in her hand, wiped imaginary tears from her eyes with the tissue and proceeded to read.

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