curious intensions

I've kept secrets and have been a secret. Kinky and profound. Naughty and thoughtful. Divine and delusional.

I gloat at holding knowledge and being the knowledge, and secrets are often the stuff that childhood is made of.

Curiosity may have an intimate marriage with destiny and an eternal contract with the universe. You know, the belief that there are no such things as coincidences (something I am mildly evangelical about). And just knowing in the depths of your self, within the bones of your marrow, and with every beat of your heart that "this is meant to be." Surreal, profound, but really real stuff.

I accidentally prodded myself into something rather private a few hours ago. It was explicit; of course it was private and of course, it wasn't for me. Was that an accident? Was that meant to be?

And for once, and oddly so, I feel comforted by this because whatever I saw wasn't intended for me, there was a strange familiarity with it, like an email from an anonymous sender who shares the same kinks. What is that supposed to mean?

Fanning the flames of this post all the more, I'd like to ask:
"Why can't parents teach their children about sexuality comfortably?"

Obviously, I'm not one to answer. Not yet, at least. But I hope one day that I will be able to.