Does having sex hurt?

“Does having sex hurt?” she read. “When people bring their bodies together, their ear might go into your elbow, but because you have chosen someone you love and trust, you say, ‘Please get your elbow out of my ear.’ And they would say, ‘Of course.’ Do I look like someone who would choose something 1,000 times if it was painful? No, I do not.”

The second class of every course delves into the opposite sex’s puberty, along with reproduction and decision making. Metzger can count on at least one girl asking how you know if you want to have sex with someone. At the class I attended, she got the expected question, then walked briskly to one side of the auditorium and said: “Let’s say it’s 8:12 on a Tuesday night, and you walk by a complete stranger. What would you do?”

“Nothing,” the girls chirped.

“What if it’s 8:12, and you run into Ralph from Jamba Juice, and your family gets a Jamba Juice every Saturday. What would you do?”

“Say hi,” someone yelled. With each question, Metzger moved a few steps toward the other side of the room. “What if it’s your friend whom you haven’t seen since 2:30? What’s your feeling?”

“Happy!”

“What are the consequences? Sleepover! Now what if you spot your grandmother? You give her a big hug, and what’s the consequence? She takes you shopping. But what if I go over to a stranger and shake her hand? What if I give Ralph a huge hug like you did your grandmother?”

The girls snickered. By now, Metzger had reached the other side of the room, her movement reinforcing the notion that different relationships call for different behaviors. “Ohh,” Metzger said with exaggeration. “You’re saying my actions don’t reflect my feelings for these people? If you’re telling me that, then if two people brought their bodies so close that a penis actually went inside a vagina, that’s enormous. If it’s true what you’re telling me, that this seems to be one of the biggest human-being actions, I have to put it together with some of the biggest human-being qualities — trust, respect, love, commitment. That’s why some people say this action belongs only to grown-ups, and that’s why some people say this action belongs only in marriage.”

Boys and girls experience puberty differently. For girls, puberty typically begins at 10 or 11 and lasts five to six years, punctuated by distinct events — breast development and the onset of menstruation. Puberty for boys starts later, around 11 or 12, and lasts longer. Many girls are done with puberty — over, by definition, when growth stops — in their sophomore year of high school. Boys, on the other hand, may still be growing in college, and some secondary sex characteristics, like beard growth, may not show up until they are in their 20s.

The first night of the boys’ course includes a musical interlude, “The Penis Opera,” in which the falsetto of the boys is set off by the bass of their fathers. Preteen boys think saying “penis” is funny, and my son, then 11, guffawed even as he looked around to gauge others’ reactions — perhaps because no one anywhere else ever shouts “penis” at the top of his lungs.

“Maybe you’ve been using the word ‘willy’ or ‘stick’ or ‘twig,’ ” the instructor, Greg Smallidge, a sexuality educator who teaches many of the boys’ classes, told the audience. “We were brought up for generations with people thinking it wasn’t O.K. to name these body parts. That’s why we need ‘The Penis Opera.’ We need to talk about sexuality.”

Yet what that conversation should include is far from settled. In 1913, Chicago’s became the first major school system in the United States to include sexuality as a subject. More than 100 years later, there is still no standardized curriculum. Detailed guidelines, released in 2012 as a resource for school districts, recommend minimum standards for comprehensive K-12 sex ed, but compliance is voluntary. “No state or school district I’m aware of has adopted them in full,” says Danene Sorace, who coordinated the development of the guidelines for Future of Sex Education, a partnership of three nonprofits. As a result, sex ed varies widely in schools. Some places, like New Jersey and Chicago, deliver age-specific lessons starting in kindergarten and continuing all the way through Grade 12. Other places, like Clark County, Nev., home to Las Vegas and the nation’s fifth-largest school district, teach abstinence-based curriculums. Many states have no policies; more than half receive a share of the $50 million that the federal government hands out each year to promote abstinence through community programs.

Great Conversations represents a distinct shift from the usual approach to sex education. Metzger believes that adolescence and puberty should be the purview of children and their parents, not solely that of children and their teachers. “The idea that we are talking to two generations at the same time is at the core of this,” she says.

In a 2012 survey by the National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy, 87 percent of teenagers said “open, honest” conversations with their parents could help them put off sex and avoid pregnancy. Students who take part in comprehensive sex-ed programs delay having sex for the first time, have less sex and fewer partners and rely more on contraception than their peers. (Conversely, abstinence-only instruction has not succeeded in extending virginity.) “As parents of young children, we are really engaged,” Sorace says. “But sexuality is such a taboo topic in our culture that when it comes to adolescence, we freeze.”

That’s probably why information about sex, whether from parents or schools, is so often delivered in serious, white-coat fashion, its clinical messages heavy with the fear of consequences. To those who advocate abstinence until marriage, attitudes like Metzger’s foster permissiveness. But limiting the conversation to abstinence, Metzger says, “isn’t a full-enough understanding of sexuality.” Because they are voluntary, Great Conversations courses are free to be more frank than school-based sex ed; they can sidestep detractors who think kids shouldn’t be taught about masturbation, for example. “We are not saying you have to learn this,” Metzger says. “People get to choose to come to us.”

Metzger’s greatest challenge might be figuring out how to speak in one voice to families from radically different backgrounds and viewpoints. For the most part, the course, which costs $70, attracts a well-educated, mostly homogeneous demographic. But over the years, Metzger and her business partner, Robert Lehman, who also runs the boys’ curriculum, have tried to appeal to lower-income parents. They found success in Palo Alto, where the class is regularly taught in Spanish. But in Seattle, Metzger says, she has struggled to find a community partner. A deal with the Y.M.C.A. fell through because of the need to simultaneously translate instructors’ rapid-fire delivery into several languages.

Earlier this month, Metzger got an email from a middle-school teacher she knows: Would Great Conversations want to teach a group of disadvantaged students — some homeless, others victims of abuse? Two of her instructors are interested, and Metzger is imagining what shape such a class would take. “It wouldn’t be the same song and dance,” she says.

Metzger’s course might need to evolve in other ways. Lindsey Doe, a clinical sexologist whose YouTube channel, Sexplanations, tackles subjects ranging from kissing to anal sex, attended Great Conversations with her daughter. She was disappointed that the focus was limited to either boys or girls. Where would a transgender or an intersex child fit in? “I loved the curriculum so much that I wanted it to be perfect, and that was the piece that would have completed my experience,” Doe says.

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Metzger is open to the idea. Finding the right words to include adoptive families was tricky when she started teaching the course; now, it’s how to deal with sexual identity. “There was a titanic shift five years ago when the audience began demanding a more open conversation around homosexuality and transgender experiences,” she says. “We’re always trying to balance the readiness of the room, and we may be running a bit behind.”

In November, my 10-year-old, Shira, and I attended For Girls Only. There was an undercurrent of nervous tension as we waited for the class to start. Mothers looked stressed, daughters embarrassed. Shira hadn’t wanted to come. “I don’t want to learn about puberty,” she pouted. “I don’t even like the word.” But as the girls looked around, some of them spying friends, they seemed emboldened: Maybe theirs weren’t the only parents to drag them to a talk about penises and vaginas.

And then Metzger won them over. At one point, she handed out a diagram of a woman’s reproductive organs and challenged the girls to go home, stand naked in front of a mirror and superimpose the image over their abdomens to get a sense of where things were in their bodies. When Shira’s drawing fell to the floor, she gave me an impish grin and asked, “Mom, could you pick up my uterus?”

Later still, she leaned forward, intrigued, when the talk turned to how to insert a tampon; I’d never explained that to her. “Some people worry they’ll put it in too far,” Metzger was saying. “What if you’re in social studies and it comes out your ear?” She pantomimed stumbling across the room and pulling a tampon out of her ear; lots of laughter followed her. “That — ” Metzger paused dramatically — “cannot happen.”