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Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
© 2004
Sex Lessons

“I’m going.” One husband had insisted. “You can’t stop me.”

“Women only.” His wife reminded him, for the tenth time.

“Isn’t that illegal? To have organizations that won’t allow men?” Another husband had asked.

We ignored our men.

Several had offered to wear skirts.

Would that have made them women? It’s amazing what men would be willing to do to attend a one night lecture with a sexpert.

“Are you kidding? A room filled with beautiful women? I’m always open to that.” My good friend, Ralph had said.

“You’ve never been interested in what we do at my monthly women’s business meetings before.”

“Holly. We need to spend more time together. And I had no idea you talked about sex.”

“I don’t think she’s only going to talk.” I lied. “I think she’s going to hand out diagrams and demonstrate positions.”

His eyes glassed over.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll take notes.” I said as I skipped out his door.

My mother was having nightmares where I pushed the sexpert off the stage and took over the lecture, offering my own personal tips and advice over some stodgy scientific findings. In her waking moments she knew I would never take the stage. But she called and threatened me with a lifetime spent locked in my room (without a writing implement) if I dared ask any leading questions or laugh inappropriately during the talk.

Um. Hello? My mother lives two thousand miles away and no longer has a say over the lock on my bedroom door. The real question: Why does she continue to haunt me with the one leading question I’ve ever asked in my whole entire thirty-eight years? It had to do with a middle school class where the health teacher refused to call a certain male body part by its name. I wasn’t asking a leading question; I was helping the teacher get over his emotional block from saying the name of the male sex organ in public.

And the laughter that erupted when he had his major career-enhancing-psychological-breakthrough and said the name of the organ wasn’t inappropriate. The situation was so damn funny the whole class laughed for three months. I believe he was referred to as the name of that unmentionable till he retired. The health class I retook for a passing grade had the same information, but the new teacher was so politically correct she totally avoided ever referring to the body at all. I’m thinking my mother ought to forget about that whole ordeal. Because. I’ve changed.

I now recognize a sexpert lecture for what it is: an opportunity to learn about sex without reading the scribbles in bathroom stalls or Cosmopolitan. I was totally open to learning something new. Sort of like a spicy recipe I might make for dinner one night as a scrumptious surprise for my boyfriend. Believe me. I know when to listen.

Stella and I found our usual seats and watched as woman of all ages and occupations filled the restaurant. I could only hope their mothers hadn’t committed them to silence so there might be rounds of leading questions that would prompt waves of inappropriate laughter. Ok. Maybe I haven’t changed that much.

I know. It was my own fault if I was expecting a “Dr. Ruth” clone to be our explainer for the evening. It seemed only natural for a grandmother type to take the job of mentoring sex to the masses. Um. Well. That description wouldn’t fit Lisa Thomas, the host of the weekly cable television show, “The Denver G Spot.” Or. At least. Not for another forty years or so.

Here was a beautiful, twenty-something sexpert with a wedding ring on her left hand. I figured maybe her young age would work to our advantage. We’re all aware that young people today know far more about sex than the rest of us. I was ready for a MAJOR learning experience.

The sexpert stood, self-assured, in front of the group. “I don’t care what your mother said.” She smiled. “Please, ask me anything.”

Stella leaned over to me and whispered. “That doesn’t include you.”

We laughed.

The sexpert continued. “Nothing is off topic. Nothing is too sensitive. Everything is allowed.”

Stella whispered, “Not you.”

“What do you want to know?” She asked.

“How about the truth about Viagra?” A quiet voice asked.

“I can tell you tons about that.” She nodded. “What else?”

“My medicine has lowered my libido.” A woman called out.

“I can give you tips for that.” She said.

“Can you talk about the G spot?” Someone called out.

“Sure can.” She said, without any hint of a blush.

“How about upping my man’s sex drive?”

“Great.” She smiled. “I have lots of suggestions for that.”

“Yeah.” A single woman called out. “But how about for us single woman. Do you have anything for us?”

“Do you like to take notes?” The sexpert laughed.

I opened my notebook and positioned my pen, ever eager to be back in school.

The sexpert folded her arms. “Let me start with a few facts, then I’ll build up to your questions. Feel free to interrupt at any time.” She waited a moment. “One out of three relationships has an issue with low libido.”

Ok. The realization hit hard. I might be learning how to make a tuna casserole tonight, and not a hot & spicy, hoochie-koochie flaming tamale soufflé. If you ask me, someone not wanting sex with his or her mate would best be saved for horror movie stuffing, and not a question/answer session with a sex expert. Maybe I should leave right now before she started talking about venereal diseases.

The sexpert continued. “When a man is young, it takes about twenty minutes before he can have sex again. That time lengthens as he gets older.”

I turned to Stella and whispered. “Have you ever timed it?”

She looked at me. “Timed what?”

“You know. Intermission.”

She turned back to the speaker and whispered out the corner of her mouth. “Your mother told you not to ask any questions.”

“To think I’ve let a whole lifetime of statistics go unnoticed. I could have had detailed charts and graphs with ages. I might have been helping science. I had no idea.”

She laughed.

The sexpert turned towards us. “Questions? Really. Ask.”

Stella shook her head. “No. Thanks. Holly’s integrating her learning.”

The sexpert continued. “Good sex starts outside the bedroom.”

“I knew it.” I whispered.

Stella laughed.

“We need our men here.” I whispered, intensely.

“Why? You need permission to start sex in the kitchen?” Stella whispered back.

“No. They need to know about sex lasting all day.”

Stella shook her head. “That’s not what she said. She said it starts outside the bedroom.”

“Well. I think I’ll tell Cool-guy she insisted sex must last all day. He’d never ask you to repeat what she really said. And no man alive is brave enough to go against the words of a hot twenty-something expert sexpert.”

Stella laughed.

The sexpert held her hand in a fist. “I’m going to explain the G spot so you can help your partner find yours.”

Women leaned forward in their chairs.

“The G spot is on the front on the top of your vaginal canal.”

The room was intensely quiet.

“Wow.” I whispered.

Stella glanced at me sideways.

“You know.” I said. “I don’t think we’re in middle school anymore.”

Wanna try another column? How about #149: Burning Desire which was about getting sick.

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