Opinion
I took my partner to a sex therapist. Our ‘homework’ led to a thrilling discovery
Kathy Lette
Writer“How many sex therapists does it take to change a light bulb? One — but the light bulb has to really want to change!”
Our instructor, whose name tag read “Crystal”, had the kind of vim and verve usually associated with cruise-ship directors. She then stood up from the chair behind her desk … and kept on standing for what seemed like hours. Her long legs were finely shaped and fishnet clad.
With increased longevity, from honeymoon to tomb can now be 50, 60, 70 years. That’s a long time to find each other’s boudoir repertoire compelling. Credit: ISTOCK
“Right! Who knows the basic ways to please a woman?”
I put my hand up. “Not snoring or playing golf constantly or telling her she looks fat in stretch Lycra.”
Crystal gave me a smile so intense it could irradiate soft fruit, and I feared detention. She then explained to the eight couples gathered in a dimly lit suburban living room that what we needed was “communication, emotional landscape and an erotic portfolio”.
My beanbag, which was attempting to eat me alive, was so tatty and cheap it must have been made from imitation vinyl. So why was I here on a wet Wednesday night, listening to Enya and inhaling essential oil fumes with random, sweaty strangers? Well, since the introduction of intimacy coordinators on film sets, sex-coaching classes have become all the rage.
Crystal encouraged us to face our Significant Other and peer into each other’s peepers with the intensity of a cataract specialist.
KATHY LETTE
With increased longevity, from honeymoon to tomb can now be 50, 60, 70 years. That’s a long time to find each other’s boudoir repertoire compelling. “It’s like being mauled by an anaesthetised sloth,” is how one of my married female friends describes bedroom encounters with her hubby.
So, can your sex life be improved by a coach? It’s a question with which many long-term couples wrestle – when perhaps their time would be better spent simply nude wrestling?
In the name of research, I dragooned my partner of eight years to an introductory couples’ class. Our first exercise involved “eye gazing”. Crystal encouraged us to face our Significant Other and peer into each other’s peepers with the intensity of a cataract specialist. We next moved onto silent hand-holding followed by a “heart dance” which is a long hug with hearts pressed together.
We were then instructed to think about our “erotic portfolio”. What were our secret desires? “S&M, perhaps?” she asked, looking directly at me. “Ah, no. I’ve always presumed bondage is just an inventive way of keeping your partner from going home too early.”
“Dominance?” I shook my head. “The only thing I’ve ever whipped is cream.”
“Autoeroticism?” I didn’t even know what that was.
“Orgies?” Once more, I gulped. The very thought of group sex makes me suffer from a performance anxiety I haven’t felt since those hedonistic hours of enforced folk dancing in primary school. Surely, the only good things about an orgy is that it does away with anxiety about what to wear?
Crystal kept probing the women in the room. Perhaps fantasy role play would float our fun boat? Surely, the average woman’s top role play involves lying on a couch drinking, while hubby helps the kids with their homework?
Crystal then advised us all to discover our “sexual chi” with sex toys, which she then demonstrated. I watched, agog. Surely, I’d need a licence to operate such heavy machinery? I had no doubt that any attempt I made would end up with a totally humiliating trip to the emergency department.
For inspiration, Crystal showed a video of couples in acts of intercourse so graphic and badly lit it made my legs go to jelly. Classmates whose legs still functioned fled, leaving human-shaped holes in the walls. One thing was for sure, my sexual inhibitions would soon be cured, mainly because I would now be celibate for the rest of my life.
Undeterred, Crystal suggested my partner and I try a simpler communication exercise as our first homework assignment – pouring water over each other’s wrists with our eyes closed.
The next day we diligently set about our task. But after 10 boring minutes my partner asked, “What if I run you a bath, then cook dinner and wash up?”
And, dear reader, I’ve never found him so desirable. The only kind of water women want running over a man’s wrists is the washing up. The only eye contact? Asking him to pass the gravy for the feast he’s just rustled up.
I now have a few instructions for Crystal. The way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach – that is not aiming too high. Our greatest aphrodisiac? A man in an apron.
Oh, and just to be clear, “autoeroticism” does not mean making love in the back seat during the wax/dry cycle. I won’t be going back to that car wash for a while.
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