No, this blog isn't all about sex

In fact, I'll prove it (at least a little bit).

Last night, I ate pizza for the first time in months. Dairy is no friend of mine, but cheese, oh cheese, how do I miss thee! If I am to pay for my sins, though, I always try to make sure they're worth it. Therefore, the following was obtained from Pizzacato last night:

Shrimp, artichoke hearts, chevre, roasted garlic and sprinkles of basil and sun-dried tomatoes on a garlic and oil base. Lip-smakin' good.

And, now, back to sex.

People keep asking me in grad school what I want to specialize in, and I say things like, "Hell if I know," or "Listening to other people's stories," or sometimes I say something like, "Major life transitions" or "grief, except for it's just so ... sad," but here's the truth: Sex. Sexuality. Sexual deviancy. Sexual pleasure.

It's not just because I was raised Catholic, either, as Dr. M might inquire. Although that sure would be a part of it.

See, I know from personal experience just how effed up people can get in their heads from even just how they think about sex, and let me tell you, it is a sad, sad thing. When you add the oppressive lessons of the Church -- Catholic or Christian -- to the mix, well, let's just say it provides plenty of encouragement to deny what you are thinking and feeling, and to really limit your options when it comes to doing anything about said thoughts or feelings.

And let's face it, when we're not getting it on because we're afraid of it, life just is not being lived to its fullest.

If there's anything I'd like to do as a counselor, it's help people live more fully. Those "major life transitions" offer an opportunity to get a stronger, more satisfying hold on life, but living fully, in the opinion of this western lesbian post-modern feminist, includes being in touch with the power of your sexual being and enjoying it. So how can I be of assistance?

What seems to have been asked of me this week is to listen to a lot of sex talk. Only a small fraction of it had to do with the sexual disorders presentation on Thursday. The rest of it just seemed to ... happen. Like everyone I talked to this week seemed to have sex on the brain, although some of it came out through my encouragement, I admit. (A couple classmates told me they experienced the same thing this week. One blamed it on the full moon.) In any case, there was a lot of sex talk going around:

Friday: A classmate announces several times that the work on our sexual disorders presentation is making her "horny." When on Thursday, this information shared with the class by a third classmate, I was not surprised. However, I can commiserate with her. My own sex life is ... well, perhaps I should therapize MYSELF.

Saturday: A friend says how "very much" she enjoyed sex with women back in the day. But also says she determined her sexuality based on the "Bar Check," as in who do you check out in a bar. Her answer: Men. (My response, I believe, was that this conclusion is a loss to lesbians the world over. *sigh*) It should be noted that I *asked* her about all this. Much of what followed during the week was, shall we say, unprovoked.

Sunday: *Without asking,* I get an earful from The Good Witch about the experience of having sex with someone with whom she shared a profound spiritual connection. Just hearing this description makes me envious. I'll spare the rest of you, but let me say that it brought to mind that scene from "Like Water for Chocolate," in which the lovers share such hot passion that the whole place explodes into flames.

Monday: During a break in class, The Puppy makes a really unexpected announcement to me and Dr. R. "The first time I had sex -- when I was 21, which was not that long ago -- it seemed very complicated. It was just nowhere as easy as it looks on TV!" After mulling over this comment, in part wondering just where it had come from and why, I replied, like the smart ass I am, That's what KY is for." The Pup looks at me and asks, "What's KY?" And I think, Right, I forgot. Not everyone has GF for a partner -- GF who goes straight for the trump card and ignores all other stimulating factors. But I simply say, It's a lubricant. And the Pup ... writes it down in her notebook.

Tuesday: Let's just say I had a conversation with a friend that reminded me of how GF tried to "diagnose" me with Sexual Arousal Disorder (thanks, DSM, for your place of honor on my bookshelf!). That is an incorrect diagnosis, I said. I did not add the mitigating factors: There are several women I know who arouse me rather intensely. The correct diagnosis would be ... boredom -- or that aformentioned habit of playing the trump card before the game's even started. And, yes, if you must know, I have clearly communicated this. Several times. And so, I took some solace in said friend's story. I'm not broke, either, so put away that goddamned DSM if you aren't qualified to use it!

Wednesday: By Wednesday, I was starting to wonder: WHAT THE FUCK? That afternoon, I got a call from The Clairvoyant, who gave me an hour-long earful about how she'd found it irresistable to cheat on a slew of previous boyfriends. But now, she is with The One, and she no longer puts herself in such situations. Also, she has not told The One about her storied past, as she did with previous boyfriends. "After I told them I'd cheated on the guys before them, they'd always get suspicious and jealous when I'd be around other men." Isn't that curious? "So," she added. "I'm not telling The One about that. He doesn't need to know it, and I get to start with a blank slate." I'm thinking that this non-disclosure is one of the smartest moves made by The Clarivoyant in some time.

Thursday: There was the sexual disorder presentation and that video clip of "Secretary," which a classmate reminds me I called "titillating" (a word I like for its pure sound effects) when describing it to the class. And there was that curious riff by Dr. R about the elusive nature of the clitoris as orgasm approaches.

Friday: I did it to myself by reading more of Woman: An Intimate Geography, by Natalie Angier, which Les had given to me for Christmas several years ago but was, until recently, collecting dust on the bookshelf. Here's something interesting from the chapter on the clitoris: Many women don't experience orgasm until they smoke pot and have stoner sex. Or, as Angier puts it: "Marijuana can be a sexual mentor and a sublime electrician, bringing the lights of Broadway to women who have spent years in frigid darkness." (This is a sad commentary all the way around, but, damn, you just gotta love how marijuana does work some magic.) Angier points out, though, that she's never seen anorgasmia on the list of indications for the use of medical marijuana. It left me imagining a ballot measure here in The Big O: "Because all Oregonians deserve the right to orgasm, and because altered states of consciousness allow you to stop watching and waiting for that pot to boil, hereby let it be resolved that medical marijuana be approved for the purposes of allowing women a really smashing orgasm." I can just see the religious right's campaign ads against that one. "One Man, One Woman, One Orgasm."

Well, I'd sign the petition if someone asked me to. Every woman deserves to orgasm.

And so we're back to Saturday: If you can believe it, The Clairvoyant called back to have another talk about sex. I answered the phone, and she asked, "Do you have a bunch of women over there?" No, I took GF to the airport at 5 this morning, on her way to Hong Kong, and now I am just here by myself. "What are you doing?" she asks, the first question in a series that most recently ended in asking me about my clothes and underwear. I put a quick end to it: Writing in my blog about sex. I'm thinking perhaps I'd be a sex therapist someday. "Oh, you'd be good at that!," TC replies. Then she starts telling me about how, after more than three years, she's still keeping things interesting with The One. And how she needs to, she says, because "he's like a lesbian; he'd be happy to snuggle on the couch and hold hands." I groan, and she adds, "I was on the stairmaster the other day, reading an article about sex toys. You know, vibrators are very bad for you. Dildos are OK, but not vibrators. You can have an orgasm in, like, two seconds with a vibrator. It makes you lazy. It also makes it hard on your partner. It's hard to compete with one of those things unless your partner is just like, r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r (twilling her toungue), like a flamenco singer. I mean, jesus, can you imagine?" An image of a fully-dressed flamenco dancer eating box comes to my mind, and I start laughing. Fortunately, I don't have that problem, I reply.

But now I sure as shit do have sex on the brain. Thanks to a little help from my friends.