Sex isn’t one of my subjects.
In my first two novels
when couples got together
when couples were happy
and naked, I would close the door.
And in my most recent book
stories and poems, still the sex
takes place off camera. But a few
days ago when The New York Times
discovered the clitoris, at last
(makes you wonder what else
The New York Times doesn’t know)
I thought maybe now
I’d write a sex poem (or
maybe not.)
Sex.
I don’t write about it. More than once, I’ve tried.
Although people have suggested I add a sex scene to my novels, I tend to close the
door when a couple is engaged in physical activities. Rigorous or not.
I don’t think I’m prudish or shy or unwilling to be revealing. I don’t think I have
a big sex secret either. It’s more that I don’t know the words.
This week, two friends and I had dinner in one of my favorite restaurants in New York,
Wolf, located in an unlikely spot, on the third floor of Nordstroms.
It’s elegant, quiet, and understated.
The tables are far enough apart from one another to give diners a sense of
separateness. It’s a place where you can say absolutely anything, and no one who is
not at your table can listen.
We were celebrating the eightieth birthday of a friend, a beautiful, dynamic woman,
who works hard as a therapist, plays pickle ball and tennis frequently, even skis,
travels constantly, has a happy late marriage to a man she still likes. She has a full
rich life. Our dinner was her fourth birthday celebration in a row. She looked
energized, luminous, full of life and hope.
What would you like to talk about? I asked them both. Aging is an infinite subject.
The other woman, beautiful therapist too, single now, said SEX. It was the day the
New York Times discovered the clitoris (certainly took them a while and makes you
wonder what they’ll discover next. Maybe female orgasms.
The second woman said that she’d spent all day asking her patients if they’d read the
article, and if they could talk about their sex lives.
We don’t talk about sex enough she said. Let’s do that now.
What would we say I asked. I have been married a very long time, 41 years, and even
when I was young and unmarried, I wasn’t too good talking sex. I tried. I even went
once to a Betty Dodson masturbation class, amazing but beyond my own particular
powers of description. I was working as a reporter then for a newspaper called
American Report. A South African male reporter, Dick Usher, who’d interviewed
Betty Dodson, suggested he write thepaper’s female masturbation piece. And he did.
Older women should talk about sex more said the woman who was leading the
conversation.
We should say what we want and how we feel.
What about the trips we had years ago said the celebrant. People we met on foreign
beaches. The endless encounters we had.
Not the past said our friend. Let’s talk about now.
And there we were. Three older women. Not talking much about sex.
Still hard after all these years, to know what to say.
I’ve read other people on the subject. Famous and less so.
I’m still not much good at it all these years later.
Nina Simone is.
Love to all,
Esther
Yeah!
Silence is Golden ! Screw the NY TIMES.