It is a Sunday afternoon. My children are at the park with their dad, and I am at a workshop called ‘Know Your Sexual Self’. Why? Because I avoid sexual self-consciousness as much as possible, and apparently it is healthy to face your crippling fears.
Two strangers are analysing my ‘sexual wheel of life’, a pie chart I’ve coloured in detailing the 12 qualities I’d like my sex life to contain – love, lust, anticipation, spontaneity and so on – and the extent to which each is present.
We conclude that there are quite a few neglected areas. Sharing this intimate information, I realise to my astonishment, does not bother me. Ten hours in, my reserve has all but gone. I listen without cringing and am happy to have the advice.
When I told a friend who is a clinical psychologist that I was planning to attend this workshop, she screamed and made a “yuck” face. My husband of 17 years, whom I did not even consider inviting to join me, was concerned only that I and the other 15 participants would “become aroused”.
