I was recently at one of these sales with a friend when I discovered a basket of luxurious lingerie and undergarments in a rainbow of colours and soft, slinky fabrics. I called my friend over to show off my find. “Eeuuww,” she wrinkled her nose, ”used underwear? Why do you think you can’t return panties and swimwear? That’s just disgusting!”

Now this is no conservative, sexually repressed, narrow-thinking woman. On most matters she is a liberal, free-spirited critical thinker. Her comment got me thinking about why we can’t return underwear and swimsuits. In fact, there are notices posted in dressing rooms demanding that we try on these items over our own panties. Hmmm.

The only possible reason I could comprehend for such a policy is the antiquated belief that female genitals are dirty and/or disease-ridden. Does this guideline echo “You’ll catch VD from a toilet seat” thinking? What harm could possibly come to the next wearer of a swimsuit I tried on?

I suggest that we don’t even consider how these myths about our “dirty” bodies are perpetuated. We know how sexually transmitted infections are passed between people, and sharing clothing is simply not on the list. The prohibition about panties and swimsuits is based solely on superstition and body hatred, not on fact. I can return socks that I have worn on my smelly feet or shirts and sweaters that I’ve sweated on—far more offensive, wouldn’t you say?

The lingerie I found at that garage sale had clearly all been washed. In any case, I would wash it before I wore it as I would any used clothing I bought from any source. My health was not at risk.

What did happen was that the discovery of that basket of sheer lovelies generated a conversation about how we so unthinkingly accept taboos about sexuality.

I hope that the next time you find yourself expressing an “Eeuuww” that you stop and think about the roots of your concern. It is only when we can challenge the threats to our bodies as genuinely good and acceptable that we can embrace our sexuality wholeheartedly. Some of these threats are subtle. This is but one example. Be aware of others. The more of these you encounter—and jettison—the more you will be able to accept and enjoy your own sexual body…and that’s the pay-off.

One firebrand scoffed: “I was on a crowded streetcar when I felt someone groping me. It was just once too often! I grabbed his wrist, held it high above my head, and asked loudly, ‘I just found this hand on my ass. Does it belong to anybody here?’ I held on until he was identified by all around. He was the one humiliated, I tell you. I don’t know where I got the courage, but I don’t worry about unwanted touch anymore.”

Her reaction was akin to the Greek women’s practice of carrying rocks in their pockets for pelting their molesters. Sadly, women worldwide learn they must fear men. They learn also that their protestations may be dismissed and that they may be punished for making them. This same reason often keeps women from reporting rapes.

Surely men are learning a lesson that they are entitled to touch. When women’s protests are firm but polite, they are sometimes not taken seriously. With the burden of sexual initiation placed so squarely on men’s shoulders, where do they draw the line between persistent and predatory? None of us seems too comfortable with actually talking about sex with each other. It’s little wonder some men resort to ham-handed attempts at furtive connection when they lack the skills to make social contact, much less establish loving relationships.

For their part, women are learning to be sexual victims. Deborah Tannen added a half hour to her daily commute so she could safely sit on her target rather than defend it. I understand her, as do most women. We have been scared silent. We are generally smaller and weaker than men, and pay equity is still a dream, keeping us financially disadvantaged and often dependent. We’ve been culturally trained to feel shamed if we are mauled, though the logic of this escapes me.

I don’t have a solution, but I don’t think literal rock-carrying is the answer. I propose we talk to each other about how horrible this empty and unwanted touch feels from both directions. I think it will help if we carry our voices in our throats as surely as we carry rocks in our pockets and use them on the same occasions. It would help too if we insist that we will not be made victims by men or by our bodies, but will stand proud.

I can only surmise that some men feel so isolated and contact-starved that they resort to stealing touch. While sad, it gives them no right to violate the rights of others. I hear from women that they, too, wish for more loving touch but often receive only perfunctory fumbling. We need to learn better communication, as we all seem to want more closeness and intimacy.

As we learn to accomplish this, I agree that women would do well to carry metaphorical rocks in their pockets. When all we want to do is ride the bus, we needn’t put up with any man’s inability to communicate adequately his social or sexual desires. We certainly need not become his groping victim. We’ve a right to be left alone, and if that is violated, we’ve a right to make a scene and a spectacle of our attacker. Ever since contemplating and discussing Dr Tannen’s article, I’ve felt more powerful and somehow happier. Now I don’t go out without my rocks. I think it’s a good decision.

This month’s Hot Topic is not about that valuable conference, but about a field trip I took during my weekend there. During my graduate studies in San Francisco, I learned that The Lusty Lady peep show there was the only union-run shop in the country (Seattle’s, sadly, is not). I had cheered Carol Queen’s sensitive and hilarious performance piece about working there. Still, I had never seen it for myself and here was my chance. After a testosterone soaked day at the FtM conference, I sought balance in an estrogen-dipped experience at The Lusty Lady, Seattle style.

I was excited. Dressed in a low-cut top and high-heeled shoes, my cleavage was padded with money to spend. I didn’t know what to expect, although I had previously enjoyed strip shows and exotic cabarets. I trotted in, trying to look comfortable and worldly.

The receptionist eyed me, sighed, and gently asked, “Want me to explain how it works here?” I had fooled nobody! I bought twenty dollars’ worth of ones (which quite impressed the fella behind me), listened to my options and headed inside, hopeful for an evening of entertainment.

Beyond the doors lay a different environment. No more eye contact, bright lighting, and quick smiles–here it was dark, hushed, and cold. One long corridor of doors led off another, and each door reached only to the knees, below which stood rumpled trousers above still shoes. Nothing moved. There was no floorshow. The entertainment here was clearly solitary.

For a moment I considered turning on my heel and retreating, pretending I’d simply walked into the wrong theatre. This was not at all what I was expecting. But my curiosity propelled me forward.

I found a legless door and slipped inside a dark claustrophobic cubicle with a little box for whisking in dollar bills. All right! I had a brafull of those. Immediately one wall of the booth snapped skyward to reveal a brilliantly lit, fluorescent pink Astroturf- and mirror-covered room occupied by three very young, very bored, very bare women in impossibly high heels touching themselves like the models on late night TV. I quickly realized they couldn’t see or hear me—I could not interact with them. The only role available to me was that of voyeur. The curtain snapped shut.

I fed in another dollar.

I tried to turn this scene into fantasy but was overwhelmed with what felt like loneliness. I moved closer to the window to feel less isolated only to hear one of the dancers squeal “We got a girl over here.” They could see me through the screen! How rare it must be for them to see another female face in those windows. I retreated into the darkness of the booth, unsure of my role. They quickly forgot me.

I learned a lot about sex that night at The Lusty Lady, especially about how men can access non-personal sex more easily than I as a woman could. I understand now how important it can be for a woman to wear sexy lingerie for a man, because that connection is powerful and immediate for him and by being part of the action, she gets to participate in it.

It seems men can translate a visual image to a mental erotic state, bypassing the emotional stations that women visit on the way to arousal. Women lament that men don’t indulge them in the romance they need to feel sexy. I see now that women don’t pander to men’s need for that direct link between their eyes and their cocks either. My visit to The Lusty Lady showed me how different our pathways can be. I see now that, with that understanding, we can make sure that each gender gives the other what they need so that the fires are kept mutually burning.

Yes, my weekend in Seattle taught me valuable sexological lessons. I hope that sharing my experiences with you enriches your understanding of how complex and magnificent our erotic lives can be. Gals, climb into something sexy. Guys, reward her with whispered sweet nuthins. We all win.

And women (and many men) listened! Who would vote for something that caused harm to women and children? Dworkin’s anti-pornography platform appealed to women who were on the brink of accepting or rejecting their sexual power. Even as we chose to say “Yes” to sex, we could not ignore warnings from anti-sex feminists that men’s sexuality was dangerous. Many of us folded. We agreed that viewing sexually explicit material (though few of us ever dared to see any of it) was degrading to women and a threat to the security of the couple bond. We thanked our mates for not being ‘that kind of man’ and forgot about porn altogether, except perhaps to worry privately with other women about the wolf in the woods.

Now, in the new millennium, watching porn is like masturbating. We all do it, but we don’t talk about it. We do not want to get caught doing either, and when we ARE caught there’s often hell to pay, just as we feared. Couples veer off course over this issue. Assumptions play heavily in the drama. For instance, while she assumes that he is not watching porn (for political reasons, or because — she believes — it is tantamount to cheating), he assumes that she knows he both views porn and masturbates (often simultaneously).

When Dworkin-influenced women discover their partner’s erotic pastime, they feel betrayed and abandoned. Body image issues further obscure the situation when she compares her body to those on the Internet…some hard acts to follow. She wonders why she alone is not enough and questions her desirability. She wonders why her beloved mate would not confide this private sex to her, and she questions the solidity of their bond.

Often, I enter the scene here. Either gender may call me, desperate for help in de-escalating what is quickly challenging their whole relationship. Following therapy, many couples remark that, oddly, confronting and exploring the many meaningful layers of pornography moved them to a deeper, more authentic, and sexier place.

But in the beginning, it just feels rotten for everybody. Therapy begins by acknowledging the enormity of the emotional turmoil the discovery has caused, and reaffirming the couple’s stable relationship. Once everyone understands gender differences in regards to visual stimulation (guys like the stuff a lot and we tend not to understand the fascination) and once we learn to speak openly about sex, the problem becomes more manageable. Women’s ‘porn’, from high budget Hollywood sizzlers like Unfaithful to sappy romantic bodice rippers, is absolved of sin because of the safe plot lines. Women are soothed by relationships, and if we can say we are watching character development while our men can claim to be only watching smut, then our titillation is noble and theirs is base. We are so easily judgmental about lust. It is important that we alter our perspective on this issue for the sake of our relationships. Think about it: if we women are successful in eliminating all of our men’s erotic turn-ons, we ‘win’ sexless mates. Talk about shooting ourselves in the foot!

What we women must do, instead, is open ourselves to exploring erotic stimulation, whether with fantasy, erotica (the sanitized term for porn) or actual sex, partnered or solo. Women are often less visually cued than men are, but we are no less excitable or interested. We need to foster our own and our mate’s interest in sex and get out of our own way regarding political correctness. We need to seek out images in film and literature that arouse us, too. We need to demand and support pornography that we like. Perhaps most importantly, we need to accept differences in how we experience desire and fulfillment. It is not in anyone’s best interest to make sex or desire our enemy.

Finally, as we learn to accept sex in its diverse and glorious forms, we can risk speaking sexual words, thoughts, and feelings. This is what heals a rift caused by confronting our societal over-reactions to pornography. If we can talk about the hard stuff, surely we can talk about the hot stuff, too. And that’s the carrot. We face our fears and risk vulnerability in our search to understand another human being. In response, intimacy builds and love and sex can flow freely again.

Andrea Dworkin connected patriarchy and porn, and she opened a discussion that had not previously been dared. Unfortunately, she got confused between sex-ist and sex-ual. Pornography got a bad rap. Research repeatedly proves that pornography does not cause violence to women. Sex is not our enemy, nor are men. It is our fear of sexual power that trips us up. Desire can no more be controlled or owned than can love. Better to let it flourish and thus stay so acutely tuned in to its rhythms that it defines our lives as couples bound by our mutual appreciation for the sex we share.

Farewell, Ms. Dworkin. You made us look critically at how we experience desire and arousal, and we owe you a debt of gratitude for that. You represented the extreme of radical feminism, showing us where the edges were. You symbolized an era in which we came to terms with our views (and viewings) on sex. Fortunately, you were mistaken that we needed to live in fear and distrust. We know now that we live together better when we share and encourage desire, rather than retreating to separate camps where we measure and analyze our sexual responses for their sinister intentions. Perhaps your passing will mark the end of an era where women feel righteous about controlling sexual desire and instead embrace it as a human privilege. Perhaps a new message will emerge to replace the fear and loathing you engendered – a message that celebrates desire.

This show was segmented into several mini therapy sessions, the first of which was the story of a 30-something, urban woman, married for about five years, who was having great difficulty forgiving her husband for a “transgression” that occurred prior to their wedding. She was clearly stuck in her emotions, her trust of her husband was woefully lacking, and she admitted that her feelings about the issue were negatively affecting the marriage.

The story got my interest, but I was non-plussed when I learned the details of the husband’s trangression. It seems that before their wedding, the groom’s friends threw him a surprise bachelor party at which strippers performed. They danced and flirted, and one of the entertainers treated the groom to a lap dance.

Some time later, after the wedding, the bride began to ruminate about what might have happened at that party, and she snooped into her husband’s things to locate the video. (No mention was made about this snooping or its implications… but I digress.) She found and watched the tape, and from that point on felt imperiously righteous about demeaning and punishing her husband for defiling the “sacred” nature of their marriage. (It was notable to me that “sacred”’ was a word much bandied about during the segment.) The husband insisted he had not even touched the dancer, and though the tape proved him truthful, the bride insisted it didn’t matter because his mere attendance at such a disgraceful event desecrated their union.

At this point I felt confident that Oprah, along with her expert, would point out the flaws in this woman’s argument. The expert was a woman named E. Jean, whose credentials included writing a column for a women’s magazine and authoring several books for the same audience. No educational accomplishments were mentioned.

It rapidly became apparent that E. Jean’s position was horror at this “male chauvinist’s” behaviour. According to her, he was guilty of lustful feelings and of disrespect toward his wife. When she announced that the sacrament of the next night’s marital bed had been defiled by his wanton behaviour, the audience cheered.

I had not expected this. I thought the audience (and certainly the ‘expert’) would reassure the woman that her doubts could be calmed by reflecting on the loving manner with which her husband treated her daily. I thought they might advise her that the somewhat juvenile ritual of the bachelor party was in fact a farewell to casual sex and a celebration of abundant marital lovemaking. I thought American women were more progressive, more savvy, more hip.

This poor guy, up on stage before millions of viewers didn’t have a chance. He weakly protested that he’d not even touched the stripper, nor had he known about the party. This didn’t matter. He had lusted in his heart. His punishment? Well, that was interesting. Columnist E. Jean suggested he could find redemption if he funded a day at the spa for his bride and a group of her friends! They would receive facials, manicures, massages, and champagne, and would end the day toasting the sanctity of the couple’s marriage. Oprah nodded and the audience applauded. I was flummoxed:

Why is a day of her sensual pleasuring atonement for an evening of his sexual fantasy? Talk about a double standard!

Why did we forsake the thrill of erotic anticipation and replace it with humdrum ownership rituals? When did we forget the power we earned during the sexual revolution of the sixties when, for the first time ever, we became free to say ‘yes’ to sex devoid of the consequence of pregnancy or judgment?

My initial reaction to Oprah’s show was disbelief, followed by anger, followed in turn by an abiding sadness. Faithfulness is far more an attitude than a behaviour. Lust isn’t our enemy. Indeed, we need it as our friend.

We certainly have our own sexual Columbines. There was the Montreal Massacre, which resonated with fear and hatred of the female gender. We have the Pig Farm murders. Ditto. We have continuing gay bashings in the West End which seem to go curiously under-investigated and rarely resolved. Are we witnessing another expression of the confusion between sex and violence? Or is Canada swept away with the same kind of blinkered adherence to an unexamined social more of denial of pleasure as the United States is to the insanity of violence as an end as well as a means to capturing a sense of security?

Is it this fear that causes our attempts to silence information about sex? Why does pleasure frighten us so? What are we afraid will happen if we revel in sensual delight, if we talk openly and approvingly of loving connections, if we educate our population (young and old alike) to the joys as well as the consequences of sex? Michael Moore discovered no solutions, but his perceptive view of the problem may encourage critical and creative thinking regarding what seems to be a silly obsession with violence. If we look at sex and sensuality with that same kind of clear perspective, might we see better and kinder solutions ourselves?

~Ernest Gaines

As a sex therapist and educator, I belong to several professional organizations, some quite academic, others more supportive. A few months ago at a less formal meeting of sex educators, the topic of the British TV show Queer as Folk was being discussed. Having only basic cable, I miss many of the edgier channels and so had never seen the show. My colleagues, a more-liberal-than-mainstream bunch regarding sexuality, were concerned and appalled at the sexual images used in the stories. They were particularly upset that this show was aired during prime time, making it accessible to teens. They worried that adolescents might view these images without the tempering input of a parent. I thought the show must be very raunchy and marvelled that it had passed Canadian censorship boards, not a very liberal bunch.

In my local video store the other day, I spotted a section of TV series tapes. There were two tapes (the first season, I believe) of Queer as Folk. Now I could see for myself what all the hoopla was about!

I viewed the tapes and was indeed appalled at the messages, but for entirely different reasons.

I thought the sex scenes were honest, informative, and not overly graphic. Never, for instance, did I see an erect penis, though the encounters themselves read as “true”. I could imagine how useful these sexual depictions could be for curious teens (male and female, gay and straight), ignorant about just how sex is done, actually.

What alarmed me was the way in which the characters conducted themselves. Almost all of the cast members were either arrogant and unethical or stupid and unethical. Taking action that seriously hurt innocent bystanders (in one instance, a minor benign character gets deported due to the actions of several of the leads) was viewed as a social game. Families were presented as either destructive or misguided. I saw little of commitment or even fair play. I found it hard to like any of the cast members, though I pitied many of them and recoiled from others. These were not the kind of folk I would want in my life, queer or not.

And that got me to thinking about how sad it is that, after years and years of struggling for recognition and equality, the gay community finally lands a prime time television show about its own, and the characters are despicable. The irony is not lost on me. It reminds me of early film days when sexually-powerful heroines were routinely tamed, caged, or killed at the end of the movie.

Most people do the best they can to get along without hurting others, and they seek contact and intimacy over power and control. Trusting in the ultimate goodness of others propels us to risk making new friends. Queer as Folk, though supposedly a rather sensational but funny romp through London’s Canal Street scene, tarnishes not only queer people (by association) but also further insulates us to the outrage of irresponsible, unkind behaviour. I think my colleagues missed the mark on their judgment of this one: I think the problem lies not with those who love, but with those who hate.

How do you feel about this issue? How many of you have seen Queer as Folk? What are your reactions to the characters, the plot lines, the sex scenes? As always, we welcome and encourage your responses.

“Researchers may soon be able to engineer the production of whole penises outside the body, offering a solution for men who have suffered penile injuries or children born with genital defects. Experiments involving rabbits have shown that replacing the corpora cavernosa – a tube of spongy tissue in the penis that swells during an erection – with cells grown from the host results in the production of tissue capable of generating a satisfactory erection, according to the New Scientist.”

My first thought was of the case of John Wayne Bobbit, the wife-beater turned porn star turned minister who was dismembered at the hands of his desperate wife. Before this event, did anyone consider the need for penis replacement? Penectomies are rare, most are performed by their owners, and no deaths have been reported. Statistically, this is an uncommon medical predicament, and I was surprised to learn of such aggressive research on this issue.

The anatomy of the penis is complicated and would require generously-funded research to learn to build one artificially. Apparently, this money was available. Regardless of my political interest in this issue, I am delighted to learn of the accomplishment. It will certainly make easier the rocky path of those born with ambiguous genitals, female to male transsexuals, and those suffering genital accidents. Though cancer of the penis is rare, transplants would afford patients another viable choice in their treatment. Perhaps in time, science can advance the process to help men with erectile dysfunction caused by vascular diseases such as diabetes and arteriosclerosis.

I cannot help but wonder, though, how it is that we’ve figured out how to reproduce the complex structures of the penis, requiring even hydraulics, before we discovered a way to replace women’s breasts, made up mostly of fat cells. Breast cancer is a major killer of women. Even survivors tell stories of the distress surrounding treatment and the anguish of living (and dying) with a painful and debilitating disease affecting so private (and sexual) a body part. Why have we not become more expert in breast reconstruction? Why are we not hearing about breast tissue being generated in labs? What does this have to say about our priorities? Does the fog of misogyny still envelope us?

Please don’t get me wrong. I applaud any advances that enable people to live happy, healthy lives. I think it is wonderful that organ regeneration is becoming a reality. And of course I rejoice that we are aggressively pursuing research into factors affecting our sexuality. Still, I wish the playing field were a bit more level, affording equal access and importance to all of us, regardless of age, gender, race, orientation, and/or status. I do not pen this article to pit any one ‘side’ against another, but to encourage us to keep in mind the importance of including everyone in our march toward better health. Here’s to ALL of us!