Fine, I’ll admit it. I’m a bit of a prude.
Conversations about sex make me uncomfortable. I blush at the mention of anything remotely sexual, and have always felt somewhat apologetic towards both my gynaecologist and my waxer. I seem to be stuck in a time warp where nudity and sex and women’s business still happen behind closed doors. In inside voices.
So when I was invited to Pleasure Weekend, a two-day workshop with the purpose of “discovering the depths of my sexual and sensual self”, I politely declined. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be fine back here in my 1953 sewing circle.
But as fate would have it, no other writer could attend. The task was on my shoulders, and the more I was appalled at the idea of going, the more I realised I had to go.
First thoughts: Is it possible to die from stress rash?
Despite having put myself in a variety of challenging situations for an article many times before (three words: adult ballet class) ‘Pleasure Weekend’ had to take the cake.
It was so far out of my comfort zone it wasn’t even on the map. Just the idea of talking to a room full of women about sex was making me blush.
An otherwise very open-minded person with an issue with oversharing, I was confused at how resistant I was to the experience. Why was it making me so nervous? Wasn’t I more mature than this? Was there something wrong with me?
My intention for the workshop was set: to try and figure out why it scared me so much.
Oh, and not run from the building screaming.