In a sex-obsessed culture, women still have trouble asking for what they want in bed

The ladies trickle, slowly and tentatively, into the sex shop. Rather than turning right through the main door toward the sales floor’s hot-pink vibrators and tattooed staff, they keep left, climbing a narrow staircase into a little carpeted attic. They shake rainwater off their umbrellas and find seats in the circle of chairs, scooting around each other and mumbling “excuse mes” and “sorrys.” They look shyly at their laps, poke at their phones. One floor above the array of silicone toys promising advanced pleasure to the adventurous, these fifteen or so women aged twenty to sixty are here on a much braver quest: to learn how to have an orgasm. For nearly all, it will be their first one.

In contrast to the riotous main floor of Good For Her, Toronto’s sex store built for women, the quiet attic is solemn, its lights soft. The five-hour workshop, held on a drizzly Sunday morning in April, isn’t meant for drop-ins. Participants have planned many weeks in advance, driving in from surrounding suburbs, leaving kids with grandparents or husbands.
The store’s founder, Carlyle Jansen, stands, tall and self-contained. “This is probably the first time you’ve been around people who understand you,” she says softly. She asks everyone to say their name, a little about why they’re here and, lastly, to share something they have recently learned.
Porn has become our mainstream aesthetic where our ideal body is one that is sculpted, tanned, and hairless—ready for nudity at a moment’s notice.
The room is quiet. Someone clears her throat.
“Hi, I’m Sherry. I’ve never had an orgasm,” begins one woman, with a mix of reluctance and relief. “Um . . . and I’m learning to salsa dance.”

To read more from this book excerpt published in The Walrus Magazine, click here.