On Monday evening I explained ‘rimming’ to my mother. I had phoned to say hello, but somehow the conversation took a surreal and unexpected turn.

“I don’t think you want to know,” I said, but she was having none of it.
“Yes I do. I asked, didn’t I?” she countered, so I told her.
Mammy Sexton was quite stoic. “I don’t think I’ll be trying that,” she said and the conversation moved on.
In a way, chatting about rimming with the mother seemed oddly apt – it had been a strange few days. I’d met a polyamorist from the Appalachian Mountains; gone on a date with a man I am convinced was gay; and been to a ‘pussy power’ workshop.
I met the polyamorist in the pub. We had exactly nothing in common, so of course, by the end of the evening we were best friends, despite me calling him a “horny hillbilly” and a “non-monogamous mountain man.”
“I’m not poly with my family,” he drawled. “Not even my cousins!”
A couple of days later I arrived in Chester. I was heading to a conference at the university with my old friend Beth. I got in a day early, because I had agreed to go to dinner with a friend of a friend I’d met through Facebook who lived in Manchester.
“I can’t wait to meet you in person,” he’d written. “I think you’re very pretty.”
Two glasses of wine and a bowl of pasta later it was obvious that there was no spark. Now, I am not so vain as to think that men who don’t fancy me must prefer same-sex relationships – far from it – but I do have excellent gaydar. Even as an innocent convent girl I had suspected that my very first boyfriend might be gay, and – as it turned out – I was right.
Some of my favourite friends are gay men and I love them – just not romantically or carnally. Suffice to say, the evening was not a success and I headed back to the hotel early and alone.
My date may have been closeted, but the conference attendees were out and proud, unashamedly sex-positive, whether that was hetero sex, gay or lesbian sex, commercial
sex or any variation of sexual pleasure you
can name.
The conference topic was ‘the body’ and covered a number of issues such as sexuality, cosmetic surgery and aging. All the usual suspects were present – feminists, queer theorists, sociologists and shrinks – but also in attendance were a sex worker, a cam girl and a woman who described herself as a
“feminist stripper.”
I was giving a paper on sex and gender roles in dating advice books such as the ‘90s classic The Rules, and comedian Steve Harvey’s Act Like A Lady, Think Like A Man. Now I am pretty sure that Hot Press readers, being sophisticated types, are unfamiliar with these great tomes of self-help, but essentially, they are full of ridiculous advice to help lovelorn ladies land a husband – in a nutshell, wear a nice frock, don’t voice any opinions, and whatever you do, don’t
have sex!
Even in committed, monogamous or married relationships, being keen on getting naked with your significant other is frowned upon. Apparently nothing emasculates a man more than wanting to shag him. The Rules warns ladies: “In a relationship, the man must take charge… We’re not making this up – biologically, he’s the aggressor.”
The Pussy Power workshop was an optional extra and, although she was keen, Beth was a little unsure.
“Do you think they’ll want us to take off our pants?” she asked.
“Nah,” I replied, but truth be told, I was a little worried about this myself. I’m all for bigging up the vajayjay as a thing of beauty and a joy forever, but I was less keen on sharing mine with a roomful of strangers – especially since I was wearing cotton underpants in faded black. I realised the irony of this, of course, but you know, presentation is important!
The only man in our group, Marcus, tried to beg off the workshop and head to the student bar where most of the blokes were congregating over pints, but his girlfriend Anita was having none of it. He trudged behind us into the lecture hall looking sheepish. Now that’s pussy power!
I was concerned that the workshop was going to be some awful, vaguely spiritual, accessing the mystic and sublime through the power of the vagina, which struck me as a real possibility. Naomi Wolf was the conference keynote speaker and her book, Vagina: A New Biography, is a troubling blend of pro-woman rhetoric, pseudoscience and plain old bullshit, such as the idea that women think with their vajayjays – which is not only nonsense, it’s insulting.
In person, however, Wolf was very pleasant and her paper on the impact of 18th and 19th century obscenity laws on gay poets was very enjoyable and informative, which made me feel guilty for hating the book.
As we entered the lecture hall, up on the screen, there was a collage of vaginas, in glorious colour and 20 times bigger than life size. All of these were different – hairy and shaved; pierced and natural; long labia and short labia; some with tiny clitorises and others with huge ones. The workshop leader, a no-nonsense Annie Lennox lookalike, was making the point that lady bits come in a variety of shapes and sizes and that this is perfectly normal.
“Next time you are alone, get a hand mirror and have a good look at yourself,” she suggested.
Far from being airy-fairy nonsense, the workshop was full of concrete biological facts and practical advice. The workshop leader suggested we purchase speculums to really get a good look at ourselves and demonstrated various kinds of strap-ons, harnesses and dildos, which can be used with male or female partners, or as she put it, “bodies with pussies” and “bodies with cocks.”
As it turned out, pants removal was a regular occurrence at the workshop and normally happens at the end. But the workshop leader decided that as there were so many of us, we would forego this part of the process. Beside me, Beth sighed in relief.
“So what have you been up to?” Mammy Sexton asked when I’d called. I told her about the gay date, the polyamorist and the conference.
“But why would a gay man ask you out?” wondered my mother. “What would you do with him?”
“Rimming!” my younger sister, listening in on speakerphone, suggested helpfully – thus leading to the awkward conversation.
If rimming didn’t appeal to my mother, polyamory was another matter.
“Relationships with more than one person,” she said, “Oh my, that sounds like fun! Ah, I wish I was younger!”
Was she joking? I like to
think so.