In the name of research, I dragooned my partner of eight years to an introductory couplesβ class. Our first exercise involved βeye gazingβ. Crystal encouraged us to face our Significant Other and peer into each otherβs peepers with the intensity of a cataract specialist. We next moved onto silent hand-holding followed by a βheart danceβ which is a long hug with hearts pressed together.
We were then instructed to think about our βerotic portfolioβ. What were our secret desires? βS&M, perhaps?β she asked, looking directly at me. βAh, no. Iβve always presumed bondage is just an inventive way of keeping your partner from going home too early.β
βDominance?β I shook my head. βThe only thing Iβve ever whipped is cream.β
βAutoeroticism?β I didnβt even know what that was.
βOrgies?β Once more, I gulped. The very thought of group sex makes me suffer from a performance anxiety I havenβt felt since those hedonistic hours of enforced folk dancing in primary school. Surely, the only good things about an orgy is that it does away with anxiety about what to wear?
Crystal kept probing the women in the room. Perhaps fantasy role play would float our fun boat? Surely, the average womanβs top role play involves lying on a couch drinking, while hubby helps the kids with their homework?
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Crystal then advised us all to discover our βsexual chiβ with sex toys, which she then demonstrated. I watched, agog. Surely, Iβd need a licence to operate such heavy machinery? I had no doubt that any attempt I made would end up with a totally humiliating trip to the emergency department.
For inspiration, Crystal showed a video of couples in acts of intercourse so graphic and badly lit it made my legs go to jelly. Classmates whose legs still functioned fled, leaving human-shaped holes in the walls. One thing was for sure, my sexual inhibitions would soon be cured, mainly because I would now be celibate for the rest of my life.
Undeterred, Crystal suggested my partner and I try a simpler communication exercise as our first homework assignment β pouring water over each otherβs wrists with our eyes closed.
The next day we diligently set about our task. But after 10 boring minutes my partner asked, βWhat if I run you a bath, then cook dinner and wash up?β
And, dear reader, Iβve never found him so desirable. The only kind of water women want running over a manβs wrists is the washing up. The only eye contact? Asking him to pass the gravy for the feast heβs just rustled up.
I now have a few instructions for Crystal. The way to a womanβs heart is through her stomach β that is not aiming too high. Our greatest aphrodisiac? A man in an apron.
Oh, and just to be clear, βautoeroticismβ does not mean making love in the back seat during the wax/dry cycle. I wonβt be going back to that car wash for a while.
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