The sex therapist isn’t at all how I imagined her. I don’t know what you might expect when you meet a sex therapist; but, I suppose I was thinking, oddly, of either a jolly grandmotherly woman or a stiff, lab-coat-sporting scientist. Which is weird, because the only ‘real-world’ references I have for sex therapists are the former Canadian talk show host, Sue Johanson from her show that was called Sex with Sue, and American talk show host, Dr. Phil (I’m not sure what his last name is – Oprahson?), neither of whom I ever watched except on occasions when I was stuck in a room with a TV on, and I had no access to a remote (which happens far too frequently). And, what’s more, I don’t even know why I still bother trying to imagine in advance what any medical professionals might be like. Who could have predicted my first pain and rehab doctor would be missing an arm, an eye and an ear? (But that’s a completely different story.)
I guess I never imagined I would be in a situation where I would meet with a sex therapist. I thought they were beyond my ken – like astronauts. Who doesn’t love stargazing and following the phases of the moon? In university, I took astronomy courses to fulfill my math and science credits, so I used to know (and sometimes still do – at age 47 this kind of information isn’t always accessible unless you’re tapping into it on a regular basis) all kinds of amazing facts about the universe.
We all live in the universe, but almost nobody goes into space. We all live in bodies that are designed to have sex, but almost nobody researches human sexuality, studies medicine, and then spends a lot of her time meeting with a variety of people to discuss sex in an effort to promote their sexual health. Who goes there? Well. Me, it turns out. And my husband was there, too.
My sex therapist is a tall, slim woman with a slight British accent and a gentle demeanor. She works out of a run-of-the-mill doctor’s office. If there is anything decorating the walls it’s so neutral as to be forgettable. She has a large window with a pleasant view. And, with her help, we began exploring.
Now, of course, I wonder if I’ll ever meet an astronaut.
No Lull? 
Andrea’s parents know Bob Thirsk 🙂
Frank might introduce me to a real live (sad reference to Mr. Armstrong) astronaut!?
Ok, You have me intrigued. What happened next?
…I guess you’ll have to keep reading the blog!
Andrew and I are currently reading (well – Andrew is, I’m waiting for it to come my way) “Bonk” by Mary Roach. She’s looking at the science of sex… Is reading your blog going to make me want to visit a sex therapist?
Perhaps, perhaps…but now I DEFINITELY want to read “Bonk”.
Not too confident that one can get reliable scientific data about sex from a book called “Bonk”. Unless you are looking for information about Neanderthal sex, or the procreation of Looney Toons characters. In that case you may want to also check out “Grunt” or the book that is currently wildly popular with junior-high-aged boys, “50 shades of Whiz, Bang, Blam, Kerpow, Zing, Buzz, and (insert kazoo and slide whistle sounds here).”
You may want to disregard my comment, as I get my astronomy info from Hollywood star maps.
Aren’t you also the guy who recently asked, “Why is it that inaccessibility, essoteric jargon, retreat from popular engagement, and navel gazing are so common in the “highest” forms of most disciplines?” I won’t know until I read it…but, I’ll let you know if ‘Bonk’ is a bit of push-back on behalf of curious regular folk. Now, though, I secretly hope it also tells me how looney-tunes procreate.
P.S. What sign are you?
I was born in mid April in 1978. I think that makes me a chinchilla or a noodle soup of some kind. Oh wait, now I remember my sign. Yeah, that’s it, I’m a “Phalanges.”