SEXIS WRONG

Betty Dodson’s
Revolutionary
Open Relationship
Rachel Kramer Bussel
A Sex-Date Surprise
I rarely read about a person’s private life before I go to bed
with him or her, but with Eric Wilkinson, I was briefed on his
sexual M.O. before we even met. I know he’s the twentysomething
boyfriend of the “Mother of Masturbation,” septuagenarian
Betty Dodson.
When I meet them at a party in October 2004, their May-
December relationship (he’s 28, my age, and she’s 75) is still
going strong after five years. Eric is bold, and when he learns
I’ve read Dodson’s book Orgasms for Two, peppers me with
questions about my opinions on the G-spot, clitoral stimulation,
vibrators, and sexual attraction. With his slow Southern
drawl, keen interest, and easygoing manner, he puts me at
ease, and before I know it I’m telling him exactly how I do
and don’t like to come and which kinds of girls and guys turn
my head.
He replies that he was checking out
my cleavage and fishnets and asks if
I want to “play” with him.
He reveals little of his own fantasy life but does make a point
of telling me that he and Dodson have an open relationship.
I’m not sure if he’s flirting with me, but when I realize he’s the
only person I’ve spoken to for the past hour and a half, I jolt in
surprise. I leave the party and send him a “nice to meet you”
email. He replies that he was checking out my cleavage and
fishnets and asks if I want to “play” with him.
We make plans for a sex date. Believe it or not, for all the flings
I’ve had, I’ve never rented a hotel room with someone just for
sex. I’ve had sex in hotel rooms, but on vacation. Renting a
room with someone already in a committed relationship feels
like the ultimate in sexual decadence. My friends are aghast
when I tell them we’re splitting the cost. “He should pay for
it!” several of them insist. I’m shocked that they’re shocked.
The idea that the guy should pay is ludicrous, not to mention
sexist, as if by granting him access to my pussy I’m bestowing
upon him some huge favor, like I don’t crave pure, carnal
sex just as much as he does. If anyone’s doing anyone a favor
here, he’s doing me one, helping revitalize my body after six
celibate months. Even more than that, his overwhelming lust
for me—our date happens within a week of meeting each
other, at his insistence—does wonders for my self-esteem.
Before the big day, we trade a few dirty emails. I send him a
story I wrote about a girl giving a guy a blowjob in a bathroom;
he tells me to bring my favorite vibrator and that he can’t wait
to give me my first orgasm. Already, that’s a huge switch
from almost every guy I’ve been with. I believe guys want to
please their women, but they assume that in
the usual course of events, their dick will do
the job more than amply.
I plan to reread Dodson’s book but run out
of time, perhaps because subconsciously I
want to be swept away by the novelty of a new lover. There
comes a point where I don’t want to know what will happen;
I want to be surprised, to see how my body will react in the
moment. There’s a great line that rings true for me in Karen
Finley’s play George and Martha about Jews being “too busy
thinking while they’re fucking.” I spend enough time thinking
about sex; when I’m finally doing it, I don’t want to let my
brain rule the show.
When we get to the hotel, he’s as charming and gallant as
if this were a normal date. He’s brought everything I could
have wanted and more—condoms, lube, and vibrators,
68 EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT SEX IS WRONG