Sling shot

My sexologist date put me in a leather sling, in the hopes of inducing the elusive female ejaculation.

By Kate Coleman

Mar 25, 2000 | I am on my way to see my new lover, the licensed sexologist -- naturally, he lives in Marin -- and I think of all the schlepping I'm doing just to get laid.

It's going to be a three-bridge day -- Bay, Golden Gate and Richmond. And I have to bring my own lunch, if you can believe that. The guy, the man, the squeeze, the love king, eats only meat and fruit. End of story. Or rather, it should be, considering who I am, I who can't think of eating without schtupping or vice versa, doing it with a man who wasn't an omnivore and susceptible to my wild cooking.

So many reasons not to, but they all fade just thinking of how good it was the first time after so long without. This is therapy, I tell myself, from the man who can.

And from the very beginning when I talked to him on the phone, when he was a blind-date guy calling because so-and-so told him to look me up, he started bragging about how good he was and how all his exes were still friends with him -- even still fuck buddies, and why didn't I call some of them for references, which, he assured me, they would happily give me. It was most bizarre. A full-fledged narcissist, I thought, especially when he said this about himself: "I've been told I'm good-looking."

Well who hasn't been, but God, you don't pass along your compliments. Flattery like that has a short shelf life, limited to the receiver.

I said, "Look, I'm menopausal, overweight and not the glamour puss I used to be." I made myself sound really ugly.

"I think it's what's inside that counts," he replied.

"OK, I'll see you." Of course I caved. He said the right thing.

When he showed up at my door, I noted with much mirth that he looked a lot like me. Yeah, I found him attractive, but let's not go there. First date was coffee and more bragging, especially about his favorite subject: The G crest, which is the more proper term for the G spot, he would explain. He was into this tantric stuff of stimulating the G crest -- a ridge, he said, on the roof of the vagina that, when properly and (devotedly) stimulated, led to an orgasm he swore produced a female ejaculation. Women ejaculate? Huh? He swore it was true. He'd show me if I liked.

As a sexologist, he'd explored all this. I was willing to try. He was, he said, nonmonogamous, and a totally committed practitioner of safe sex, a nonlying, not deceitful, full disclosure kind of lover. He was looking for a serious relationship with someone who was as committed to sexual pleasure as he and willing to accept his, ahem, lifestyle of multipartners. I didn't think I could go that far, but as vulgar as I found his bragging, I admit I was more than willing to sample his wares.

Our first time together, though strained (he hated cats and wanted me to lock them away, which I did, but their pitiful wailing definitely got in the way of my pleasuring), was more than promising in the pleasure department, and so I agreed with alacrity to come to his digs, where we would not be interrupted by domestic animal concerns.

I arrive at a townhouse in the burbs, all beige and boring, until we go upstairs to his bedroom suite. One wall is lined with mirrors (as well as the ceiling over his water bed). Another whole wall is lined with videotapes -- yeah, most of them porn or instructional, he said. The drapes are blackout thick and make me feel claustrophobic. I notice in front of me is a heap of straps and leather on the floor -- yards of it -- with hardware. It's the kinkiest-looking contraption I've ever seen.

Next Page: "Pee, on the floor?"

• View blog reactions