The Sex Course E-Book

Trina E. Read

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Ratgeber
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 433

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Laugh. Cry. Learn. Four women dare to explore their deepest sexual truths in a controversial university course that will change their lives forever.

A sex columnist can't remember the last time she felt desire. A high-powered lawyer fakes her pleasure. A confident professor carries the scars of a failed marriage. And a religious housewife questions everything she believes about intimacy.

When Isabella, Claire, Amy, and Jeanette sign up for an unconventional sex education course, they expect answers. Instead, they find themselves confronting their darkest fears, deepest shame, and most hidden desires. As their carefully constructed worlds begin to unravel, each woman must decide: Will she retreat to the safety of her old life, or risk everything to discover her authentic sexual self? If they dare to embrace their true desires, they might just find the intimacy they've been searching for – but at what cost?

The Sex Course helps women understand her sexuality in a cheeky, irreverent, non-self-help'y way. It shows women in long-term relationships how to thrive ... after the honeymoon stage is over. Readers will undoubtedly see themselves in one of the four characters and experience the transformation of boldly turning her sexual experience around.

If you enjoyed the raw honesty and humor of Bridget Jones's Diary and the bold exploration of female sexuality in The Vagina Monologues, then you'll love The Sex Course.

Unlock your own journey of self-discovery – grab your copy now!

Leseprobe

Praise

The Sex Course

"As a long-time supporter of women’s sexual pleasure, I look forward to diving into The Sex Course." Cynthia Loyst, TV Host on The Social and author of Find Your Pleasure

Praise for Till Sex Do Us Part: Make Your Married Sex Irresistible

A must-read for couples who want to kick start a lacklustre sex life. Dr. Trina’s book shows why your sex and intimacy went flat, how to get it back on track, plus what to do to make sex fabulous.

Marian Keyes, International best-selling author

Who knew sex was so much more than having an orgasm? Or that focusing on having sex once a week could be the reason why women aren’t interested. Dr. Trina’s intelligent book puts a new spin on an old couple's conundrum.

Fanny Kiefer—Studio 4 with Fanny Kiefer

Dr. Trina’s book has put the yummy back into being a mummy. It has playful ideas, tips and tricks to give married sex back its mojo.

Erica Ehm, Founder YummyMummyClub.ca

Finally, a down-to-earth, entertaining book that shows busy women how to feel sexy again!

Wendy Sandwith, Host Breakfast Television Edmonton

Dr Trina knows a lot more about sex than I do.  Which may not be saying much – but it sure made reading the book illuminating.  Till Sex Do Us Part is a great guide for anyone who wants to kick start a lagging sex life.

Dave Kelly, Host Breakfast Television Calgary

Even single gal needs to learn the pitfalls of sex before she gets into a relationship. Read this book and never get stuck in a sex rut.

Jennifer Parks, Sex Columnist for the Edmonton Journal

A must-read for newlyweds to couples married for over 50 years. This book gives a great perspective on why the sexual dynamics erode and how couples can stay connected over the long term.

Steve Cooper, CEO of Hitched Magazine

Copyright © 2024 by Trina E. Read

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author except as permitted by Canadian copyright law.

ISBN: 9798224579112

SENSUAL TASTES PUBLISHING

Canada

Sensual Tastes Publishing is a subsidiary of Sensual Tastes Events located in Calgary, Alberta, Canada.

Cover design: Emily's World of Design

For Dennis, Andrew & Evan

You are my everything

Isabella’s Assignment

January 4

Ican't get fired.

"Jessica, can you hold for one moment?" Isabella's sweaty fingers fumbled to push the mute button, her editor's irritated tsk barely audible in the chaos.

"Mommy! Want down!" Her daughter Rosa’s flailing, chubby little arms yanked out Isabella’s earbud.

Isabella cupped the sore ear and went down on one knee to put the girl on the floor. Rosa playfully bounced, and her head connected squarely with Isabella's round jaw. Her almond-brown eyes watered, and her tongue throbbed as the adrenaline pumped in her veins, helping her regain a modicum of control.

You need to try a new tactic.

"Mommy has an important phone call. If you go to your room, I'll give you chocolate ice cream." The mom guilt, ever hovering, reared its ugly head. She was bribing her child—again—after promising herself she would never be one of those moms.

"Noooo!" Rosa's adorable little face was resolute.

Why does this always happen?!

Isabella inhaled a long breath, wishing a parenting manual on juggling a bored, demanding two-year-old and a professional career from a home office crammed into a dining room corner would magically pop into her hands. But, of course, it didn't because that was too easy. This was why mommies drank mommy juice. She looked around "her office," a playroom filled with toys strewn about because she didn't have time to tidy.

"Okay, honey, what do you want?"

Rosa pointed her little toddler finger at Mr. Wigglebottom. The bright-yellow stuffed bunny was in a time-out because Rosa fought with her four-year-old brother, Marcus, who was now at playschool. Isabella grabbed the toy and maneuvered it and Rosa into the upstairs bedroom, then closed the door.

Pressing unmute, she said, "Sorry, Jessica," while silently gulping air to calm herself. What she heard on the other end was Top 40 Muzak. Jessica must have put Isabella on hold, but the clock was clicking down.

I have two minutes before Rosa escapes. Isabella hustled back to her office, putting her pitch together on the fly.

"Isabella?" Jessica's clipped voice was back on the line.

"Hi, Jess —"

"Where were we?" Jessica interrupted, letting out an audible sigh.

"My pitch. So I, uh, I want to do a piece on whether women's sexuality has changed for the millennial and Gen-Zers." The silence was not good, but she pressed forward. "A revealing exposé into how women's sexuality has changed since the 1970s. Give Femme magazine readers a timeline to track women's sexual emancipation."

Isabella heard Rosa's door open. Just stay calm.

"It's lukewarm." Control freak Jessica was an excellent editor but also exacting and dismissive. "I want it to be fresh. A contrarian viewpoint of young cis females' sexuality. How this generation of women is stepping into their sexual power."

Isabella knew better than to ask Jessica, the perpetual mommy-shamer, what her idea of fresh meant. Asking questions infuriated Jessica. For the umpteenth time, she'd complain about how Isabella was a part-time, remote employee with a full-time family.

"Look, Isabella, get your head in the game. Femme readers want juicy how-tos, not history lessons. I'll approve this, but I expect a wow with your next pitch."

"Okay, thanks, Jessica —"

But Jessica hung up before Isabella said goodbye. Steeling herself, she took another deep breath and dialed.

"Hi, sweetie! What do you need?" Her husband, Alex, answered on the second ring.

"Hey, Alex —"

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" Rosa's big, almond-brown eyes popped up behind the stained cushiony chair as she strained for Isabella's cell.

"No, it's Mommy's turn to talk to Daddy." Isabella darted into the kitchen to get some privacy. "I spoke with Jessica, and she accepted my pitch. I'll need you to look after the kids for a few nights this week."

"Sorry, honey. I found out this morning that I have to fly to Toronto."

Again?!

"You know I'm up for a promotion."

"I have a deadline." She closed her eyes, careful to keep her temper in check.

Fighting will complicate things, and we already know the ending to this worn-out discussion: You make more money, and I have all the time in the world to get my work done.

"Hey, we just have to make it through this patch of me working so much." A common refrain for at least three years.

"That doesn't help me right now." Isabella hated the whine in her voice. She wasn't a whiner. She was the one who worked her way up at Femme from admin assistant to sex columnist.

How am I going to do this? She put her elbows on the counter to prop up her aching head. I'll do what I've always done: work late into the evening.

"Why don't you call my mom or your sister?" He said as he did every time, believing he was a hero and taking full credit for providing her with the obvious solution.

"I ask them to babysit way too much."

"They don't mind. Listen, I can't talk. Up to my eyeballs. Love you, bye."

"But —" It was the second hang-up silencing her, interrupted by a loud wail.

"Daaaaaaddddy," Rosa sobbed.

Frustrated tears filled Isabella's eyes. As soon as the kids opened their eyes, there was never a moment's peace. Even when they were asleep, she had no peace. Guilt constantly reminded her she was a terrible mother, bribing her kids with way too much screen time. And a terrible employee, only giving half her attention to work. No matter her choice, she felt guilt, especially when she didn't stretch herself too thin.

"Mommy, ice cream," Rosa hiccupped through her sobs.

"You wanted Mr. Wigglebottom, sweetie. It's time for your nap." Isabella's gut clenched, hearing Rosa suck in a breath, winding herself up.

Isabella picked up the tired girl and hugged her as they went to Rosa's bedroom, through the kitchen, and the office-turned-playroom, avoiding dolls and balls. She tucked her precious little girl into bed with her soft pink-knitted blanket. Closing the bedroom door, Isabella's tired shoulders sagged with the weight of a solid eight hours left in her day and coming up with the next wow pitch.

Claire’s Flowers

January 15

Claire smelled the flowers before they walked into the room. The three-foot-tall exotic bouquet marched into her small, urban office and forcefully plunked itself on the edge of her modern sit-to-stand desk.

"You understand people in this office have allergies?" Shauna's sharp face looked through the cascade of large white flowers and greenery. Claire's mind tugged her back into the legal briefs, knowing this was a waste of a conversation. "You'll have to keep your door shut," Shauna announced, hitting her stride as the self-appointed office sheriff.

Giving up, Claire's weary eyes traveled up Shauna's short legs to her pale-as-Dracula face. "Shauna, you know the partners don't like our doors closed when we're not with clients." Claire put on her well-rehearsed, tight, neutral smile while picturing Shauna as a petulant five-year-old on the cusp of a tantrum.

"That's your problem." Shauna walked out, closing Claire's door with a flourish.

Great. Shauna was going straight to the people living with allergies. Claire knew she should act before the flower gate got out of hand, but standing up to Shauna promised at least two weeks of hell. Claire reached for her water bottle, took a long drink, closed her hazel-green eyes, and rolled her long, stiff neck. Her slender shoulders were so tense she could bounce a quarter off them.

Screw it. She was too busy to get bogged down in female office politics, but that meant looking at the flowers.

Claire reluctantly rose to admire the bouquet, an exquisite arrangement of trumpet lilies and gardenias. She buried her face in the bouquet and breathed deeply to let its heavy scent envelope her. Nothing. She took a step back to appreciate its beauty fully and willed herself to love the grand romantic gestures. Nothing again. What was wrong with her? But pragmatic Claire wasn't the swooning type, and flowers were never her thing. The over-the-top flowers for every occasion were getting old, and it felt like a cop-out that Carlos had the florist on speed dial.

Boom, right there. This was why she had her "problem." She yanked the little card from the bamboo card stem, determined to appreciate lovely gifts from an attentive boyfriend.

"Happy first anniversary. I'm super excited about your surprise!" The shopkeeper's loopy handwriting had underlined "super" twice.

And there it was: the unpleasant reminder. She had kept herself busy to forget about her surprise, the so-called Project Up My Sex Game she and Amy had come up with. Imaging herself in sky-high stilettos with a cropped leather whip caused her stomach to churn. She took a Tums from her desk drawer and slowly chewed it.

Claire mentioned to Amy that their Project Up My Sex Game plan, concocted amid laughter and too many beers, was way out of her comfort zone. That, according to a tipsy Amy, was the point. Fortified by the beers, Amy's sexual confidence, and an unyielding determination to change her circumstances, Claire assured herself the time frame would be enough to buck up her courage. But she was wrong. So very wrong. Carlos had big expectations for tonight, and she was in over her head. She wanted to bail, to tell Carlos she was suddenly sick, and gauging by the state of her churning stomach, it wasn't a complete lie.

She picked up her cell from her perfectly ordered desk and texted Amy.

Can't do it. Going 2 bail.

Amy sent a text right back.

Pre-date jitters. It's like riding a bike. After u start u'll be fine.

Claire doubted that but reminded herself the only way to have new results is to do things differently. She looked down to see her foot tapping and needed to get on top of this.

She snapped a "surprised" selfie with the bouquet. After inspecting the pic, grateful that her perfect, ash-blond, asymmetrical bobbed hair, ethereal good looks, and the morning light meant she didn't have to do any photo editing, she captioned: Look what I got! Carlos is taking me to Karma for our first anniversary." #Grateful #LuckyToHaveHim. She was about to post to Instagram when she remembered to tag Carlos.

She thought about sending Carlos a suggestive message, but she had no idea what to say and no time to think of something clever and flirty. She wanted—no, scratch that—needed to get it right this time. Her mind raced, checking off, for the hundredth time, that night's Project Up My Sex Game checklist. She put her cell back on the desk.

A pungent whiff of lilies drew her attention to the ridiculously large arrangement, and she asked herself, for the millionth time, what Carlos saw in her. The answer was simple: opposites attract. She was cool and calm to his fiery Latin-ness. The stabilizer to his over-the-top shows of affection. They were an excellent match, and she loved him very much, so she was willing to bend herself into a pretzel to make him happy. If their relationship was to go anywhere, she had to do whatever it took for that night to work. He deserved it.

Her cell vibrated. It was Carlos, wouldn't you know? She wanted to thank him, but the legal brief was due, and she couldn't concentrate with a rolling stomach. Deliberately ignoring his call, Claire opted to focus on her work and not think about Project Up My Sex Game.

Somehow, Claire needed to find the courage to get through tonight.

Amy Gets a Phone Call

January 13

Some part, any part, of Amy's body was struggling to get her attention. In her stifling, cramped office, she sat for too long hunched over with a stiff neck, grading papers. Her nose finally got through, picking up a funky smell and pulling her out of a deep focus. Sniffing the air, she turned her bright blue hair closer to her armpit.

"Ew!" She flapped her arms like a flightless, sweaty bird, blowing at her damp underarms. The beads of sweat ran down her back onto her multicolored kaftan top, causing it to stick to her body. Annoyed, she opened her messy top desk drawer: a few chocolate bar wrappers, scattered stationery supplies, something that smelled moldy she needed to deal with one day. Not a tissue or napkin in sight.

Stomping a seed of frustration, she reminded herself how lucky she was and how she'd vowed never to complain. When the administration had anointed her assistant professor of women's studies and handed over the key, it had been a hard-won victory with her blood, sweat, and tears. Someone would always nip at her heels for this tiny, hot, stuffy office.

As she rolled her neck and shoulders to relieve the tension, her stomach, which had not eaten since breakfast, protested with a gurgle. Standing up after hours in her ancient torture device, the university called a chair, her head swam, and her joints popped and cracked.

There was enough space between the desk and the side wall for sun salutation. Her petite figure hunched forward, and her protruding stomach made a rude, protesting noise. She needed to grade the remaining papers before the next day but couldn't do it on an empty stomach. Amy threw her favorite bag—a colorful satchel spun by the hands of Peruvian women—over her shoulder and headed for the cafeteria.

Keeping her arms aloft to dry the sweat, Amy looked like a brilliantly feathered bird against the sterile hallways on her way to the corporate-issue bland cafeteria. She passed a loud group debating the latest government scandal. "You can't accept that —" Listening to them so riotously indignant, there was a sharp sense of pride for the freedom of university debate. Then, a plastic cafeteria chair crashed as a passionate debater jumped up, thrusting her finger to make her case.

Amy grinned. That's how she and Claire must have looked—what was it—ten years ago already? On the first day in Women's Studies 201, they took one look and instantly disliked each other. Intensely. Claire thought Amy was a flake; Amy thought Claire was a wound-too-tight capitalist. They were both a little right. Fierce debaters, they went toe to toe in many classes, simultaneously infuriated yet with grudging respect for the other's moxie and intelligence. And, yes, a few crashing chairs between them.

A year after university, they bumped into each other, volunteering at a local soup kitchen. Somehow, they kept ending up on the same shifts, and eventually, they found themselves hanging out after. They'd both mellowed after university and could cringe and chuckle at their passionate save-the-world youth. The soup kitchen became their once-a-week meetup. Claire was Amy's longest-lasting grown-up relationship, and although she would never understand their chemistry, they had it in spades.

Amy grabbed the most semi-healthy food in the cafeteria when a gender-neutral colleague wearing androgynous clothes and a blunt haircut sidled up to her.

"Hey, Amy. Did you hear Dr. Gwen Saunders is coming?"

"What! Gwen Saunders! She's coming here?"

"She's here for a year. The faculty debate was lively," they chuckled. "Admin wants her to open the class up for anyone, but she will only teach cis females. Truthfully, I'm surprised the faculty agreed. Obviously, I won't be going, but if you're not busy, you should audit her class. I'm told there's full nudity."

Amy followed Dr. Saunders on social media, a controversial figure who'd gotten bad press because of her approach to sexuality. Dr. Saunders didn't abide by standard academic rules, and Amy saw it as an opportunity to shake up the uptight university.

Her cell vibrated in her bag just as a couple of young, adoring students waved at her from the other side of the cafeteria.

"Hey, Dr. Tam," they giggled like she was a pop star. She freaking loved her job and was good at it. The hot, stuffy office would not break her.

Scrambling to find her cell in the messy bag, she pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID: Paul Phillips. Paul Phillips? She'd bumped into him working at a political rally the previous week. He must be looking for a donation.

She tried hitting the end button but hit answer instead, "Hello?"

"Oh, uh, hi. Is this Amy? It's Paul. From the rally. Do you remember me?" His voice was unnaturally high.

"Hey Paul, I'm pretty busy."

"Okay. Well, I won't keep you. I have a quick question."

"Paul, I'll stop you there. I'm not interested." Amy supported the political cause but had to be careful with her money.

"What? That was blunt ..." He trailed off, his voice wounded.

"I'm sorry. Look, I'm tapped out financially. I recently bought a townhouse and did a kitchen renovation."

"No worries. I can pay."

"That's nice of you. But why would you pay? Are you that desperate?"

"I don't date often. It's fine. I understand if you're not interested. Sorry to take up—"

"Wait! Did you say date?" Amy's head spun. "I thought you were looking for a political donation."

"No." He laughed a little too loudly. "I called to see if you wanted to have dinner tomorrow."

"Dinner?!" There was a long pause as Amy's brain scrambled to recalibrate. Paul was smart, nice, cute, and had a good job. The perfect guy and way out of her league. So what was the catch?

The mild panic rising in Amy's chest eased as Claire's stern lawyer voice swooped in, talking Amy down from the ledge. In her practical Claire way, she said that Paul was a fresh start, a perfect opportunity for Amy to move forward and stop the questionable dating.

Paul cleared his throat discreetly, bringing Amy out of her musing, but she didn't have an answer and let the uncomfortable silence stretch out. Claire's impatient voice interrupted again, acknowledging Amy's fear but urging her to leap.

Just do it.

"Yes! Sure." Pushing the dread aside, Amy attempted to sound enthusiastic. "That sounds good."

"Oh! Great." He exhaled anxiously. "Your choice. Where would you like to go?"

"Well, there's an authentic little Thai place I love. I'll text you the name." Amy's fingers robotically sent the text.

"Great! Got it. Oh, that is great! Does seven work? Can I pick you up?"

"Seven is perfect. I'll meet you there. So I'll see you then?" he agreed, and they disconnected.

Amy stood in the cafeteria, stunned, saying aloud to no one, "What happened?"

She wanted to tell Claire, even with a quick text, but couldn't because of Claire's stupid dating ultimatum.

Jeanette Chats with Pierre

January 16

"Mom, your face isn't on the screen. Move your phone to the left," Pierre explained patiently in French—or as patient as any Gen-Zer instructing their parent on new technology can be. Jeanette knew perfectly well how to use FaceTime, but she didn't like how her aging face looked in the little window on her screen.

Over a year ago, Jeanette's older son, Pierre, had moved into his first apartment, paying for it with his first grown-up job. He was always busy, and his calls were becoming sparse. So when she saw his name on her caller ID, she automatically answered even though she was without makeup, had messy hair, and wore casual clothes.

She shifted her gaze from herself to Pierre's attractive face, with his captivating blue eyes and abundant curly auburn hair. She saw his frustration and fatigue, enough perhaps to hang up. Her ever-present loneliness loomed heavy, and she was desperate to keep him on the line.

"Tell me again what to do," she said, relenting. Her Quebecois French still perfect after years of speaking English. Pierre explained, and her long, slender arm moved upward so the phone looked down on her freshly scrubbed face. Ignoring the dark circles under her eyes, Jeanette settled in her favorite soft, pillowed armchair with a cup of herbal tea and her Jack Russell terrier, Max.

"Okay, tell me how your job is going." She was eager to have a much-needed talk with her firstborn. She missed him so very much.

Pierre sucked in his breath through his teeth, a nervous tell. She took a long sip of tea, then another. It was her turn to wait patiently, as he didn't like being pushed into talking.

"So, I met someone."

Jeanette wrapped her hand tight around the hot teacup and kept her face neutral. This child won the gene pool jackpot, getting the best of Jeanette's and Andre's good looks, smarts, and charisma. They had given him the best of everything, and he led a charmed life with many friends, fun adventures, and a great job. He was only twenty-five years old—a kid. He was much too young to settle down with a serious girlfriend, and she would not tolerate him making the same mistake as her.

Keeping her voice composed, Jeanette asked, "Does she have a name?"

"How do you know it's a she?" Pierre briefly kept a straight face before bursting out in laughter at Jeanette's face, turning sheet white. "Kidding." And gave her the briefest description of Amber.

Who names their child Amber?

"Is she Christian?" It needed to be asked. Jeanette held her breath at the disappointed look on his face.

"Mom, I've already told you not to ask that anymore. It's not okay. But, ya, she's Christian." Then he casually threw in, "You might know her parents."

Were they a family from her church? She wondered but asked the more pressing question.

"When can your dad and I meet her?" She bristled a bright flash of anger at the thought of her husband, Andre. He was MIA, again, although she knew where he was. He would be back soon enough. Jeanette pushed the anger into the pit where twenty-eight years of unresolved fighting lived.

Ignoring her question, he said, "The reason for my call, Mommy—" He only called her Mommy when he wanted something big. She narrowed her eyes, and he giggled. They both knew he was working her, and she needed to set better boundaries. But her boys were the chink in her thick armor, the only people she ever exposed her soft underbelly to. She would live and die for them, so naturally, she listened to what he wanted, happy to do whatever he asked.

"Can you set up a nice date night for me? I want it to be special but don't know how, and you're so good at it." He was persuasive, like Andre. Her body cringed, and she locked the anger down tight again.

"I need more details." She was about to ask why he wanted a special date night when he cut her off.

"Mom, my buddies are here, and we're off to the hockey game. So I'll text you the details, okay?" He nodded at his friends to say he was wrapping up the call. "I love you so much! Thanks for doing this. Oh, it's for next Friday. Bye, I love you." Like when he was young, he sang the last part, and Jeanette's heart melted. Her cell screen went black, and he was gone.

She looked around the superbly decorated room and drew Max closer, his warm little body her only comfort these days. As ticked off as she was, at least she had something to occupy her long days.

She had done an excellent job raising her two boys, Pierre and Jacques. They were happy, healthy, and completely independent. As thrilled as she was to watch them make their way in the world, it was — still — a tough transition from full-time mom, who was involved in their many activities, to absolutely nothing.

She looked at her watch to ensure she had enough time before her next gym class. Then, she grabbed her tablet from the side table and opened Facebook to search for Amber and her parents.

Claire

Class One, February 10

Late again!? Her last nerve frazzled, Claire drove around the unnecessarily complicated university campus and cursed like a sailor as someone nabbed the parking spot she'd been angling for. On her third go around, Claire rammed her accelerator and slid into a tiny spot, almost hitting the car beside her. Her cell rang, and, no surprise, it was work. She wanted to ignore the ongoing work drama but had to take the call.

"Look, the research needs to be done tonight. The client changed the deadline," she explained to the student-at-law while squeezing out of her car. Claire received fifteen texts during the drive and regretted leaving the new intern with such an enormous responsibility. "No. I can't come in tonight. I gave you detailed instructions and went through it step-by-step. Sorry, but I'm turning off my phone."

Disconnecting, the low throb of a tension headache started as she remembered how Amy had begged her to try one class. In a rare moment of weakness, right after the Project Up My Sex Game disaster, Claire reluctantly agreed. She was now lost, trying to find the classroom and seriously questioning whether this was worth the hassle.

Looking for any excuse never to return, she found it the instant she barged into the classroom. The lecture room was hot, sparsely populated, and smelled like damp feet.

“Women love sex. But how we’re having sex is broken. As such, the majority of women in long-term relationships grow bored with a framework that sets her up for failure, and she loses interest —”

Every female head snapped in Claire's direction, including the professor, who filled the room with her dominating presence.

Nope, not worth it. Claire was about to turn and do a runner when the professor addressed her.

"Thank you for joining us, Ms."

Claire's pale cheeks flushed crimson, and her throat instantly dried, but she managed, "Claire. My name is Claire, Claire Skalmar."

"Well, Claire, Claire Skalmar." The tall, substantial African-Canadian professor assessed Claire through her chunky square eyeglasses. "In the future, I expect promptness. You do not need to be in my classroom if you cannot be on time. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, understood." Mortified and wanting the ground to swallow her, Claire sat beside Amy. A gorgeous older woman a row down gave her a bitchy smirk, then tossed her long, dark hair to face the front.

What the hell was that?

Claire read the digital whiteboard: "Welcome. I am Professor Gwen Saunders. Please address me as Dr. Gwen." Claire's already numb butt squirmed to find comfort on the too-small, hard, black plastic seat.

"As I was saying, this is a trial program for women only, and I will not teach it in a regular academic fashion. Sexuality is neither linear nor analytical and, therefore, impossible to teach as such. The best way to learn sexuality is experientially."

An attractive but tired-looking woman with black curly hair, sitting two seats over from Claire, raised her hand. "Can you explain what you mean by experiential? Do you expect us to perform sex acts in the classroom?"

A loud giggle erupted from Amy, and the professor's ample bosom turned her way as she smirked back. Leave it to Amy to be inappropriate and get away with it.

"Part of the class will be theoretical and part experiential." Dr. Gwen scanned the class with her stern, dark eyes. "You will not be performing sexual acts, per se, unless you request it in advance. I must approve everything if you want the class to watch. There are permission slips to sign, bureaucratic paperwork to fill out, etc."

"What the f?" a young lady who exuded trouble muttered loudly while holding her phone.

Thank goodness someone is standing up to this weirdness, Claire thought, sitting back in the uncomfortable chair to watch the spectacle.

Without missing a beat, Dr. Gwen turned to the disruption as her cascade of long micro braids swayed over her shoulder. "No cell phones or other recording devices permitted in this classroom. Please turn all your devices off or to airplane mode. May I remind you that even though you signed a release form, there are laws against videotaping someone without their consent. This is a safe space, and I will not tolerate any nonsense to the contrary. Failure to comply with this request will result in immediate removal from the class."

Dr. Gwen's impassive face did not blink as she looked at the disrupter. "Do I make myself clear?"

The young lady gave an incredulous no-one-ever-talks-to-me-that-way stare, with a hint of the-dean-will-be-hearing-about-this, as she put her phone away.

"You will form groups to help with your class homework and out-of-class group work. No group work, no grade." Dr. Gwen paced the front with panther-like grace. "Each group will do one field trip to a sexuality event."

The tired-looking woman two seats down said, "I don't know of any sexuality events. How are we supposed to go on field trips when we don't know where to go?"

"There is a list of events being held over the next month in your syllabus. Or you can create an event; however, it will need to be pre-approved by me." More than one set of eyebrows flew to their hairlines. "You will now form groups of four. As forty people enrolled, there will be ten groups. No more, no less."

A palpable panic hit the windowless, stuffy room as everyone looked around, a wild free-for-all of weary and annoyed people. Claire hated group work and now had less than thirty seconds to find two other people who would be in her sex group for the next six weeks?

She was done.

"Do you want to go together?" asked the beautiful, bitchy lady.

"Absolutely." Claire couldn't believe the woman's audacity but didn't care who was in her group. She wasn't returning, and this Real Housewives wannabe wasn't her problem.

Amy wrangled the tired lady two seats down, and the four women moved their seats together. After the flurry of forming their group, they sat silent, staring and appraising each other.

The Cartier watch caught Claire's attention as it glinted off the Real Housewife's delicate wrist, her fingers too long and slim for the massive diamond wedding ring. A bored, rich trophy wife here to add some spice to her marriage? Claire's eyes moved to the tired woman as she pulled a cheap-looking jacket over a big stain down the front of a dress that had seen better days. She looked like a mom taking a university course to find meaning in her dull, only ever-cooking-and-cleaning life. Claire's gaze moved to Amy, who was authentically herself. She wore her black hair in a blunt page boy haircut with magenta streaks, matching her magenta feather earrings that complemented her kooky outfit. Amy wasn't attractive in a convention but stood out in a crowd.

Claire's bored gaze scanned the all-female class of mostly university-age young women and then wandered back to the front where Dr. Gwen stood waiting to speak. Claire shushed and then had to shush again before the room quieted down.

"I will give you fifteen minutes to introduce yourselves." Dr. Gwen grabbed a clicker off the table and added a new slide. "The two things you will cover in your introduction are: (1) Why are you taking this class? And (2) What are your masturbation habits?"

Claire's stomach dropped. She threw a death stare at Amy, who enthusiastically nodded, saying, "Yes!"

Amy

Class One

"Isn't this amazing?" Amy turned to her new group like it was Christmas morning but stopped short. They stared slack-jawed at the whiteboard as if rereading the instructions enough times would transform them.

The beautiful older woman looked apoplectic. The curly, black-haired lady looked around like she was in the wrong class. And, as always, Claire was wound tighter than a Swiss watch. Amy figured she screeched in from work, stressed out after taking on too much on her fast track to partner. Amy had explained to Claire a million times that if she wanted to have good sex, she needed to slow down. But Claire wasn't ready to listen, so Amy had strong-armed her into this class.

"Let's dive right in, shall we?" Amy encouraged the group.

"What the hell, Amy?" Claire turned a ferocious glare on her friend, which Amy ignored. Claire took time to warm up to new things.

Still, Claire was uncomfortable, and the other two looked equally green. Amy glanced over at the larger-than-life presence of Dr. Gwen. Her posture was calm, but her wise, large brown eyes were alert, shrewdly observing the class response and processing the room's temperature. Through Dr. Gwen's lens, Amy watched in fascination as the low grumbling in the room grew into a swell of protest.

"Did she say masturbation? That can't be right."

"I'm not talking about that."

"Un-uh. No way I'm doing this."

"I don't even share this with my girlfriend."

Amy's dark, hooded eyes scanned the room for an ally, someone who wasn't freaking out and found no one. What's the big deal, people? Sure, talking about masturbation was uncomfortable, but so was talking about menstruation. Women needed to gather in groups and, as a united force, tear down patriarchal social constructs and claim their rightful sexual happiness.

Amy clocked Claire's miserable, obstinate, I-don't-want-to-be-here scowl. She loved her friend like a sister, but why wasn't Claire even trying?

And then Amy heard the thud of the penny drop.

She needed to be the directional compass for Claire, this group, and even the class. Magnanimously, she switched into professor mode to support and be there when her group needed a nudge.

"Okay. Let's start by introducing ourselves. My name is Amy Tam." She gave a small wave. "I'm cis female and prefer the pronouns she/her. I enrolled in this course because I admire Dr. Gwen and heard it led to powerful sexual breakthroughs. I'm proud to call myself sex-positive and excited to learn new things." Amy smiled brightly to indicate it was someone else's turn.

"I'm not sure how to respond." The big-haired lady looked at everyone apologetically, a blotchy rash forming on her chest.

"Are you comfortable sharing your name?"

"It's Isabella. Castello." Her words and back were stiff as a board, and her scared almond-brown eyes darted about the room, unable to look at her group.

Amy gave a welcome gesture. "Hi, Isabella. It's nice to meet you —"

"It's just that the first question blindsided me, and I'm not ready to share private information with strangers."

"That's fair. Are you comfortable telling us why you are in this class —"

"My name is Jeanette Michaels, and I'm certainly not going to discuss my private habits." The beautiful, mature woman's slight French lilt did nothing to soften her impenetrable face. Her arms and long legs crossed, folding her svelte body into an origami shape that shouted, "Stay away!"

Amy took a wild guess that Jeanette was the repressed one of the group. "We'll come back to you, Jeanette, when you're ready. How about you, Claire?"

Claire gave a sarcastic, fake smile. "I'm also uncomfortable talking about this. I need a couple of minutes." Years of being a lawyer helped her sound confident, but Amy saw the slight tremor in Claire's hand as she smoothed her impeccably coiffed, angular blond bob.

"Sure, take your time, Claire. But, uh, this is an important question." Amy, dumbfounded, scrambled to navigate this impasse. "Can I ask why we're uncomfortable?"

"Are you from Mars? Look around this room. Everyone is uncomfortable." Jeanette gestured to the rest of the class.

Why was this woman even here? Amy frowned but then reminded herself that her job was to meet Jeanette where she was at. And sure enough, when Amy looked around, every woman in the room was as miserable as her group.

"Thanks for pointing that out." Amy's neutral voice belied the difficulty of staying in non-judgemental professor mode. "Are you comfortable saying why you're taking this course?"

"No!" Jeanette bristled, but Amy caught the anguish pass over her delicate face.

"Okay? Well, Jeanette, I'm comfortable talking about my masturbation habits, so let's start there." Amy was about to share her masturbatory session from that afternoon when Dr. Gwen stood up and cleared her throat.

"From your protests, there seems to be confusion. Is there a problem understanding my instructions?"

A few people muttered, "No."

"Alright then. If you don't like my curriculum or how I choose to teach it, sixty people on the wait list will be ecstatic to take your place. If you don't want to be here, now is the time to leave."

There was a shuffle at the back of the room. Everyone turned to see a curtain of silky black hair wearing a T-shirt that read, She's Sweet But A Psycho, the one who'd taken the video. "I'm going to the dean about you and this pathetic class."

"Entirely your prerogative." Dr. Gwen leaned back on the table with an amiable nod as if agreeing to leave was the most logical thing. The click of the young lady's bootheels echoed around the room as she threw the door open to leave.

"Anyone else?" Dr. Gwen took a beat and then strode to the middle of the room. "No? You have less than ten minutes to cover these two questions. And in case you want to avoid your first assignment, I will choose one person to share their answers."

Holy f —. Did that really happen? Like the rest of the class, Amy sat stunned, admiring this professor and how she handled herself.

She turned back to her group. "Okay, where were we?" Amy was even more inspired to be the group's sex-positive mentor. "I have an awesome sex life."

"You do, but —" Claire interrupted, her scowl replaced with exasperation.

"But what?" Amy turned to see Claire throw her eyes and hands to the ceiling. What was Claire going on about, and why was she being so weird?

Claire opened her mouth to speak but then looked at the other two women, pursed her lips, and said, "Never mind," her following words mixed in with a long sigh. "Let's move on. We have less than ten minutes."

Amy shrugged it off. Claire, filled with frustration, had no interest in being here, so Amy had less than an hour to persuade her friend on board with the class.

Isabella

Class One

Isabella watched the young lady stomp out of the classroom and saw her opportunity to grab her stuff and go. Her eyes darted around the stuffy, windowless classroom with its harsh fluorescent lighting as she reached for her knapsack.

When Dr. Gwen asked, "Anyone else?" Isabella's body refused to move. The intimidating professor looked around the classroom. "No? You have less than ten minutes to cover these two questions."

Isabella zoned out as she watched her chance slip away. Being in a group was her worst nightmare. She needed to be invisible, to come and go from class unnoticed, and write her sex columns undercover. Resigned that she was stuck, Isabella studied Amy, Claire, and Jeanette to get a read on them. She needed to blend in.

It was a relief that Amy took charge. Isabella had interviewed many of Amy's type: Bold, free-spirited, zealously spreading the sex-positive gospel, and effortlessly loving their body and sex. Claire was a young urban professional who seemed to have her life together. What was she doing here? The impeccably dressed Jeanette looked like she'd walked off a reality TV set. Isabella would totally watch a reality show about this uptight woman taking a sex course. Her eyes darted around the room for any tiny cameras.

"It's important to masturbate at least once a day." Amy's patronizing tone was akin to the other sex-positive people Isabella had interviewed. "How I masturbate depends on the day. Which vibrator I use depends on whether I want a quick or slow orgasm. Occasionally, I like an old-fashioned hand job. Rarely, when I'm sad, I like to return to my childhood and hump the edge of my bed."

The way Isabella's sex column read, you'd think Amy was the norm. As the three women stared, appalled at Amy, Isabella wondered if this was how her readers felt.

"Are you for real?" spat the perfectly coiffed Jeanette. Isabella hated any confrontation, but unable to stop this argument, she tugged her too-small jacket over her generous belly.

"Masturbation is a normal part of my day," Amy pressed on, ignoring Jeanette. "Something is missing if I don't have time to capture my sexual energy."

Did Claire just roll her eyes? She looked like a corporate exec in her understated, expensive suit. Someone so naturally good-looking, she never needed her looks to define her. Isabella had mommy friends like Claire: Intelligent, driven, and confident, their careers defining who they were.

"Jeanette, why don't you tell us why you took this class?" Amy asked patiently as she sat back in her chair.

"I've been married for twenty-eight years, and I'm doing this for my marriage." Jeanette looked like she wanted to say more but stopped herself.

"Is there anything else?"

"No." Jeanette inspected her perfectly manicured, blood-red nails. Amy shrugged, then turned to Isabella.

Please don't ask me. Please don't ask me. Please —

"Okay, Isabella, are you ready?" Amy gave a reassuring smile.

With three sets of expectant eyes on her, she hesitated. Was this where she admitted she was doing a series for Femme? Would the group self-edit what they shared and never get what they needed out of this class? That wasn't fair to them. Or her readers. Losing her nerve, Isabella made something up.

"I'm a working mom of two toddlers and am disconnected from my husband." Isabella looked down at her hands; her jagged nails needed clipping. "We, well, we can't seem to make sex happen regularly. I took this course to help us get our marriage back on track."

"That's tough," Jeanette said under her breath.

"What?!" Claire leaned over and got into Jeanette's face. "Can we at least be civil?"

"I am being civil." Jeanette was obviously used to being the female alpha, but there were two other alphas in this group, and Isabella was stuck in the crosshairs.

Amy jumped in. "If you don't want to be in this group, Jeanette, Dr. Gwen can switch you."

"That's the point. I don't want to be in this group. Or any group. I don't want to be in this class."

Claire sat back and crossed her arms. "Nothing is stopping you from leaving."

"Yes, there is." Jeanette's words caught in her throat. Before she looked down, Isabella glimpsed Jeanette's teary eyes, her rigid body deflating, and her chest taking silent, deep gulps of air.

Luckily, Amy knew how to manage this high-maintenance and awkward situation. "We don't know each other, Jeanette, but this is a safe space."

Jeanette waved her hand before picking up her purse, aimlessly rummaging around.

After a long pause, Amy moved the focus to Claire. "Claire, tell us why you're taking this course."

Claire glared at Amy but then spoke. "Well, Amy, I'm in my first serious relationship," her voice dripped with sarcasm. "And I took this course so we don't break up."

"Awesome." Amy looked like she wanted to pull her hair out. "So, let's do our best to answer the second question: What are your masturbation habits? Who wants to go first?"

"I'll go." Isabella jumped in. She and her mom-friends had complained about this on the playground. "Because I have two small children, finding time to, uh, you know, do that is impossible. It's difficult enough to find time to shower." Isabella waited for the laughter, but a wave of shame and nausea hit when she looked up. Amy gaped, horrified, while Claire discreetly kicked her.

"Go on." Amy made an encouraging motion with her hands.

"That's it." But as the group stared, the peer pressure broke her, and a truth surfaced. "It's so far down the list. This is the first time I've thought about it in months, maybe years!" Her armpits started to sweat.

Mercifully, Claire tapped Amy's arm, who shifted the focus. "What about you, Jeanette?"

"I don't."

"What do you mean you don't? Like, never?"

"No, like, never," Jeanette mimicked. If judgmental looks could burn, Amy would be a pile of ashes.

"My bad," Amy laughed, throwing her hands up in mock resignation. "Okay, moving along. Are you ready, Claire?"

Claire arched one eyebrow, but her face took on a determined look. "I've masturbated, but without success. At least, it never ends in an orgasm. It's just soreness and frustration down there. Ultimately, it's never worth my time."

"You're using a vibrator?" Amy looked confused.

"I haven't." Claire gave Amy a warning look. "And no, we're not going to a sex store after class."

"Technically, the sex stores will be closed. But we can go online. I can't believe we've been friends this long and never discussed this."

"Hey, that can be our field trip." Isabella was grateful to change the subject. "I'll look at the syllabus."

"I won't go," Jeanette announced.

"Do you have a vibrator, Isabella?" Amy asked, ignoring Jeanette.

Blindsided, Isabella froze at the blunt question. Only twenty minutes in, and she, the sex columnist, was already in over her head. Flaying, she remembered what a bold playground mom had said and replied, "Yes, but it sits at the back of my closet collecting dust." Again, no laughs, only the group staring blankly at her. "I never have private time, and I'm paranoid my husband will catch me." The admission made her guts clench.

Why is this so hard?

Because this wasn't some joke out on the playground. She was in a sex class talking about her sex life. And her sex life was a mess.

Her friend Allison was right.

Isabella's Play Date

January 3

That fateful morning had started like every other. Isabella was getting nowhere writing a pitch idea when she heard the muffled bumps of the kids getting out of bed. After wake-up hugs and kisses, she created a breakfast tailored to each child's liking. Then there was the daily battle with four-year-old Marcus over his filthy Spiderman T-shirt he pulled from the dirty clothes pile. And two-year-old Rosa insisting she couldn't live without her ragged tutu. Dressed and bored, the two kids ran around the house, throwing Legos at each other's heads.

It wasn't even nine, and Isabella was losing her mind, so she grabbed her cell off the kitchen counter and dialed. "Hey, Allison. We're restless and need to blow off some stink." Allison, also a mommy at her wit's end, agreed to meet at the kiddie play center.

Two more hours passed as Isabella cleaned breakfast, got the kids and herself ready, and packed everything in the SUV. When they arrived, the kids were busting out of their car seats. Like a Sherpa, Isabella traversed the icy parking lot carrying Rosa while loaded with the snack bag, diaper bag, and a bag of clean, dry clothes. She stepped inside and set her screaming kids loose to tackle the massive jungle gym.

Breathing in the aroma of strong coffee brewed, especially for tired moms, Isabella relaxed a fraction as she found a seat. She spotted Allison, who had arrived, letting her minions loose.

"Oh, Lord! I need a cup of coffee and to put my feet up!" Allison flopped onto the green, cushy, stained chair. She had a no-fuss short haircut and wore standard-issue black leggings and a long dark T-shirt with an unidentifiable stain streaked down the front.

Without so much as a "Hey there," Isabella pounced. "Can I bounce an idea off you? I need to submit a pitch to my editor, pronto."

"You can ask. I'm not sure I'll have any answers." Allison's makeup-free face shot back a do-we-have-to-do-this-now look while keeping one eye on her kids.

"Great," Isabella spoke slowly. "I read this article about how, as women enter into her sexual power, it emasculates men. Because of this power imbalance, it's difficult for both men and women to find pleasure in the sexual experience. Until we can course correct, women can't step into her true sexual potential."

"Uh-huh." Allison sipped her coffee, half-listening.

Isabella swallowed a frustrated sigh. If Allison didn't find this interesting, chances were her readers wouldn't either. She flopped back into the faded chair and scanned the jungle gym for her kids.

"Wait! What?" Catching up to the conversation, Allison bolted forward. "This article said women have come into her sexual power. You're joking, right? This was a satirical article, like, from The Onion?"

"No, of course not." Her friend's response dialled in Isabella's journalistic instincts. "You don't think women own her sexual power."