You’re just going to have to forgive me because here come several posts about sex. No, my secrets will not be shared (perverts) but there’s some good stuff here. Sometimes you have an experience and it’s a big deal at the time. But then 8 years or so pass, other things happen and you kind of forget about it. Until you remember it one day and you’re like, “Oh yeah…that happened.” This is one of those things.
Let me start by saying that there are certain things that some consider sexual that baffle me. Someone once called me a prude because I didn’t understand (and still don’t) the sexual appeal of putting yourself in a giant box and having a friend ground ship you from one side of the country to the other so they could receive you, unpack you and do you. My more-sexually-evolved companion marveled at my series of questions (“Were there air holes in the box? Did he have food and water in there? What the fuck is wrong with this person?”)
“Jeez, Dresden,”she said, giggling. “I never knew you were such a prude.”
Needless to say, I railed against her assessment. I disagreed; I was no prude. I sometimes revealed my ankles. I often wore white after Labor Day and shared my opinions on politics. Me…a prude? Rubbish!
After all, I had been working in sex education for several years. I could say things like “vaginal fluid” without giggling, and had demonstrated how to put a condom on a banana more times that I could remember. I had dildos and a rubber vagina sitting on my desk at work for crying out loud. I started working in HIV and STI prevention when I moved to Seattle in 2001. I had taken an “I need a job” job at a Verizon Wireless call center in Bellevue, where I had to ask permission to pee. An old friend of mine worked at a non-profit HIV organization that was hiring someone to run their young women’s education program, and I jumped at the chance.
I loved that job. I got to chat with teenage girls about using protection, not being such horrible snatches to each other and plus, we had a budget that let us order fried chicken from Ezell’s, the most amazing fried chicken establishment in the free world. One day shortly after I started, my boss suggested my co-worker and I take a 2 and a half day training called SERT. (That’s not really what it’s called, but I’ve changed the name to protect the freaks.)
SERT stood for Sexuality Education Readjustment Training. It was a training that helped people working as safer sex educators evaluate their own sexual hang-ups and learn to put those aside when working with others. The concept is sound; after all, it’s hard to stay focused on prevention when a sex worker is telling you that he prefers to be pooped on instead of urinated on during sex. If you can’t get past the fact that this is creepy, not to mention extremely unsanitary, you likely won’t take the time to explain safety because you’ll just want to get the fuck away from this person. Plus, everyone knows that “training” means “free lunch” and “getting out of the office.”
My co-worker and I signed up. We showed up on the first day, ready to have snacks and hopefully leave early. My head wasn’t truly in the sexuality readjustment game, mostly because I didn’t feel my sexuality needed adjusting. Our trainers were two women and a man, all in their mid-to-late 50s. As we checked in, they looked at us with blank expressions and spoke in monotonous tones. I thought it was kind of weird but people in Seattle are weird in general, so I just went with it. The room was warmly lit, full of pillows and chenille throws. How lovely, I thought, as I unknowingly settled into Satan’s claw.
The trainers introduced themselves. I can’t remember their names but let’s call them Barbara, Judith and Ken. Ken told us all that this particular training had been conducted all over the country since the 1960s. It was started as a way to help people free themselves from the traumatic shackles of their parent’s beliefs about sexuality. Babs, Judy and Ken used words like “blossom” and “sexual expression” and I smirked.
“We have very few rules here”, Judith said. “However, we ask that you all refrain from engaging in sex with each other during the training.”
Well that’s…weird. I don’t believe I’ve ever been given explicit instructions not to have sex with a room full of people. Looking around, I can say with confidence that I didn’t want to bone any of them.
“Please forgive us if we seem standoffish,” Ken added. “It’s important that we maintain a certain amount of distance, as we must not engage in sexual activity with any of you during the duration of the training either.”
Seriously, what the fuck is going on? Is this a joke? Is there some kind of massive, palpable sexual tension that only I cannot feel?
We started a writing exercise in which we examined what we’d been taught about sex as children. I honestly don’t remember talking to my parents about sex when I was a kid. The very idea mortified me. I can’t remember what I wrote but it was some bullshit to fill the page, I’m sure. They opened the floor for people to share and it was my opinion that some people were just way too eager to spill the beans. After sitting through several stories about growing up Catholic, Ken introduced the film portion of the training.
“During these 3 days together, we will be using film to examine various areas of sexuality. In some cases, we’ll view sexual education films. In other cases, we’ll be using commercial films about sexuality. Each film will introduce us to a new area of discussion.”
I leaned over and whispered to my co-worker Erick: “Does he mean porn?”
Erick’s expression was as apprehensive as I felt. “I don’t know….” He said. The lights were dimmed and then, yes; we started watching porn. We watched porn for two fucking days. Have you ever watched porn in a room full of strangers you are not even remotely attracted to? For two days? Of course you haven’t because that is not something any human being should do. Ever.
We watched hetero porn, gay porn, threesome porn, disabled porn, and elderly porn. We watched a man tie a woman up, bind her breasts, pour hot candle wax all over her and then beat her with a riding crop. We watched a film that had a loud techno soundtrack in which a man dressed as a 1980s criminal (bandana tied around his thigh, sleeveless jean jacket) tied up a man dressed as a cop. The criminal pulled down the cop’s pants and began smearing Crisco all over his hand and forearm. I turned my head away from the screen and looked at Erick.
“Erick…is he going to….”
“Yep.”
I didn’t watch. I buried my face in Erick’s arm and silently promised to always be kind to my anus.
The only “education” film that we actually watched was the one on bisexuality. It wasn’t a film; it was a series of still pictures set to music with a voiceover:
“Hi. My name is Frank. One day when I was riding the city bus, I noticed that I got sexy feelings when I thought about women and men with their clothes off. That’s when I knew I was bisexual.” Frank told us that he had a relationship with Linda and a relationship with Michael. Each of his partners fulfilled different needs that Frank had. After the lights came up and the “discussion” began, I asked if Linda and Michael knew about each other.
I generally didn’t perform well in the discussion parts of the training. There’s only so much porn a person can handle. How could I be expected to form coherent sentences? One woman in the group said the same thing after every film: “Oh that was exciting! That really got my juices flowing!” Others managed to intellectualize the porn: “I found myself recalling the passage from Nietzsche, ‘Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest.’ I mean, did anyone else feel that way during the fellatio montage?”
Because I was completely uninterested in getting to know how these people felt about porn, I folded my arms across my chest and slid down in my seat like a 14 year old. They started to call me out on it.
“Dresden” they would say, “you’re awfully quiet. Would you like to add anything?”
Mostly, I just responded, “Nope.” But occasionally, I’d say something like, “Oh, I don’t believe in bisexuals” or “How come the fisting criminal was black and the cop was white? That’s racist.” They’d always try to redirect me: “Yes, but how do you feel about the sexuality in the film?” I’d shrug and say something like, “It was alright.”
Eventually, Barbara or Judith pulled me aside and asked me if I was ok. I told her I was fine, and she said, “Well, the films seem to really bother you.”
“They don’t bother me,” I said. “I’m just not a huge fan of porn.”
Her eyes narrowed, as if the word “porn” had offended her. “Ok…but do you understand why we’re watching and discussing these films?”
“Not really.”
At this point, Barbara Judith seemed to be at a loss. She thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, the goal is to get you to reevaluate your views on sexuality.”
“Well, if you’re trying to convince me that watching porn in a room full of people is gross and uncomfortable, it’s working.”
Barbara Judith’s face seemed to register an epiphany at that moment. “Ah…I see. How long have you felt uncomfortable about sex?”
“Since yesterday at around 10.”
She just stood there. A short time later, I was pulled aside by all three of them.
“We’re concerned that you’re not open to this experience.”
“The experience of watching porn in a room full of strangers? No, I’m not very open to that.”
“But…why does it make you so uncomfortable? Did something happen to you?”
What I wanted to say was, “If it had, I definitely would not share it with 3 old hippies.” But instead, I asked them why a reaction of being uncomfortable in a situation designed to be uncomfortable would need to indicate that I had some kind of sexual trauma in my past. Ken explained that “most people” do not feel uncomfortable watching “these films.”
“Let’s be clear”, I said, now bored with the discussion. “We’re watching porn. Not films, porn. You started off the training by telling us that we needed to refrain from sleeping with each other – and the three of you. Do you really expect anyone to take you seriously?”
They got mad then, and asked me why I chose to stay if I saw so little value in it. I reminded them that my company paid already, and then said something to the effect of, “Are you kidding me? I’ve got to see how this ends.”
This is how it ended: with a panel of “guest speakers” from Seattle’s only “pan-sexual” sex club. Now, I didn’t know much about sex clubs, but I assumed that anyone who belonged to a sex club would be very attractive. I was incorrect. Our guest speaker panel may as well have been the beginning of a line outside of Best Buy to purchase the latest version of Dungeons and Dragons. What was with the ponytails? Every dude up there had a straggly, greasy ponytail. The only women on the panel told us they were involved in “24/7 master-slave relationships.” One of them wouldn't look at us but stared at the floor as she droned on and on with absolutely no inflection about how awesome it was to be considered someone’s slave.
Although I found all of this terribly amusing, I failed to see how any of it was going to help me be a better safer sex educator. Here’s how I saw my job: I don’t give a fuck what you’re into; just use a condom. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into and, also, here is how HIV is transmitted. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into; take your ass to the clinic if you have any of the following symptoms. I don’t give a fuck what you’re into, but if your relationship isn't safe, I can help you out by providing resources. I am 100% uninterested in what gets you off about wearing diapers and sucking on a pacifier.
I came home totally drained after 2 days of porn and 4 hours of listening to the Master of Ceremonies at a Star Trek convention talk about how he started a sex club so people would finally sleep with him. I curled into the fetal position on my bed and started drooling. I wondered, for a brief moment, if my reaction to all the porn was because I really was a prude. Maybe I had some deep rooted sexual hang-ups that I wasn't even aware of. Was I broken?
But what I found out when I started talking to people who had been in the business of sexuality education for longer than I had was that this particular training was a crock of shit. Yes, it was started in the 60s as a way to help people free themselves from the traumatic shackles of their parent’s beliefs about sexuality…by doing each other. SERT training almost always dissolved into a massive orgy and usually before lunch on the first day. In the 80s, they were banned. Then some persistent folks decided to bring them back. They were determined not to let them turn into sexapalooza but what they didn't do was alter the format in any way. Although an orgy was the furthest thing from my mind, I started to wonder if some of those people had attended the training hoping for some booty.
If anyone in that room had put the moves on me, I would have beaten them with my shoe. So maybe I am a prude. Where’s my parade?
