Here’s the next wild turn in the female sexual revolution. Goodness! we hear you wondering, half in excitement, half in alarm. Is it some hot new wave of Seattle girl-on-girl action? (Or is that “grrrl-on-grrrl”? Indeed, do we even have grrrls anymore—are they still in bisexual vogue, with their tattoos, piercings, perky magenta pigtails, and combat boots?) Or is the latest sex trend something America’s desperate housewives are doing? One pictures sleek gated communities in Scottsdale, Arizona, where randy Hot Moms—possibly the bored, blonde, ex-model wives of millionaire athletes—are defiantly throwing Chardonnay-soaked house parties involving dildos and Botox, where Botox is actually shot, into the forehead, from a dildo. Or can it be … octogenarian pole dancing? Or perhaps it’s a crunchy-granola California womyn’s thing involving shaving, much gentle shaving—shaving circles, in fact, that are starting in Esalen, during luxurious weekend retreats led by Gail Sheehy, who, unlike Nora Ephron, does not feel bad about her neck but at sixtysomething feels rather more like a delicious peach, laughingly sensual, newly juicy. Never mind the lubrication issues, the vaginal dryness some may experience: There are Vitamin E creams and aloe vera unguents for that. In fact, today’s young men report how surprised they are by how much they prefer older women. The sheer brazen confidence is refreshing; the blithe sensuality, the lack of inhibition, except about the neck, but that’s why there are turtlenecks. Turtlenecks and no pants—that’s the ticket! And lots of Pilates … nude, nude Pilates.
But no. All of these possibilities will pale compared with the corporeal depravity I’m about to describe—a radical self-pleasuring act that may well represent the true frontier of female liberation. Which is to say I speak to you candidly now about some lesbians I know, two lesbians. They live in a suburb of Los Angeles. They’re both a hair north of forty. One is a computer technician; the other, a hospital administrator. Physically, they are much as you might picture them. For the past twelve years, Teri and Pat have had a special Monday-night ritual. They order an extra-large cheese pizza (sixteen slices). While waiting—and I am not making this up—they settle in on the couch with large twin bags of Doritos. Each chip is dipped first in Philadelphia cream cheese and then in salsa. Cream cheese, salsa. Cream cheese, salsa. Cream cheese, salsa. The Doritos are finished to the last crumb, and then, upon arrival, the pizza as well. For Teri and Pat, this night of a million carbs is, by special agreement, guilt-free. Both feel that it is better than sex.
Interviews: "Not Tonight, Dear"
Joan Sewell talks about the politically incorrect notion that most married women just aren't that into sex
On the one hand, yes, Teri and Pat are poster children for what wags call “lesbian bed death.” Naysayers will look for—and find—yet more evidence to damn this pair, maybe pointing to the fifty pounds Teri and Pat have each gained over a decade, or to Pat’s extensive collection of Beanie Babies, or to Teri’s five cats, all of whom are named after colorful jazz divas who also, coincidentally, happen to be big fatties. On the other hand, Teri and Pat consider themselves happy. They are cheerful and generous with friends and with one another. In twelve years, neither has ever expressed an urge to stray. Or even to swing, to experiment outside the relationship with a new woman, a man, or even—more pertinently, on Monday nights—Chinese food. (Doesn’t a trial foray into popcorn shrimp at least sound tempting?)