By Barbara Hey, Natural Solutions
I have a sacred spot. It’s not in Sedona or near the shrine, adorned with deities and religious medals, that I keep in my bedroom. No, this spot is internal, south of my navel, north of my thighs, in the vicinity of what others refer to as the G-spot. I learned this at a tantra session led by instructors who trained with Charles and Caroline Muir, a couple who’ve been leading seminars on tantra yoga for more than 20 years.
It’s taken me a while to reveal the coordinates of my spot, so consider how long it has taken me to want to go looking for it. Like many of my generation, I didn’t learn much about sex when I was growing up. My parents didn’t volunteer information, and I didn’t ask. I knew people did it, but as for what they got out of it, aside from offspring, I didn’t have a clue. Among my family and friends–solid midwesterners, all–pleasures of the flesh were considered not just a sin, but a waste of good cookie-baking time.
But I was curious. I knew well the textbook hidden in my father’s sock drawer that detailed the act in the style of a Lego instruction manual. And I paid attention during sex education, when the gym teacher, in white shorts and Oxford shirt, began the excruciating session with talk of “closeness” as experienced by our mothers and fathers. That hour contained a much grittier description of what I had read in the sock drawer, and it would take me years to understand why anyone was compelled to commit such an act–or to believe that anyone in my house was doing so.
Eventually, of course, I grew up and got to the point where sex was do-able–something I could do with my eyes closed, though I was never the type, say, to do it with a blindfold on or my hands tied behind my back. But there’s a lot I’m still curious about. Over the years, as a husband and partners have come and gone, I have thought–more than once–that I just may be missing something. It’s not that I’m dysfunctional, but there are many things about sex I don’t know and still don’t ask, like, Why is passion so ephemeral and intimacy so elusive? Why is the balance between giving and receiving sometimes askew? And, simply, am I doing it right?