Sex
In the end, we’re all naked
Thoughts on my sister-in-law's suicide.
A woman who must have been close to 65, and who was living alone in a small flat in south London, hanged herself last week. I was going to say I knew her once, though I’m not sure that that was ever true. We were only related: She was my sister-in-law, the wife to the brother of the woman I married. She was there in the family before I came along, and she remained a part of it after I had left. But we had one thing in common, I suppose: We had both married into this quite large, intensely associating family. We had a joke about being the outsiders.
She came from a landowning family in Northern Ireland, and she looked a little like the queen. Or she did then, in the ’60s and ’70s, when I knew her. I can’t quite guess what she looked like last week, for I hadn’t seen her in 25 years. She was old-fashioned in a very appealing way: She had exquisite, gentle manners; she was a model of kindness to others; she was always asking after your interests and concerns; and she was not much there herself. Alone in this intense family, she did not cause scenes or leave her wild problems to be stepped around. She had a husband, two sons, dogs always and a large comfortable house in a good part of south London. They were managing very nicely, it seemed. The thing called the ’60s, it seemed to me, had had not the least effect on her strong walls: Her ideas, her attitudes, her sense of service came from an earlier age and had not been altered an atom.
Something happened, and I have only had reports of it. She began to break down. It was said that she suffered from depression. She could not do very much; she could not run the house very well. She was unhappy. She had many doctors and medications. Her husband and her children were anxious to do all they could think of doing. She went into clinics for treatments; she even had electroshock therapy along the way. I do not mean to give a clear account of her case, let alone a diagnosis. But her character remained the same. She was self-effacing, kind, very polite, very considerate of others. She did not burst out at the same time as breaking down. She did not become a scarlet woman, a drunk, a drug addict, dangerous to others, unkind to anyone.
This decline had gone on a long time, and I daresay the people in the best position to do anything were at their wits’ end. I am sure they had tried and tried. And about a year ago, it seems, this woman gave up the family house in south London — not that the sons lived at home anymore — and moved into a small flat. Maybe she tried to make that place pretty and familiar, but I cannot help but see it as the kind of bare room I talked about last week as the space where Lucian Freud places his great nudes.
No, Lucian Freud never painted this woman, my one-time sister-in-law. She didn’t move in those circles and I cannot believe that she would have taken her clothes off for anyone or anything. She had always been modestly devout — Church of England, that unshowy faith — and in later years that duty had increased. Indeed, if you’d taken this woman to a gallery full of the enormous gaping nudes that Freud paints — like wounds on the wall — I daresay she’d have been embarrassed or inclined to make small jokes about how cold the subjects must feel.
But in the end, our room goes bare — doesn’t it? — even if we live in a bourgeois palace. In the end we’re naked. And this woman hanged herself. No one who knew her seems to have been surprised at the suicide: Her unhappiness was so palpable, if mysterious; there seemed no other end game possible. But everyone is stunned by how she did it. Judy was the kind of woman who, at the height of some family scene, would say, “Well, I’ll just go and make a pot of tea.” It was escape for her, perhaps, but healing for the others. And if you’d had to guess how she might kill herself you’d have thought of pills, carefully, quietly stored up against a rainy day. Not a knife. Not a razor. Not headlong under a train on the Northern line. Not throwing herself from a height. Something modest, unobtrusive, composed, something orderly.
But she hanged herself. And, being inexperienced, bungled it. When discovered, she was still alive, or not quite dead. So she died on the way to the hospital. And someone had to see her hanging there, struggling, making whatever noise she could. At 65 or so, absolute violence had broken through, and insisted on being heard.
I can’t explain this, let alone make a point about it. I hardly knew her. But I felt the shock of strangeness that must have been so much more to those closer to her. Is it an English thing? I don’t think so. I think there are people in our families, in the next room, in this very advanced day and age, people who have grown old, who have never found the way or the right to shout out in protest.
David Thomson is the author of "A Biographical Dictionary of Film" (new edition just published), "Rosebud: The Story of Orson Welles" and "In Nevada." More David Thomson.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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