There’s something strange in the air and for once it’s not the mysterious waft oozing from Bachelor’s Walk. I’ve noticed that Irish people are more open about sex than ever before and, by God, they’re enjoying it. Lately, fornication has replaced procrastination, people are becoming less anal about anal and the typical morning shuffle across O’Connell Bridge is now more of a satisfied strut.
But how did we get here? I went to an all-girls school where many assumed that the ‘Big O’ was a slide in Majorca. Now, don’t get me wrong, there was always a few aul’ slappers knocking around the corridors who had more holes pierced than an ‘80s punk rocker. They were ‘great rides’, or so declared the graffiti and the whispers at Wesley every Friday.
But it had to take more than Sarah Jessica Parker prancing around her bedroom in a skimpy pair of knickers and Gay Byrne hosting a handful of controversial shows to change a nation’s attitude on sex.
However, while a TV show can’t be held wholly responsible for a veritable revolution, we can thank the Americans for leading us to the right erection. Speed dating; crotch-less panties; Viagra and endless episodes of Rikki Lake informing us that no matter how fat you are, you’ll still get your beautiful fat leg over – it all helped.
Personally, the land of the clinically obese holds a special place in my heart (and somewhere else too, I might add) because that is where I got the best sex education of my life. This had nothing to do with wheelchair-inducing amounts of sex (I’ve learned long ago that lots of sex does not always equal brilliant sex). Unremarkably, it was all down to a TV show, where Americans phoned in and talked about their sex problems live on air.
Remarkably, the ‘sexpert’ hosting the show was an elderly woman who looked more like she should be getting measured for the coffin rather than dishing out saucy advice. Yet the show worked brilliantly. There’s just something about a geriatric waving around a vibrator instead of a cane that makes you sit up and take note.
England also came to the rescue with Ann Summers, and suddenly boyfriends and husbands across Ireland finally knew what to buy their respective partners for Christmas (I have to use the word ‘partners’ here because society was advancing so quickly at that stage that ‘himself’ or ‘herself’ is simply not a good enough title, and also, thank God, Enrique Iglesias is the only person on the planet able to pull off the word ‘lover’ with a straight face). Instantly, Christmas presents of sexy lingerie and tubes of chocolate paint replaced bath sets and blenders. Parents-in-Law were telephoned and told, “No, Karen and I won’t be down for Christmas Lunch, terrible flu she has, very mysterious altogether.” Meanwhile, neighbours of Karen and Big Fat Liar would later confirm that indeed, Karen was moaning and wailing in agony the whole day, so much so that she even managed to smack her head off the headboard several times. She must have been delirious, poor girl. And what would Parents-in-Law do instead? Well, let’s just say that the turkey wasn’t the only thing stuffed that day…
Be it Christmas or birthdays, gifts are a great way of promoting this sexual renaissance. I attended an Ann Summers soirée a few months ago, around the same time that a friend of mine was turning 30. As I perused the catalogue with Nigella Lawson-esque “oohs” and “aahhs”, I came across the Rampant Rabbit and decided that if my aging pal hadn’t got one, she was bloody-well getting one now.
Thing is, no one batted an eyelid at my purchase, because by now, 99 per cent of the population knows what a dildo is (the one per cent think it’s the girl who sang with Eminem and don’t deserve to be having good sex anyway).