On a walk with my friend Marie, we got to talking about cars. Marie shared that her very religious mother loved Volvos but steadfastly refused to buy one. I asked why. “Mom was afraid that someone would ask what type of car she owned. She didn’t want to have to say the word Volvo out loud, because it sounds too much like vulva!” We both laughed. I was impressed that Marie’s mom knew such a technical term for the female external genitalia. The story got me thinking about sexual words, and how uncomfortable they can make us feel.
One of the first skills I had to acquire as a young sex therapist was talking easily about sexual body parts. Sex therapy requires candid sex talk to help clients feel and function better sexually. But feeling comfortable saying sex words doesn’t happen overnight. Practice helped. The more I discussed sex parts and specifics, the easier it became to do it.
It also helped that my training to become a certified sex therapist involved exposure to a wide and colorful range of sexual terminology. This was critical. Sexuality counselors don’t do well if they are shocked or ignorant in a counseling session. I found much of this word-exposure learning both fun and illuminating. Imagine doing a group exercise in which you pair up and sit across from a virtual stranger and repeat a list of words, such as phallus, dick, rod, prick, pussy, slit, clit, yoni, boobs, tits, knockers, nipples, and balls. After exposure to sexual body part terms, we progressed to saying terms for sexual activities. Rumbles of words such as intercourse, humping, fucking, screwing, cock-sucking, finger-fucking, anal intercourse, beating your meat, and jilling off, rang in the space along with nervous laughter.
Regardless of what terms clients used in therapy, I was trained to stay calm, neutral, and professional by employing medical terminology. Thus, when a client told me about his “dick” or “rod”, I replied smoothly referring to his “penis.” In my counseling responses, “cunts” “clits” and “assholes” became “vaginas” “clitorises” and “anuses.” Clinical terminology encouraged safety and progress in the educational, therapeutic setting.
I may have had it easier than many of my peers. In my family of origin, my parents were frank and informative about sex matters. My father once shared that his father, my Grandpa Julius, called genitals “gentles.” I found this both cute and funny. Dad thought maybe it was because Julius learned English as a second language after immigrating from Eastern Europe. Perhaps he confused the word genitals with gentles. Or maybe he did it intentionally to make a point. I like to think it was the latter. My parents often cautioned me and my siblings to “Be gentle with your genitals.” Their message: they are special body parts that can be harmed by mistreatment, such as when bathing, roughhousing, or riding a bike.
I’ve always liked my grandpa’s term “gentles” for genital parts. I think it conveys respect and caring towards genitals. Many of the slang terms in our culture sound silly, demeaning, and, in some cases, threatening to me. For instance, penis terms like rods and swords, reference tools and weapons, and imply a separation from the man. And clitoris terms, like pleasure button and doorbell, lack power and agency.
The words we use for our sexual body parts influence how we feel about and treat them. It’s true sexual slang terms can be fun and sexy, but it depends on the circumstances. In some situations, they can offend and turn off a partner. How different is the message and energy when a penis is called a “pleasure wand” instead of a prick? And a clitoris called a “love button” instead of a clit sounds more worthy of tender handling. Everyone is different with what sex terms they prefer. And our word preferences change over time. I believe sexual terminology works best when it increases our ability to talk comfortably about sex and have positive sexual experiences with a partner. I think we’re doing well when we can talk about sex as easily as we do about cars.
I got my first car in 1972 when I graduated college, way before I considered becoming a sex therapist. What make of car was it? You guessed it, a Volvo!
© Wendy Maltz, April 1, 2024, all rights reserved
(Illustration: Georgia O’Keeffe’s Series 1, No. 8, 1919. Public domain)
