Gwyneth Paltrow’s new Netflix show, Sex, Love & goop, released a few weeks ago, brought up memories of my own bedroom struggles. When I first tried having intercourse, it took eight months of attempts before my vagina would let a penis take up residence. Intercourse finally became possible, yet always painful. A gynecologist I saw in those days suggested I gulp red wine before screwing. Not much of a drinker, I braced myself during acts that felt like assault—for 30 years. I told no one because it seemed like I was uniquely broken.

It turns out I wasn’t alone. According to The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, nearly 75 percent of women experience painful penetration at some point in their lives. Approximately 5 percent talk to a doctor, let alone a partner.

In 2010, at age 46, I decided to get blabby, though. After meeting and marrying the man of my dreams, I wanted to save my union, to cultivate massive love. Also, I was angry about the Just-Get-Blotto ignorance I’d encountered decades before. Surely, in the present day, the medical community offered better solutions.

I was right. This go around, there were actual diagnoses. I learned I had overlapping genital conditions: pelvic floor muscle tightness (vaginismus), overactive nerves in spots both vulvar and vaginal (vulvodynia), and some thinning internal tissue related to age—alas, a new development (vaginal atrophy). Mechanical techniques followed that shocked me with their effectiveness. Pelvic floor physical therapy. Self-administered dilator therapy. Hormone creams (estrogen and testosterone). A vaginal moisturizer.

Sex still hurt though. After so many years tensing even my eyeballs during lovemaking, I didn’t know how to relax into desire or arousal, let alone orgasm. So in 2015, I signed up for a weekend workshop that was supposed to show me how to have pleasure—for the first time in my life.

“Get naked,” said the fleshy undressed woman with spiked blonde hair, as soon as I stepped into her apartment. “Disrobe and enter the temple.” Her raspy voice reminded me of how much gals smoked in the seventies. She looked to be sixty-six but was actually eighty-six. This was Betty Dodson, a sexologist who had been one of the pioneers of second wave feminism, along with Gloria Steinem and others. Her piece of the emancipation puzzle was teaching femmes how to maximize sensual delight.

In the hallway, I stripped as told. Even more exposing was my lack of carnal knowledge. Shaking, I entered the temple. Or, if you prefer, Betty’s immaculate living room in Midtown Manhattan, where plush, slate-gray carpeting touched walls decorated with drawings and paintings, made by our hostess, who was likewise an artist. Many artworks featured females in repose. The real thing was more striking. Three bare-naked ladies were sitting on the floor in BackJack chairs arranged in a circle. I took a seat among them, crossing my ankles to be polite. What was polite here? Certainly not what I found myself doing—noticing everyone’s pubic styling.

“I’m Desiree,” said a smiling long young woman to my left with a wolf tattoo on her shoulder and a narrow landing strip. Before we got further into our chat, more of us arrived, until we were complete. Eight people with unveiled vulvas and breasts.

Then Betty came in with Carlin, her business partner. Carlin, statuesque with flowing blonde hair and a tremendous smile, was quick to laugh. A former lawyer, she had quit her job so she could dedicate her life to preserving Ms. Dodson’s legacy. Betty was as stunning, but gruffer. Hailing from the Midwest, with a PhD in sexology, she had the spirit of cabbies and postal employees (my dad included) who populated the neighborhood where I grew up. She reminded me, also, of my mom, a strong-thighed immigrant from Eastern Europe. Our powerhouse octogenarian declared: “What we’re going to do now is tell our history of f***ing, or f***ing history.”

Every one of us had a complicated story. A Brooklynite with pink hair was preyed upon as a teen. A nurse from New Zealand had recently discovered she was bisexual. A Columbian architect had never had satisfying intimacy with her husband. I felt close to these participants’ yearning for healing. But did I want proximity to their coochies?

The next exercise demanded just that. Called Show and Tell, the format was as follows. One by one, we would sit next to our sassy leader, in the “hotseat,” as we parted our legs and let the group scoot in tight. A mirror would be placed in front of our flower, so we could marvel at our beauty. Betty began doing these workshops—back when Jimmy Carter was president—because too many friends believed their vulvas were ugly or deformed. She had the same unease about her own attractiveness down there. What if she could reveal to women their real, gorgeous array?

Array indeed! Once we got started, I marveled at the diversity. Labia were shaped like wings, petals, ears, shells, or simply themselves. And there were so many colors: blush, mocha, mahogany, scarlet, mauve, and tan. When my turn arrived, I tried to relax my knees as my teacher angled the makeup mirror and lamp so I could view myself. The heat from the light didn’t help my sweating situation; nerves saturated my chair. But there she was…Where did all those grey hairs come from? Still, I felt proud of this part of me. Also, the aspect of self that had found its way from chronic pain to this living room.

I wondered: could radical vulva love lead to ecstasy?

The next day, I was about to find out. First, a dive into erections. Not male hard-ons. Our own. I discovered that women have even more swelling tissue than men, if you take into account our entire—and mostly internal—clitoris. I contemplated, via artwork and photos, the clitoral head, hood, shaft, and legs. Who knew that vestibular bulbs hugged the opening of the vagina, or that the G-spot was similarly part of this internal happiness structure? What a mass of engorgement. I discovered, shockingly, that female-bodied folks need twenty to thirty minutes of stimulation in order to have maximum body bliss, including orgasm. Had I ever demanded that many seconds?

Well, it was time to rock ‘n roll. By which I mean, mass masturbation on Betty’s living room carpet—the culminating activity of our weekend. As our carnal guru put on actual rock (Jimi Hendrix), we began working with the vast information we’d gained plus personal tools they’d supplied us with: a bottle of almond oil, a cordless Magic Wand vibrator (think back massager from the 80s), and a six-inch metal rod known as a Barbell.

I needed more arms to handle everything, and better rhythm. The goal was simultaneous internal and external stimulation—to get all our erectile tissue excited. Another part of this dance was moving our hips back and forth, like a swing, squeezing and releasing at key moments. Eventually, I gained a bit more coordination. Enough to marvel at how clinical and juicy and sacred this all was. Like a collection of Goddesses ascending.

As for my personal climb, I think my brain got all the engorgement. More fascinated than physically charged, I got caught up in hundreds of cortex-tingling insights. Maybe discomfort wasn’t the main culprit inhibiting my peak experiences all these years. Could it be, until that day, I’d never really understood arousal? Yes! I was just comprehending full-spectrum turn on. A touch of it. There was even proof—I had no pain.

A half decade has passed since this adventure. Throughout, I’ve been using this foundational “lay of the land” to map erotic landscapes—of psyche, flesh, and marriage. As a result, when obstacles arise (hello, Genitourinary Syndrome of Menopause), I’m almost always able to enjoy great lovemaking. The key, I’ve found, is an ever-expanding grasp of who I am, sensually, which lets me pivot. Call it erotic resilience: the courage to change position, activity, or hormone blend.

Oct 31, 2021 marked the one-year anniversary of Betty Dodson’s death—at 91. I’m told she was offering Bodysex workshops almost right until the end. She was even featured on Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop Lab, a previous Netflix show. Apparently, she, and that episode, were the inspiration for this new series.

Betty Dodson inspires me too, every day. I channel her when I’m unrushed in my utopia, when I perform tea-light rituals of self-love, which might involve a small mirror. I conjure her when I work with my own students. Shortly after the Dodson workshop, I trained to become a sexual health educator and coach.

It took me years to uncover this truth: pelvic pain can be debilitating, but it’s highly treatable—by medical remedies combined with pleasure. I think I’ll go till 91, at least, spreading this gospel, rapturously making up for lost time.

Adapted from The Pleasure Plan: One Woman’s Search for Sexual Healing by Laura Zam (Health Communications Inc.), available from Amazon or Bookshop.