Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

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In the early seventies after getting involved in feminism, I began to think about teaching sex to women in practical terms. Instead of sitting around complaining about men as we’d been doing in my regular CR groups, we could share information on how we were having orgasms with ourselves.

The words “Sexual Consciousness Raising” started to percolate in my mind. Women having independent orgasms might also help them to have independent thoughts! We could change our sex lives for the better which in turn would affect everything else very positively.

As an art student, I’d learned by doing. In fact, every time I learned something new that involved my body, like the latest dance steps, l didn't just sit in a classroom talking about how to make the moves. But how on earth could I teach sex by doing sex, short of staging groupsex parties for women only? That would eliminate most women. Finally I realized that I already had an agenda with my own successful self-therapy. So I made a list: healing genital shame was number one. Accepting masturbation as the key to sexual self-knowledge was number two. Not only would these groups be a way to teach women about sex, but if I charged a small fee, teaching could become a modest source of income while I was learning to write.

The following night, I couldn’t wait to tell Sheila that I was thinking about running sexual consciousness raising groups for feminists. The moment I said the words out loud, a strong sense of invincibility swept over me. She grinned from ear to ear, saying it would be the perfect way to show those matriarchal prudes at Ms. that I was serious about liberating masturbation. When I asked if she’d help me, she nodded yes still grinning. Suddenly we were both caught up in this radical concept of teaching women about orgasm that had our rebellious spirits glowing. The possibilities seemed endless. As our ideas went flying back and forth, one thing was certain: I knew we had to act out what an orgasm looked like, imitating the moves and sounds to give a visual image of sex. This was long before porn was available online and wives and mothers had no idea what sex looked like except Hollywood’s phony version.

Sheila thought we ought to include health, yoga, and the martial arts. I agreed, and I also wanted to cover genital hygiene plus a discussion on birth control and a demonstration on how to use a diaphragm inserter. The groups could be held in my living room, which would easily handle ten to fifteen women— if I got rid of the furniture. The question was at hand. Was I seriously ready to make a gut-wrenching change? The immediate answer was yes. Acting instead of thinking, I called my former husband and asked if he wanted our furniture? He thought I was crazy, but after I explained that I needed to empty the living room to hold classes, he said yes. Within a few days, a truck came and picked up my Louis Seize couch, chairs, and marble topped end tables, all the expensive period furniture we’d collected during our seven year marriage.

The following day I sat on the floor in an empty room depressed, wondering if I’d lost my mind. If I’d been smart, I would have at least sold the damn furniture. Finally it dawned on me that my apartment was a blank canvas on which I was going to paint a new lifestyle and my depression lifted. With only a few hundred dollars left in the bank, I borrowed a thousand dollars and ordered wall‑to‑wall carpeting plus a dozen pretty pillows. With little else but my art on the walls and fresh‑cut flowers in the windows, the living room looked spacious and serene.

The first night my CR group met at my place, everyone loved the new room. Pauline thought it was beautiful and peaceful— like an ashram. When I told her it was a Temple of Pleasure, and I was the Priestess in charge, we all laughed. Several of the women stretched out on the floor and did Yoga postures. I spoke about beginning a new career with sexual CR groups where women could learn about sex from one another. An interesting conversation followed with suggestions on how I should proceed. Nearly all of them thought nudity was far too radical and would limit the number of women who would attend. In the end, I decided nudity would be a form of natural selection by weeding out those women who weren’t ready to explore sex.

The next day I got on the telephone and two weeks later I had a list of nineteen tentative yeses. I set up two groups back‑to‑back. We’d meet one evening a week for a month and I charged a very reasonable fifteen dollars a session. Women could pay for individual sessions in case they were unable to attend all four nights. On the first night of the Monday session, I answered the door nude the same as when I had a sex party. Then I ushered everyone into the bedroom and asked them to please remove their clothes. Having them undress immediately left no time for them to worry about being naked. Later on I installed 15 silver hooks in my foyer that remain there today.

Agnes, a clinical psychologist, showed up first and got right out of her clothes. Then four women from my CR group all walked in together and started complaining about taking their clothes off before meeting the other women. Just then, three women who’d been at a few of my groupsex parties came in and stripped immediately. Finally, all the women except Francine from my CR group reluctantly removed their clothes protesting the whole time. After everyone was seated, I could have cried from the exquisite visual before my eyes. Except for Francine sitting there in her stupid leotard, we were indeed the Temple Priestesses forming some kind of sacred circle where we could manifest healing powers performing sex rituals.

"The personal is political", I said in a shaky voice. Then gradually picking up momentum; I shared how I currently felt about my body and my orgasms. Sheila spoke about her six years of sex with men without one orgasm and how she finally learned to come with masturbation at the age of twenty‑six. Joanna said she could have an orgasm doing herself, but not with her lover. Mimi mostly talked about her lifestyle. Stephanie wasn't sure what an orgasm was like, and Joy was being celibate. Agnes had a faithful husband while she played around, and Francine didn't want to talk about her personal sexlife because “some things should remain private”.

The following week, we covered food and health. Everyone seemed interested in our information about vegetarian and macrobiotic eating which at that time was popular. Then I invited everyone into the bathroom so they could observe me perform some cleansing rituals that Sheila and I had found to be extremely beneficial.

"Reich often had his patients do this exercise", I said, getting ready to bring back a glass of warm water from my empty stomach. "He believed that triggering the gag reflex released a lot of throat and stomach tension, which often put his patients in touch with repressed feelings".

"That's disgusting", Francine exclaimed as she turned and marched out of the bathroom. Sheila leaned over and whispered in my ear, "The controlling Matriarch." I threw up the water, determined not to be diverted. Then I got into the bathtub to demonstrate a thorough douching technique. After filling my vaginal cavity while holding the outer labia together to retain the water, I then forced it out and sprayed it four feet in front of me. That one got a round of applause. Next I was simply going to talk about how to do a colon cleansing, but when I got out the enema bag, the women all gasped and fled the bathroom!

Back in the circle, no one could see what vomiting, douching, or enemas had to do with a good sex life. As I began to explain, I could see I'd lost them. None of them showed up for the third session, but I quickly forgave myself. The only way I would know where to draw the line was by going too far. The Tuesday group went a lot smoother. They were spared the bathroom demos and I concentrated more on sex. After showing two kinds of electric vibrators, I begin talking about different masturbation techniques. Since most of them were relating to men, they wanted to know how to have an orgasm from intercourse. My answer was to add some kind of direct clitoral stimulation while their partner was thrusting inside their vagina.

Sheila and I demonstrated all the sexual positions that made it easy to add clitoral stimulation while fucking. Each time, I emphasized the importance of using some kind of massage oil during sex. As I took the man's role, I sat upright on my haunches, while Laura was lying on her back with her legs on either side of me. As she pretended to diddle her clit, I pretended to fuck her, telling them that clitoral stimulation during intercourse was the only way I could consistently have orgasms with a partner. Next we did "doggie style," which was totally rejected. None of the women were willing to get into that “disgusting position with their behinds exposed like that.” The right‑angle position was more acceptable. This time I took the female role, lying on my back. Sheila was on her side as she pretended to enter me from an angle. The beauty of this position, I pointed out, was the ease in reaching the clitoris by either the man or the woman.

Moving along like a trooper, I had the women gather around while I prepared to do my first genital show and tell for an audience. As I set up my free-standing make‑up mirror and adjusted the light, I was a bundle of nerves with sweat running down both sides. Taking a deep breath and then exhaling, I opened my vulva to expose my extended inner-lips and to explain how I thought I’d stretched them from childhood masturbation. Spontaneously Joan, my neighbor, spread her legs and displayed her even longer inner lips. Sobbing with relief she said she too thought she was deformed.

Joan’s spontaneous confession released all the pent-up genital shame in each woman. Within a few moments, they were all looking at their own and each other's genitals as they marveled at the variety of our shapes, colors, and sizes. A profound moment! That night was the birth of "Genital Show and Tell," which would become one of the most healing of all the rituals in the thousands of groups I would do over many years to come.

During February of 1973, I was running the next round of sexual CR groups when I got a call from Dell Williams who insisted I get involved in the planning committee for the NOW Sexuality Conference. At NOW’s third planning session with twenty other women present, Dell asked what I’d like to do at the big gathering on Sunday. When I spontaneously answered, “I'd like to do a slide show of split beaver for feminists,” there were blank expressions on every woman’s face. No one knew what I was talking about, so I explained that "Split Beaver" was porno slang for a photo of a woman holding her vaginal lips open. Two women thought it was a derogatory male term, and one suggested that “Open Otter” sounded more feminine.

That’s when I told them my story. Until the age of thirty‑five, I thought I was genitally deformed because I had long inner lips. Due to my basic lack of visual information with no idea what other women's sex organs looked like, I’d been inhibited and self‑conscious every time I had sex with a partner. Then I pointed out the positive results I'd been getting in the workshops with the Genital Show and Tell ritual. After I promised to produce the slides and assured them I'd think of a suitable name for my presentation, I got a tentative approval.

In all fairness, these NOW women and I were miles apart sexually speaking. They were what society would call “normal” heterosexual women who were devoted to having monogamous committed relationships that either already did or hopefully would include marriage and family. I was an artist, a single bachelor who was having sex on my own terms with whomever I pleased. At the time, I didn’t factor in our differences. I simply remained focused on getting the information out to as many feminists as possible so other women wouldn’t suffer what I had gone through. Once women could see the vast variation in the appearances of our sex organs, we would realize women were all different and that every style was beautiful in its own way.

To help close the gap between these conservative women and myself, I decided to run a complimentary one‑night workshop for the board members of NOW. Rumors going around had me running orgies for feminists because I’d gone public about hosting group sex parties. It was an image I adored, but one that was far from true. When the NOW women showed up, I was totally unprepared for the radical lesbians and heterosexual women who identified as "political lesbians." The authentic lesbians refused to discuss their private sexlives, and the political lesbians weren't having any sex. That left Mary, Sheila, and me to talk about our sex lives which diminished the power of CR where we all shared our personal stories that benefited the entire group.

Mary was in an open marriage, Sheila and I were having casual sex with men and all three of us were bisexual; we were open to having sex with women although we were basically straight. After we talked about our sexlives and orgasms, I moved into position to display my genitals in front of a make-up mirror. Before starting, I brought up genital hygiene and showed them how to do a self‑check by putting their fingers inside their vaginas. "Smelling and tasting my cunt is the best way for me to feel secure so I can enjoy oralsex," I said, smacking my lips.

"I object to that word!" roared Puritan Ruth, a political lesbian. For the next half hour we had a long boring discussion and finally agreed on "genitals." But Ruth's angry outburst effectively ended the Genital Show and Tell process. By that time, I was so worn down by these controlling sexless Matriarchs that I no longer wanted to look at their twats, pussies, vulvas, snatches, or wee wads. Their repression had gotten to Sheila as well. She’d already excused herself to go lie down in the bedroom with a splitting migraine headache.

In spite of feeling like I was sinking in quicksand, I pressed on, stressing the importance of orgasms to our psychic and physical health as I showed them manual and vibrator techniques. The political lesbians could still have orgasms if they would simply include masturbation, but none of them were interested in having an orgasm alone. What was the point? Sex was about being in love with another person, someone with whom you could share your life as well as your orgasms. I’d lost the entire group. Clearly they were not going to learn or change anything.

After everyone left, I walked into the bedroom and sat down next to Sheila who had a wash cloth over her forehead. "What the hell was that all about?" I asked.

"It's Catholic boarding school, Betty. It was so much like my years at Sacred Heart that I had to leave the room because I couldn't handle it. They were all playing the roles of nuns, novitiates, and mother superiors."

She was absolutely right! Our tension broke as we both started laughing. Silently I thanked my parents for not shoving religion down my throat.

In early May, I finally tackled the production of the vulva slides for the NOW Conference. I recruited two photographers who called themselves "Herstory Inc." On the designated night, I paced around the apartment, hoping women wouldn't chicken out. My team waited with me, ready with the lights set up and a tripod‑mounted camera. Our hearts lept for joy when the doorbell started ringing. In all, fifteen courageous women showed up.

In the bedroom, where the equipment and model stand were set up, we took turns revealing our private parts to the inquiring close-up lens. I requested several basic poses: one natural, one with the outer vaginal lips held apart, another with the clitoris exposed. Then each woman was given a mirror and asked to arrange her vulva however she considered was most appealing. A few women were watching while others were talking in the living room, brushing or trimming their pubic hair in preparation for their pussy portraits. I was the stylist, pushing back a pubic hair that strayed in front of a clit, arranging an inner lip, or occasionally applying makeup to cover a rash from shaving too close. Each woman took the stand while others gathered round.

"Look at her exquisite coloring", said a voice. “The skin around her clitoris has a mother‑of‑pearl texture", said another. We began to see shapes that we associated with nature: a shell, a flower, a fig. I also saw architectural styles from different periods: a Classical cunt with perfect proportions, a Gothic cunt with cathedral-shaped arches, a Baroque cunt with elaborate drapery, and an Art Deco cunt with fluted graceful lines. Again and again, I pointed out the heart shape when a woman held her outer lips open. Valentine's Day suddenly had a new meaning. We could send our pussy portraits to lovers and husband to celebrate sexual love. All those romantic red hearts surrounded by lace were really open vulvas with decorative pubic hair.

When the clitoral hood was pulled back, the variation in clitoral glans was astonishing— from tiny seed pearls to one thumb‑sized royal gem. Oh, I want a big clit like that one", Heidi remarked. "I'd prefer a smaller clitoris because they look more feminine", said Joan from the model stand, owner of the biggest clit so far. Looking closely, I saw that my proper neighbor with her perfect English accent had a very impressive clitoris nestled above large inner and outer lips. Her clitoris was even bigger than mine, and when I felt a twinge of jealousy, I was shocked to think I might be a closeted size queen!

At one point I announced that I’d looked up phallus in the dictionary and it referred to both a penis and a clitoris. We were no longer what Germaine Greer called, “female eunuchs” in her popular book. We were the new "Phallic Women" in charge of our own pleasure, our own lives, and our own destinies. The room filled with shouts of "Right on"! “Sisterhood is Powerful!” We were having such a good time that no one noticed the shooting had gone way past midnight. While everyone got dressed to leave, unconditional love for each woman in the room flooded my heart. Some were old friends, others were from groupsex, and a few were from my CR group— they were my "old girls network".

Dell approached me again to help design a flyer for the conference as well as create titles for the different workshops. We agreed on Women’s Sexuality Conference and the tag line was brilliant. Dell had been in advertising and she came up with “To explore, define and celebrate our own sexuality.” The workshop titles were outrageous: Creating New Sexual Identities * Liberating Masturbation and Orgasms * Expanding Heterosexuality * Women Loving Women * Bisexuality * Open Marriage * Group Sex * Older Women’s Sexuality * Teenage Sexuality * Childhood Sexuality * and for good measure we threw in the Sexual Double Standard.

I did what I thought was an inspired drawing for the poster. A strong woman standing with arms and legs outstretched completely nude. Her head was the clitoris superimposed on top of a large circular vulva that was the background. The NOW women refused to use my poster, claiming I’d drawn male genitals on my muscular woman who appeared too aggressive. Since I’d eliminated the pubic hair they thought her outer labia appeared to be testicals.

On the first day of the conference, Judy, the president of NOW started things off with an inspiring speech about equality for women. Sheila and I were among seven women sitting on the stage who would address the entire audience. When it was my turn, I looked out at a sea of feminist faces and said, "This is so exciting. I think I'm lubricating!" The room went wild which helped to diffuse some of my nervousness. I knew this was my big chance to get masturbation out of the closet and up in the headlines as a feminist issue. I was off and running, talking about my sexual CR groups, raving about the electric vibrator and how it would put an end to the concept of frigidity in women forever. I announced my afternoon workshop where I would introduce these marvelous sex machines and there would be some available for sale.

Sheila followed me, speaking about her constipation and how she was healing herself with diet and enemas. She was so brave. Saying the words, "constipation" and "enema" in public was far more daring than me talking about "masturbation" and "orgasms." Sally our feminist anthropologist ended her talk by saying we needed to do away with labels and just be sexual. Somewhere I would hope there is a transcript of NOW’s first, and I might add, last sex conference.

My vibrator workshop spilled over into the hall with standing room only. I had a case of Panabrators and Prelude vibrators with several plugged in and displayed on a table. Women came up one after another to feel the vibrations. Both styles sold out in less than thirty minutes.

For the big meeting on Sunday afternoon, I came up with a marvelously intellectual title for my slideshow: "Creating a Female Genital Aesthetic.” Standing stage left, I began talking about the importance of women getting to know and like their genitals while projecting six‑foot images of feminist clits center stage. At first a hush came over the audience of over a thousand women. But when I used the term “Classical Cunt,” I heard a tittering of laughter, followed by a loud hissing noise coming from the left side of the auditorium. When I showed the “Baroque cunt” a large woman stood up with her hands on her hips and bellowed, "We object to your using THAT WORD! We've heard enough of that kind of talk from men."

"Here we go again," I thought, remembering Anselma’s complaint about lesbian hecklers. Looking directly at my critic, I said in my firmest dyke voice, "I'm sorry the word offends you but saying it happens to turn me on so I intend to keep using it." Amidst a rippling of dissent among her friends, she sat back down and I projected the next slide: The “Art Deco Cunt.”

After a hundred visual and verbal cunts, there was a long, loud standing ovation. Standing there, I trembled with excitement, hearing the women clapping, shouting, and whistling. Wave after wave of joy washed over me. At the time, I thought the Women’s Movement was well on its way to becoming “cunt positive.” Sadly I would be proven wrong. What I didn’t understand at the time was that each generation of women entered puberty with the same hang-ups we thought we’d gotten rid of thanks to our backward school system.

Like they say, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” If I’d known then what I know now, I’m sure I would have stayed in my studio painting and drawing nudes instead. But I would unknowingly throw myself in the middle of America’s fear of sex, thanks to the oligarchies insistence on keeping the population sexually uninformed and repressed making us easier to manipulate. Meanwhile Popes and priests lifted their skirts so little boys could suck them off, while kings, presidents and CEO’s unzipped their flies so interns and secretaries could suck them off too. Isn’t life grand?

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