The Globe & Mail: Growing up the daughter of a sex therapist

My sex therapist mom embarrassed me to no end – then something shifted

Kate Wiley Contributed to The Globe and Mail Published Thursday, May 05, 2016 10:09AM EDT Last updated Thursday, May 05, 2016 11:57AM EDT Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

“As you know, more oxygen leads to better orgasms.”

So goes the conversation around the dinner table when Mom visits. It’s her favourite topic: sex.

My husband actually counts the minutes at each mealtime before his mother­in­law manages to lob a casual reference to masturbation or foreplay into the familial banter.

“It’s an occupational hazard,” she protests when I ask that she rein it in.

There’s truth to her defence. She’s been a practising sex therapist for as long as I can remember.

At the dawn of her career, she was invited to speak on talk shows hosted by the likes of Joan Rivers. I remember Husband No. 2 (she’s now on her fourth) dutifully taking a ribbing from Howard Stern for having landed himself a “sex professional” for a wife. Mom gave an overboisterous laugh and proffered a dildo as a stage prop.

These days, most people know the difference between a sex therapist and a sex surrogate. Dr. Diana’s advice to her clients is administered in an office, while fully clothed. But in the 1990s that distinction wasn’t so clear in people’s minds. The misconceptions were implicit in the wide­eyed stares of my schoolmates when I revealed my mother’s line of work. “She does what?”

A year into my undergraduate degree at a Catholic university, I realized there was no concealing my

mother’s occupation. She was far too vocal – and far too popular. Her visits to Georgetown University in Washington, would inevitably morph into impromptu group therapy sessions. Even the football team got in on the action. Never before had I seen a group of young men so intent on a mother’s advice.

Capitalizing on her popularity, in 1996 my sophomore roommates and I decided to throw a Valentine’s Day party in her honour. Big mistake. Our dorm was overflowing with unfamiliar faces when Dr. Di took her seat at the head of the assembly. The time had come to answer the anonymous questions that had been crammed into our Q&A box, positioned strategically beside the punch bowl.

What followed was a performance by my mother that rivalled that of Meg Ryan in the delicatessen scene in When Harry Met Sally. Though I never heard the question that prompted such a dramatic response, I was certain I didn’t want to be around for any more inquiries. I fled the scene, and returned well after the party had dispersed.

Nate Kitch for The Globe and Mail

The embarrassment I felt as the daughter of a sex therapist reached its climax that night, but my resentment at her choice of profession continued to ebb and flow over the years. Then, in my mid­20s, something shifted and I realized that, like the rest of us, Mom was tackling her own insecurities – for starters, vulnerability around being accepted and acknowledged as an accomplished professional. By constantly bringing up sex, she is able to share her expertise.

My empathy for Mom intensified when I had children of my own, as it does for many daughters. Much of

the attention once showered on the resident sexpert is now being diverted to her grandchildren – and Mom is actually leading the defection. The Astroglide samples she famously used to distribute at family functions have been replaced by recordable story books brought to life by Glamma’s voice. Rather than coaxing dinner conversations into X­rated realms, she’ll now gush about how exceptionally brilliant her grandsons are.

When I’m feeling generous, I set the stage for her – referencing her days as a topless showgirl in Miami or her exploits as Barbi Benton’s sidekick; or the all­time family favourite – her fling with Bill Clinton. (This transpired in the days when he still sported an afro, long before he met Hillary.)

She always takes the bait. “I can’t recall if he ever inhaled,” she demurs.

In these moments, her ready smile fills the room. The memories transport her to a time before things like hip replacements and thinning hair became part of her reality.

I think growing older must be particularly hard for women like my mom, who were considered especially beautiful. Having spent her youth basking in male attention, external validation has always been something she craves.

“I’ve been a good mother, mostly. Don’t you think?”

I get asked a version of this question regularly. A simple “yes” doesn’t suffice – she’s fishing for details.

To her credit, she is equally enthusiastic about dispensing compliments; I get weekly e­mails insisting that I am an extraordinary mother in my own right.

Even at the mature age of 73, Dr. Diana still goes too far. She’ll end an anecdote with a tip for keeping one’s love life “juicy,” or allude to her own supercharged libido in e­mails to extended family. “Use it or lose it!” she advises all who will listen.

But she is slightly more mindful of her audience than she was in my student days. And I am considerably less distressed by her maternal infractions, and far more appreciative of the love she doles out freely and abundantly.

Kate Wiley lives in Victoria.