LAUGH OUT

by Sally Sheklow

ORAL SEX

Who knew dental hygiene could be so carnal?

Sexy root canal. Now there's a contradiction in terms. Like nuclear safety. But wait. Think about the elements of feeling sexy: the quickened pulse, the throbbing passion, the oozing fluids. Now consider our sexual hygiene habits these last 15 or so years since droves of dykes joined our gay brothers in learning all about safe sex. Remember your first encounter with that sleek, taut, flexible little sheet of latex known affectionately as the dental dam? The thrilling subterfuge of liberating a tool of dentistry for carnal indulgence? I believe you are beginning to see where sexy and root canal meet.

I discovered the match completely by chance. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my unconscious it lay lurking, crouched, ready to ambush me when I least expected it: reclined in the chair of the endodontist.

There I was, mouth crammed with wads of cotton the size of heavy-day tampons. A siphon hooked over my jaw suctioned my involuntary flow of saliva while a woman in uniform probed my main orifice with warm, latex-gloved fingers. I closed my eyes and tried to relax into the vinyl chair. The very thought of needing a root canal had made me nervous, and I hoped to get through the ordeal using the deep-breathing technique. As a back-up plan, I could always pass out. I inhaled, focused on my third-eye point, exhaled, and eased my death grip on the plastic-covered armrests.

The soles of the endodontist's Hush Puppies squished softly on the polished floor when he walked into the exam room. He made some small talk, to which I could not reply because my mouth was full of sanitary products. Besides, I didn't want to come out of my meditative state and get all anxious again. Then, over the buzz and slurp of the suction machine came a particular unmistakable sound. Snap, rustle rustle, snap followed by the faint smell of talc. This guy was putting on latex gloves. Reflexes took over, and my crotch dampened.

"Anything can be eroticized." The workshop leader's words flooded back to me. About a dozen of us HIV-prevention recruits had gathered at Liz and Carolyn's house for our first safe-sex workshop. The lights were low, and soft jazz played in the background. Liz served hibiscus tea, and Carolyn set out a plate of mint Milanos while we all found our spots and settled in.

The invited presenter, a certified "sexpert" from San Francisco, spoke in a calm, relaxing tone. She rattled off the information that would empower us to insist on safer sex for ourselves and to spread the word to the community. Latex was the main deal, nothing most of us lezzies knew much about. She introduced us to latex gloves, finger cots, and dental dams and showed us how to put a condom on a sex toy-with our mouths. During the last 45 minutes, we were asked to write an erotic story using info we had just learned. The evening ended with us going around the circle and reading our stories, which all included some rendition of "her swollen, hungry lips pulsated against the glistening latex dam." A hot and juicy time was had by all. The sexpert reminded us that anything can be eroticized and bid us good night.

I didn't really think the workshop had that much of an effect on me, other than prompting instinctual nipple erections at the mere thought of a mint Milano. It never occurred to me that I would so integrate the sexpert's words into my psyche that I would get turned on during a root canal. But it was happening. I squirmed in the reclining chair to accommodate my engorgement.

The endodontist delivered the coup de grace with the deft stretching of a dental dam over my offending molar's little head. My tongue automatically explored the underside of the slick rubbery shield. Erotic associations zapped across my synapses. I was anesthetized, aroused, and open for whatever these two latex-clad professionals intended to do to me. If I had been able to utter more than a cotton-muffled grunt, I'd have suggested they reposition the saliva siphon a couple of feet lower.

I barely remember the drilling. I left the office numb-faced, giddy, and not just a little weak in the knees.

That experience changed my life. Now squeaky shoes get me hot. I'm helpless around polyester print smocks. Put a chain-clasp paper bib on me, and I melt.

Come to think of it, I have been feeling a familiar aching throb in a hard-to-reach spot deep inside. I get all gooey just thinking about it. I probably need another root canal.

Sally Sheklow struggles to take life seriously. Send fan mail to sally@wymprov.com.