A is for Awkward.

There’s something to be said for being really open and forthright about sex. The Sex and the City model is a good one for liberalism and feminism and all that is great about the modern, all-accepting era: gather your friends, talk about who’s getting what from whom and when over coffee like you’d talk about the last novel you read.

I love to watch these kind of conversations go down. But I’m not exactly the girl who’ll jump right in and participate, volunteering details of her sordid night in.

I live in something of a 1950s world where what goes on in my bedroom stays right there, beneath the crisply made sheets, thanks so much. I’ll ask you about your flower garden, or your casserole recipe, but never, ever you and your husband’s nocturnal affairs. Even thinking about sex seems, to me, somehow taboo. Yes, I was raised by puritans.

Out shopping last week, a friend invited me to a party she was hosting. We were out and it was loud and all I heard was “Sunday, my apartment, party.” Excellent, thought I. She sent a later e-mail with her address and the time, and I wrote back an enthusiastic yes, sign me up, I’d love to come. DETAILS, magda, the me of the future cries. Details would have been good.

I arrived late, because I got lost. I always get lost. My car has a GPS but still, believe me, I will detour to a ridiculous degree (chalk that up to “follows instructions poorly”). That and the signs around here really suck (yes, DC, I hate you). I blame the sign commission of the greater Mid-Atlantic for how quickly I’ve become really dangerous driver. No U-Turns? Nah, I didn’t see that. No turn on red? Oops! Oh look, my exit! By the time I eventually get pulled over, I’ll have certainly had it coming, and looking at it that way, each error amortizes to what, like, a nickel? No problem.

But I made it there. I came into the living room, a little bit wet and a little bit agitated, and what ho! No wine, no music, no mingling. Oh no. There, front and center, is a woman demonstrating a dildo. Behind her is a table of exotic erotica.

They handed me a naughty nametag and an ink pen shaped like a penis. I took my seat to watch the continued presentation in something of a shocked stupor.

Had I realized it was a sex toy party, I definitely would have made other plans. In the end, though, I did have a good time—I warmed up to it, met some interesting people, and was living, for a moment, at that table with Carrie and Charlotte et al.

Being matter-of-fact and open-minded about sex is very healthy, and as much as I love my apron and the idea of spending the day vacuuming the house in pearls, the realities of a Doris Day world would not, I don’t think, be as ideal as they seem from this distance. Somewhere, there must be a balance between dildos and dusters in my living room. I think I’m on the way to finding it.