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My partner’s family knew I was writing about self-discovery and self-pleasure, but I wasn’t prepared for where the discussion would take us
I flew from London to New York on Christmas Eve 2014 to spend Christmas Day with Cassie’s family. It’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to do when you’ve been going out with someone for 10 years, but I’d only known Cassie a few months. She came out to her father about dating me and it didn’t go down well. Then, a few weeks later, she told him over a family dinner that I was writing a book about masturbation. Her sister and mother took her aside in the kitchen afterwards. “Why didn’t you just tell him she’s writing a book on travel, or something?” her sister asked.
Spending Christmas Day together was supposed to smooth things over, but no sooner had we sat down to eat than her father asked me about what I was writing. Maybe he thought I’d changed my mind, and gone for something a bit more Downton Abbey? Cassie’s sister looked at me intently, daring me to come out with it.
“I’m, er, researching masturbation,” I mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. I had an interview lined up in San Francisco with a pornography star turned sex artist called Annie Sprinkle, but decided not to mention this. Instead, I muttered something about masturbation being, “you know, the foundation of female sexuality. And stuff …”
Cassie’s face suggested a firing squad had just entered the room.
“Who’d like a pig in a blanket?” her sister interjected, trying to act normal as she passed around a plate of frankfurters wrapped up in Pillsbury dough, one of the family’s Christmas traditions.
I used to love the Pillsbury Doughboy, like I used to love everything about American food: bubblegum and spray-on cheese and breakfast cereals in lurid packaging. But now the dough tasted like chemicals. Where are the mince pies and the bread sauce, I thought. And why was everyone talking about getting rid of the Christmas tree the next day?
Cassie’s father simply nodded; her family had been incredibly kind and welcoming, but stumbling over their questions made me wonder if I was cut out to drive across America and write a big, shocking book as I’d bragged to my friends back in the UK. My panic was turning me into a provincial stick-in-the-mud.
Later, I checked my email and a friend had sent a video of Darling Nikki by Prince – his song about masturbation. It made me smile.
The next day, Cassie and I were back in our Upper West Side apartment with an evil-smelling dog. We’d scored a free holiday pad, but Lucinda the terrier mutt came with the deal, requiring four walks a day in freezing cold Central Park. Things felt strained between Cassie and me after Christmas Day, so I was the walker. I’m not a dog person and Lucinda liked to eat her own poop. I was shocked. Was this normal? Should I stop her? More to the point, should I just return to England with my own tail between my legs?
Cassie eventually decided to join Lucinda and me one morning. Nearing Central Park, she stopped and pointed to an icicle dripping in the sunshine from the railing of the subway station. The sight seemed astounding. I loved that she’d noticed this and I remembered why I’d fallen for her in the first place. Maybe the holidays wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Sex Drive by Stephanie Theobald is published by Unbound (£12.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
The Christmas that went wrong: I met my new girlfriend’s family – and talk turned to my book on masturbation
