By Meatman
Staff Perv and Book Sniffer
A Short Cautionary Tale: The Tao of Dale
Dale S. was not a man so much as a walking apology wrapped in cologne. Forty-two, twice-divorced, with the kind of anxious mustache that twitched during eye contact, Dale had recently discovered The Sensuous Man in a pile of vintage paperbacks next to a lava lamp and an unopened can of Hai Karate.
According to the back cover, this book would transform him into a “sexual dynamo.” According to Dale, he already had the dynamo part down — just needed the sex.
He read the book cover to cover, highlighter in hand. Chapter 1: “Getting to Know Her.” Chapter 2: “Touching Her Right.” Chapter 3: “Touching Her Left.” And Chapter 4: “Loving Her Whole Damn Landscape.”
Two weeks later, with hands freshly manicured and tongue presumably limbered, Dale set out to seduce his neighbor, Trish — a divorced upholstery teacher who once described him as “palpably damp.”
He brought wine. He brought oil. He brought The Sensuous Man, tucked under his arm like it was the goddamn Constitution.
Trish, generously buzzed, allowed Dale to proceed. First came the breathing — slow, deliberate, like he was prepping to scuba dive. Then the touch: one finger tracing her arm with the delicate uncertainty of someone reading braille on a cactus.
Trish asked if he was okay.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “M. says the journey matters.”
Somewhere between nipple “recognition” and labial “exploration,” Trish began reciting the lyrics to a Jim Croce song, just to pass the time. Dale, meanwhile, attempted the legendary “tongue figure eight,” got lost somewhere around five, and had to regroup using a diagram he’d drawn on his palm in ballpoint.
It ended, mercifully, with Trish faking sleep and Dale packing up like a disappointed magician. But he left the book behind — in case she wanted to read Chapter 6: “Afterplay and Sandwiches.”
Now Then, About This Book…
The Sensuous Man, allegedly written by a mysterious figure known only as “M.” (spoiler: it was a woman, Terry Garrity, same one who wrote The Sensuous Woman), is a self-help sex manual for men who think they’re good in bed but are actually human ceiling fans.
It promises to unlock the secrets of female pleasure, which, according to M., can be accessed by:
- Breathing slowly
- Thinking positively
- And licking like a Buddhist monk tracing a mandala on her inner thigh.
The prose is deeply sincere and painfully dated. Every chapter reads like a horny Boy Scout explaining how to pitch a tent, only the tent is a metaphor and the stakes are very literal. M. tells you how to wash, how to woo, how to approach a woman’s body like it’s sacred real estate, and how to “excite her with your patience,” which is exactly what my landlord said before raising my rent.
M. also recommends practicing oral sex on fruit, which I tried once with a cantaloupe and haven’t been allowed back into Kroger since.
There are diagrams. There are breathing exercises. There’s a whole section on touching her “languidly,” a word no one has used since Truman was in office.
But you know what? Buried in all the velvet nonsense and Avon Aftershave logic is a very simple, very revolutionary idea for its time:
Women deserve to come.
In 1971, that was a political statement. Today, it’s still an uphill battle in half the country. So, credit where credit’s due — this book tried to make men give a damn about someone else’s orgasm. That’s more than you can say about most sex advice published since.
Final Thoughts:
Is The Sensuous Man ridiculous? Absolutely. It reads like an instruction manual for building a very fragile, very naked IKEA bookshelf. But it’s also oddly sweet, genuinely helpful in parts, and hilarious in others — especially if you imagine Dale reading it aloud in a bathrobe, mouthing the words “erogenous zones” like he’s solving a puzzle.
It may not make you good in bed, but it’ll definitely make you think about how bad you are, and that’s the first step toward not being a complete disaster. In SCREW’s world, that’s practically sainthood.
And if nothing else, it’s worth it just to see the word “clitoris” printed without apology, fear, or footnote.
Buy it. Read it. Practice on fruit.
Just wash your hands before offering anyone a slice.
—MM
