She was the only one in the focus group whose parents were both available to talk to her about sex.“I also learned a few things from the book ‘The Joy of Sex,’ which was on our family bookshelf.I was always willing to listen to what they wanted to tell me, but I wasn’t much for asking for more.

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Of course, I never wanted them to know I was reading it (and looking at all of those contorted sex positions), so I would sneak the book away into my bedroom.

They never would have cared and probably would have been right there to answer questions.

The only conversation she and I had about sex was when I was 16 years old. But one thing everyone shared was having gotten a pretty clinical explanation of the birds and the bees, whether it was from the folks, from a sibling or in the dark of a segregated sex education class.

The two older women, who had raised their kids in the 1960s and 1970s, seemed to have participated in the cultural changes of the times and were more open and available to their kids.

The party was a casual, post-poetry-reading affair, the kind where the food consists of a single bag of chips that gets passed around, lots of jug wine and whiskey. I was so proud of being a bad-girl mother out at night. ” My husband’s name is Jack, so that’s not an option.

A group of us were jammed into the corner of the kitchen when someone asked if any of us had seen a T-shirt with one of those top 20 lists of euphemisms for masturbation. I asked another woman in the group if she had a name for it.

The mothers mentioned in this article are practicing artists, as well as active feminists with original minds, ranging in age from early 30s to early 60s.

To protect their privacy, I’ve used initials instead of their full names.

I was at a party recently, one of the first parties I had been to since the birth of my daughter. It became a bit of a party game to guess at a few of the likely examples: jerking off, waxing the board, shooting a wad.