How to have better sex

Recently my mother opened a box of chocolates and popped a coconut-covered truffle in her mouth. “Better than sex,” she said with a wink. How many people, I wondered, would be inclined to agree?

According to research gathered across several countries, sex is at an all-time low. In 2021, the annual California Health Interview Survey found that the number of Californians between 18 and 30 with no sexual partners in 12 months had reached a decade high of 38 per cent; the last count was 36.3 per cent. Lelo’s 2023 Sex Census revealed that more than a quarter of people in the UK are having less sex than they used to. Even France has reported “an unprecedented decline”. Zut alors!

Michaela d’Artois refers to this predicament as an “epidemic of loneliness”. “People are having less sex than ever before,” she says from her home in Los Angeles, where she established Inner Eros, her private intimacy coaching practice, in 2022. Her job is to “reconnect people with the eroticism and romanticism of their own lives”. 

No one can quite say why people are having less sex. D’Artois attributes much of the issue to an oppressive news cycle, climate change and the rising cost of living. “When we live in a state of long-term stress or anxiety, our body is going to go into fight-or-flight mode. We’re going to have a dysregulated nervous system, and all of the functions that are not for survival go on the backburner,” she says. Sex becomes “unimportant” — and it’s “really hard to reconnect from there”. 

Sex becomes unimportant and it’s really hard to reconnect from there

Growing up in Whistler, Canada — she’d later move to San Francisco for college, then LA — d’Artois would joke about becoming a “cool sex-ed teacher”. Sex was never a topic she shied away from; she saw herself as a “friend you could say anything to”. But while it is unusually easy to talk to d’Artois — something about her soft, level-headed tone provokes honesty — her practice isn’t solely concerned with the act itself. Instead the focus is more exploratory, creative even. She’ll give advice on exploring your own physical intimacy should you want it, but the entry point to that could be dancing. Before she launched Inner Eros, d’Artois was working as a freelance writer and brand consultant. Then, when California went into lockdown, she “had this revelation that if the world was going to end, I would rather be doing something that meant a lot to me.” She studied sexology and sex coaching with the online college Sex Coach U — d’Artois is certified by the American Board of Sexology — first seeing clients on a donation basis until she felt ready to charge a fee. 

D’Artois’s primary concern is helping her clients become more self-guided. Some have lost trust in themselves after a rough break-up. Others are looking to “re-establish their erotic identity” in a long-term relationship. But across the board — d’Artois sees men and women around the world over Zoom consultations — most are “seeking to learn how to advocate for themselves”.

To the couple worried about having less sex, d’Artois might prescribe an escape room: “When couples problem-solve together, it gives them skills to overcome trials that they will face in their relationship,” she says. To a person struggling to advocate for themselves, she might suggest journaling or sketching. At a recent visualisation led by d’Artois, guests were invited to tap into their inner sensuality and creativity before another instructor guided them in a life-drawing class. “We asked ourselves: what can I create without the pressures to produce?”

We’ve got a very selfish modern sexual culture

The link between sensuality and creativity has long been explored: both sexologists and therapists have used art to help foster connection. There is not, however, a one-size-fits-all approach. “The ability to bring something new into existence is powerful, but we must remember that ‘the new’ is interconnected with the unknown,” says Dr Ute Liersch, a counselling psychologist at The Soke in London. D’Artois works with each of her clients to find the right form of expression, be it a creative pursuit or a more practical one. “I’m not a therapist,” she says. “Therapy can be hierarchical — my work is collaborative. We are on an equal playing field.” 

Much of d’Artois’ time is spent refuting unhelpful myths. “One of the biggest things is that we’ve historically looked at desire as this homogenous experience — you’re walking down the street on the first day of spring, you see an attractive person and you’re immediately ready to go,” she says. “For some people, that’s how desire works, but for a huge percentage of the population — and this doesn’t even break down into male or female — they need a lot more context to become aroused.” 

She also points to studies that show “female genitalia will invite you in if given enough time to”. It used to be that the “most important part of sex was the female orgasm”, says historian Fern Riddell, and that up until the 20th century it was the dominant belief that women could only conceive by climaxing. Now, instead, “we’ve got a very selfish modern sexual culture,” says Riddell. “Rather than seeing sex as a partnership, where the goal is mutual pleasure, we’ve invented this idea that the female orgasm is confusing. Our ancestors would have thought this attitude incredibly stupid.” 

Presumably, concern for women’s orgasms faded alongside the idea that sex is just for procreation. Still, it is a concept to mourn nonetheless.

I am curious to know how much sex d’Artois thinks we should be having. The answer is however much a couple mutually wants. One of the first things d’Artois advises couples to do is to establish how important sex is to them respectively. The goal isn’t necessarily to build on that, but to improve the journey to getting there: “If we can create dynamics where the partner who desires sex less has more reason or more incentive, they can find their pathway to eroticism faster,” says d’Artois.

“Sometimes that just looks like holding each other and breathing together,” she continues. “Sometimes that looks like talking about your day in a way where you can unload it and put it away. Sometimes it’s a sensual massage.” As our conversation teeters between an interview and general curiosity, she suggests that my own “context” might be clean sheets. (As boring as it sounds, I agree.) 

All of this requires healthy communication: d’Artois suggests starting with a ritual her fiancé introduced before they moved in together. “Every Sunday he would text me and say, ‘How can I be there for you this week?’ Be it emotionally, physically, whatever. We would do it over text so I didn’t feel put on the spot. It was a great opportunity for me to practise asking for what I need.” 

When I ask my own partner, the least woo-woo man I know, the same question, he looks horrified. A couple of hours later, he surprises himself by feeling ready to respond. D’Artois has also devised two “Reflect 2 Reconnect” guides — one for “emotional intimacy”, one for “erotic intimacy” — with 10 talking points. Prompts range from finding examples of when your partner made you feel valued, to establishing your “shared erotic goals”. 

D’Artois is tempted by bigger pieces of writing — “maybe there’s a book in there” — but is most happy coaching people, particularly with her increasingly varied client base. She points to the return of matchmakers and singles events. “What I’m seeing now is a pendulum swing,” she says. “People are wanting to get off their phones and meet people in real life. We’re all learning how to connect better with other people, how to be compassionate.”