If you go out to dinner with someone, you find out what they

Host: The restaurant was dimly lit, the kind of place that pretends to be about food but is really about intimacy — velvet booths, candlelight, the faint hush of a piano bleeding into the low murmur of conversations. Rain spattered softly against the windows, and the city lights outside were fractured, blurred — like secrets seen through a wet lens.

At a corner table, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other. Between them: a half-empty bottle of wine, two plates of pasta untouched, and a tension that had nothing to do with hunger.

Host: The air carried a kind of charge — that electric pause before truth enters the room.

Jeeny: “Betty Dodson once said — ‘If you go out to dinner with someone, you find out what they prefer in food. We ought to be able to have a conversation to find out what people prefer when it comes to sex.’”

Jack: He raised an eyebrow, swirling his wine. “Ah. So — sex at the dinner table. That’s one way to keep conversation interesting.”

Jeeny: Smiling slightly. “No, Jack. Not sex — communication. The way she meant it, sex isn’t about performance. It’s about honesty.”

Jack: “Honesty’s overrated. You start talking about what you ‘prefer,’ and people start getting scared. They want mystery, not manuals.”

Jeeny: “Mystery is fine — until it turns into misunderstanding. We talk about food preferences without shame, but when it comes to the most intimate part of who we are, we act like children. Dodson was right. We need to talk about sex — not in whispers, not in guilt, but in truth.”

Host: The candle flame flickered, catching the reflection of wine in her eyes. The waiter passed by, glancing at their untouched plates, but neither of them noticed. The conversation had moved beyond the table.

Jack: “You really think sex is something you can just discuss over dinner? It’s not a recipe, Jeeny. It’s raw. It’s instinctive. You ruin it the moment you start dissecting it.”

Jeeny: “And yet we dissect everything else. We discuss art, politics, trauma, spirituality — why not desire? Why should something so human be shrouded in so much shame?”

Jack: “Because it’s supposed to be private.”

Jeeny: “Private, yes. But not silent. Silence breeds confusion. Do you know how many people spend years in relationships pretending to like what they don’t? Or worse, never discovering what they do?”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. The rain outside had grown louder, beating against the glass like an impatient truth.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. Just sit across the table and say, ‘By the way, here’s what turns me on.’ You forget how people are built — with fear, with culture, with judgement. You talk about openness like it’s just another course on the menu.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it should be. Because this fear you’re talking about — it’s inherited. It’s not natural. We teach people to fear their own bodies. To treat pleasure as sin and ignorance as virtue. That’s the real obscenity.”

Jack: “You sound like a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who’s tired of the hypocrisy. We celebrate violence openly in films, in news, in jokes. But speak of pleasure — real, honest pleasure — and everyone looks away. Why, Jack? Why do we worship suffering but blush at intimacy?”

Host: The room seemed to quiet, the piano pausing on a soft chord. The light leaned closer, illuminating the tension in Jack’s face.

Jack: “Because pleasure scares people. Because when someone admits what they want, you can’t control them anymore.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why Betty Dodson fought for this conversation. She believed that sexual honesty is a form of power — not domination, not submission — but self-knowledge. When you know what you want, nobody can make you ashamed of it.”

Jack: “That’s idealism, Jeeny. In the real world, honesty ruins things. People leave. People judge.”

Jeeny: “Then let them. Because silence ruins you from the inside. It kills the part of you that wants to be seen. You can hide behind ‘privacy’ all you want, but it’s just fear pretending to be modesty.”

Host: The waiter arrived, refilling their glasses, his eyes politely blank. The conversation lingered like smoke, something that couldn’t be contained by etiquette.

Jack: “You think a conversation can heal all that? Centuries of repression, of conditioning, of guilt?”

Jeeny: “It’s a start. Every revolution begins with words, doesn’t it? And sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is ask, ‘What do you like?’ and really listen to the answer.”

Jack: “You think men can handle that question?”

Jeeny: softly “Some can. The rest — need to learn.”

Host: A pause, long and heavy. The rain slowed, dripping down the window in thin rivulets, like thoughts finally spoken.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in a house where we couldn’t even say the word sex. My father would turn off the TV if someone kissed too long. My mother would look away. And now you want me to believe it’s just… a conversation.”

Jeeny: “It is. But not an easy one. That’s the point. It’s not about breaking the taboo in a night — it’s about refusing to carry it any longer. You unlearn shame one honest word at a time.”

Host: The candle burned lower, casting a softer glow on their faces. For the first time, Jack’s voice was not defensive, but curious.

Jack: “And what happens after the conversation?”

Jeeny: “Afterwards? You begin to touch with respect instead of assumption. You start to see the other person — not as an object of need, but as a landscape of consent.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is sacred, Jack. Not in the religious way — in the human one. When you strip away shame, you find truth. When you strip away fear, you find connection. What could be holier than two people who trust each other enough to say, ‘This is who I am, this is what I love, and this is what I don’t’?”

Host: The music resumed, slower now, gentler, like an echo of what had just been spoken. The rain had stopped completely. The city outside looked clean, washed, reborn.

Jack: “You know, maybe Dodson was right. Maybe talking about sex isn’t vulgar — maybe not talking about it is.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Vulgarity isn’t honesty, Jack. It’s the absence of it.”

Host: They sat back, the tension eased, the wine warmer now. Jack reached for his glass, his eyes softer, voice low.

Jack: “So, Jeeny… what do you prefer?”

Jeeny: laughing lightly “Honesty. Always honesty.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — two people who had just dared to speak what most only think. The light of the candle flickered, reflecting in the wine, golden, alive, like the fragile beginning of truth itself.

And as the scene faded, the rain-soaked city outside whispered what Betty Dodson had meant all along:
that desire, when spoken, is not shameful,
but sacred —
and that the most intimate act isn’t touching,
but understanding.