I looked around to see if anyone was watching me before I pushed open the door. For the first time, at the age of 62, I entered a sex shop. I expected to see dark and dirty carpet, lurid sex toys wrapped in cheap plastic, and magazines with “XXX” splayed across the covers in bold font. Instead, soft-edged pendant lights hung upside down from the ceiling like chrome mushrooms, an artful display of colorful glass penises lined one wall, and indie folk music floated through the space, which had the vibe of an upscale gift emporium.I was searching for something to spark my desire. The difference between my husband’s sex drive and mine was an issue that kept popping up in my marriage like a bad zit. I wanted something that would help sex bring my husband and me closer together, rather than drive a wedge between us. Something that would transform me into the woman I’d been years ago, who’d feel my lover’s hand on the back of my neck and immediately want to jump into bed. Or, at the very least, want to kiss him back. I hoped a vibrator and some flavored lube would do the trick. It wasn’t necessarily that I didn’t enjoy sex, only that it often reminded me of zucchini. Ask me if I wanted zucchini for dinner, and I’d immediately respond no. Occasionally, though, when our neighbors dropped a bag of the phallic vegetable on our porch, I’d slice it into thin disks, toss it in a pan with olive oil, tomatoes, onions, and throw in some garlic. Then it was delicious and left me wondering why I didn’t eat zucchini more often. That’s how it was with me and sex. Peri-menopause and menopause had dried my vagina to the point where my gynecologist clucked sympathetically while examining me. Sex was painful, even without the humiliation of having my center of pleasure conjure up images of a desiccated apricot. My doctor prescribed Estradiol cream, a hormone replacement therapy, but stopped short of having a conversation about sex with me. What would I have said if she had? Like many women of my generation, I cared for aging parents, worried about adult children, managed a household, and worked full time. At the end of the day, the sexiest come-on for me was, “Let’s go to bed.” And by bed, I meant sleep — not making love. My husband complained that I never initiated sex — that I never seemed to want it. He was right. My libido was low. My breasts, butt and body image hung lower. I didn’t recognize the squishy shape and lined face of the woman staring back at me in the mirror, and that was when I had clothes on. Silk lingerie, which had never been a good look on me, seemed superfluous to the reality of our sex life: infrequent and with the lights off. Honestly, I would have been happy to forgo the act completely. Instead, I added sex to an already crowded “to-do” list to placate him. The author and her husband, Van, visiting a winery in the Douro Valley in Portugal.Courtesy of Kaarin Marx-SmithAs I slowly got my bearings in the sex shop, I timidly eyed the collection of vibrators, intending to grab the first one I saw and make a beeline for the counter. However, before I could make my move, a petite, middle-aged woman with short brown hair approached. “Can I help you find something?” Her tone was friendly, but I still felt like a pimply teenager caught buying condoms. “I’m looking for a vibrator,” I answered, hesitantly. “Not really sure what kind.” The woman nodded and nonchalantly began demonstrating vibrators as if she were selling coffee makers.“This one here...” she started, picking up a large penis-shaped model.“Too much,” I said before she could finish. “Got it,” she responded, opening a box with a beautiful midnight blue number nestled inside. It was simple. Elegant. Exactly how I wished someone would describe me. “I like it,” I said, reaching out.“Yes. This one is really nice. It’s $120.”I pulled my hand back. “Yeah ... No ... that’s a bit pricey.” The saleswoman handed me a slim, neon orange vibrator.“This one is $45.”I rolled the soft silicone between my fingers. She took the vibrator back.“It has several speeds, and this button warms it up.” I always made my partner run his hands under hot water before coming to bed, so this little gem seemed perfect.“I’ll take it,” I said.Fifteen minutes of chatting about vibrators with a sympathetic peer melted my inhibitions enough that when she asked if I needed anything else, I asked to see the different lubes. She led me over to the shelves of lubricant, and opening a tube, squirted some water-based lube on my finger. “Each one feels a bit different,” she explained.“Too watery,” I said, rubbing it between my fingers. “I’m a woman on the other side of menopause, and I’m going to need something a lot stronger.”She opened another tube and then another as if we were two girlfriends trying on makeup at Sephora. “What about flavored ones?” I said, eying bottles filled with cherry vanilla, tangerine, and green apple lubricants. I put a drop of green apple on my tongue. It wasn’t like sucking on my favorite Jolly Rancher, but I could imagine it being way more fun. By the time I got up to the checkout counter, I was so relaxed that when I saw a list of online classes with titles like “How to Give Mind-Blowing Blow Jobs” and “How to Have the Best Sex of Your Life,” I didn’t blush. I signed up. That didn’t mean my palms weren’t sweaty the night I logged on to Zoom for my first class. I was relieved to discover that, while we were encouraged to comment and ask questions in the chat, participant videos were turned off for privacy. Our instructor had no such inhibitions. She had an outsized personality and a Ph.D., clearly loved sex, and had no problems playfully sharing how we could, too. We watched as she put her face up to the camera, folded her tongue into a cradle, and thrust a dildo in and out of her mouth. It was awkward. She looked silly, and we all relaxed. The class was heavy on technique, but the biggest takeaway for me was how comfortable she made us feel talking about sex. Conversations with my husband about sex had always seemed a bit fraught, and my girlfriends and I rarely broached the subject, but I’d just spent an evening exchanging comments with a self-identified sex worker. I could feel myself loosening up."Could I find an elixir of desire that would transform me back to my 20-something self?" the author writes.Courtesy of Kaarin Marx-SmithPleasuring my partner was one thing. Signing up for the class on blow jobs had been enough to excite him. But I still wanted to learn ways to increase my own pleasure, and more importantly, my desire for sex. Fortunately, the next class had some answers. The instructor, a woman in her early 40s, was another educator committed to dispensing accessible information to serious students of all genders and sexual orientations.I’d been feeling guilty for never wanting sex. Listening to her, I realized there were good reasons why I was never in the mood.“It’s normal to want sex only after sexy things are happening,” she said. “Stress, exhaustion, pain ... those are all mood killers. There’s no room for sexy things if you’re focused on a work deadline or a sick child. So, it’s important to make sure that you create sexy situations that put you in the mood, whether that’s a hot oil massage, dinner out or role-playing.”I almost stopped listening because it seemed like she was simply adding to an already stretched list of expectations. But then she said, “Do you want to know the hottest trick to having the best sex of your life?” I looked up expectantly. This was the moment I’d been waiting for — the reason I’d signed up. “Communication. And trusting your partner enough to be vulnerable.”Apparently, it wasn’t just my partner and me who weren’t talking about sex. Even after more than 30 years of marriage, I was still shy about having an honest conversation with my husband about sexual desire and pleasure. What if he wasn’t willing to do what I wanted, or worse, found it too kinky? Our instructor continued, “Talk to your partner. Discuss how to remove the blocks. Let them know what gets you in the mood. Tell them what brings you pleasure.” So I did. I told my guy that one reason I’d never initiated sex was that it was painful. For some reason, I’d been afraid to tell him because of what it said about me — that there was something wrong with me. The class taught me that there was nothing shameful about wanting sex to be erotic, playful or romantic, but also that it was important to intentionally create situations that would elicit arousal. For me, that meant alleviating some of the stress and sharing the responsibility for creating those sexy situations. I told my husband that if our sex life was going to improve, it was going to be because both of us were invested. He’d have to help create the mood.“What do I have to do?” he immediately responded.“Reservations at a hotel, dinner out ... I want the whole show,” I said. I’m not usually prone to winking, but in this case, I did. “In return, you’ll get sexy lingerie.”“Done.”We had so much fun. That word — fun. We started introducing it into the conversation, and it took the pressure off. We were able to say what we wanted, because, hey, it was all just in fun. We didn’t always need to spend the night away, but we did need to make an effort — to reduce stress, make sure we were well-rested, create a little romance, and be open to each other’s desires.Sitting through sex ed classes as a menopausal woman was more informative, if less titillating, than the ones I’d attended in seventh grade. I only wish I’d had the courage and confidence to attend them years ago. They made me want to learn — and talk about — sex more. I wanted to unpack why I’d felt embarrassed visiting a sex shop and taking classes when the whole point was to strengthen my marriage, to enhance the intimacy and pleasure between my husband and me. I reached out to Stella Harris, the Education Coordinator for She Bop, the adult boutique I’d visited, located in Portland, Oregon. If ever there was a woman you’d want to join your book group or spend an evening chatting with at a wine bar, Stella Harris is that person. With shoulder-length gray hair and fashionable red glasses, she exudes a sophisticated professorial air that’s backed up by credentials as a certified intimacy educator and coach, and the author of two books on sex and relationships.When we met over Zoom, Ms. Harris told me, “People sometimes come to the classes expecting that they are going to get Cosmo-style advice — ‘just learn this one technique, and you’ll have fantastic sex’ — but there’s no way around the fact that communication is essential to good sex, and that can be challenging.”"Here we are at Mt. Difficulty, a pretty apt description of some of our conversations around sex," the author writes.Courtesy of Kaarin Marx-SmithI told her how difficult it had been for me to talk about sex with my husband and how I’d been afraid to walk into her store. She nodded in agreement and ticked off a few cultural hang-ups that make talking about sex tricky. “If you talk too much about sex, you’re slutty. If you never talk about it, then you’re frigid,” she told me. “Women can’t act like they want it or there’s judgment, which puts impossible expectations on a partner if they have to guess at what brings their partner pleasure.” I understood. The ideas I’d been fed all my life had piled up like stones, creating a barrier of shame that prevented me from entering a sex shop or taking classes — let alone exploring all the ways of being sexual. Living alongside these preconceptions is the idea that we’re all supposed to be great at sex without ever having learned anything about it beyond basic human reproduction or online clickbait. I gave myself a high-five when Ms. Harris said that taking a class required accepting the fact that there were things you didn’t already know. “I wouldn’t hesitate to take sailing lessons if I didn’t know how to sail,” she said, “but sex and ego get tied up in a way that is different.”“What about women in middle age and beyond who are tired of sex and wish they could give it up altogether?” I asked. “Do you have any advice for them?” Her initial response surprised me. “It’s perfectly valid to ask yourself if sex is something worth having,” she answered, and went on to list some of the reasons why a person might consider giving it up. Maybe sex is painful. Maybe past experiences have been disappointing. Maybe it’s not a lack of desire for intimacy, but low libido that’s getting in the way. I nodded. Check. Check. And check. One of the first questions Ms. Harris asks her clients is, “Would you want more pleasure if that were available to you?”“Hell yes,” I blurted out, wondering if I was speaking for a legion of women who believed pleasure was no longer in reach because their aging bodies could barely manage a downward dog, let alone a night of sexual gymnastics. “If the answer is yes,” Stella calmly replied, “Then I ask if they’ve talked to their doctor. Hormones, some medicines, and other medical issues can all impact levels of desire and libido. Those aren’t things that education or coaching can fix, so I encourage my clients to discuss their concerns with their doctor and advocate for what they need.”While it’s easy to see that our bodies are changing as we age, what’s less obvious is that our minds are, too. We’re no longer 20-somethings with raging hormones, but that doesn’t mean we’re no longer sexual or erotic beings. According to Ms. Harris, it just means that we need to keep learning and asking what we want sex to look like now. And that’s the reason I’ll keep signing up for sex education classes, and I’ll keep talking about sex. When I opened the door and stepped into the sex shop all those months ago, I thought I was buying a tube of lube that would make sex less painful. Instead, I stepped into a world where I learned how to talk honestly about sex with my husband from a place of curiosity and playfulness rather than guilt or shame. I looked into a virtual mirror and found an erotic and sexy woman staring back at me. Did I suddenly transform into a sex goddess with an unstoppable libido? No. I’m still slow to rev up. But I’ve become more willing to initiate sex, more honest about what I’d like, more interested in finding out what my husband wants, and more open to exploring new ways to add spice. The result is a flush on my cheeks that comes from pleasure rather than embarrassment when I say I may not be having the best sex of my life, but it’s pretty damn good.Kaarin Marx-Smith is a former philanthropic advisor and fundraiser for an international humanitarian aid organization. Travel and writing are the connective tissues that help her make sense of the world. She can be self-deprecating, vulnerable, and a bit spicy — just ask Facebook. They banned her for life. Kaarin lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband, son, and a Persian cat rescued from Saudi Arabia. You can find more of her writing on Substack at ALifeUnpacked.Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.