I was eight or nine years old the first time I saw Sue Johanson. It was at my childhood best friend’s house, the kind of sleepover where we thought we were slick—two kids in a basement, staying up too late, whispering and giggling like our parents couldn’t hear us, even though we probably weren’t fooling anyone. The glow of late-night TV felt like a secret portal to adulthood. We weren’t supposed to be watching, which made it all the more thrilling. And then there she was. Sue Johanson. Sitting there with her sweet, grandmotherly smile, calmly talking about sex. About bodies. About orgasms. About things that, until then, had only existed for me as a fog of mystery and shame.
I didn’t understand everything she said, but I understood enough. I understood that she was unafraid. That she laughed at the awkwardness instead of burying it. That she could take the most taboo subject and make it feel like a weather report—matter-of-fact, relatable, almost soothing. It was shocking in the best way. It made an impression on me I didn’t have words for yet. Looking back now, that night was the first moment I realized sex didn’t have to be hidden. Pleasure didn’t have to be forbidden. Curiosity wasn’t dirty. Sue made it look normal, and that little seed lodged itself deep inside me.
By eighth grade, I had moved from Thunder Bay to Ottawa, and my life shifted in all the ways a kid’s life does when they leave behind everything they know. But Ottawa gave me babysitting, and babysitting gave me more Sue. I babysat a lot. Parents back then weren’t like parents now. They weren’t curled up on the couch by ten p.m., scrolling on their phones or sipping herbal tea. They were out. Out-out. Getting smashed until two or three in the morning, stumbling home with that carefree air of people who trusted the teenager on their couch to keep the kids alive until they returned. And I did.
But I never slept while babysitting. I didn’t like being vulnerable in someone else’s home, so I’d sit awake, the TV flickering in the background. And there she was again. Sue Johanson, keeping me company. Educating me without me even realizing I was being educated. Teaching me about condoms, about consent, about clitorises and erections and all the awkward little details no one else in my Catholic-school-raised life would ever dare to speak aloud. Sue’s voice became a kind of late-night lullaby for me, except instead of putting me to sleep, it woke me up.
Those babysitting nights felt like training. Not training in how to be an adult or how to manage money, but training in how to be a woman who could talk about sex without flinching. Sue filled the silence that could have been lonely with laughter and knowledge. And even though I didn’t know it yet, she was building me. She was making me into the person who would one day make sex education and orgasms my career.
High school was where it really started to show. We had this project where we had to create a business plan. Most kids wrote about coffee shops or hair salons or safe little ventures. Me? I wrote about raising money to go to Europe, buying sex toys, and bringing them back to Canada to sell at exotic prices. At the time, I thought it was brilliant. And honestly? It was. I can still picture myself, hunched over my notebook, half-laughing, half-serious, as the plan came together. Of course, the inspiration came from Sue, though I probably didn’t consciously connect the dots until later.
My teacher shut it down immediately. “Not appropriate,” he said. “You can’t do that.” Which only ruffled my feathers more. It was a Catholic school, after all, and what better way to get under the skin of a Catholic school teacher than to bring up vibrators and anal beads? But it wasn’t just rebellion for rebellion’s sake. Deep down, I was angry. Angry that I couldn’t even write a plan. Angry that sex was treated like a sin, when to me, it already felt like something natural, important, and—thanks to Sue—worthy of discussion. That rejection lit a fire in me. It taught me to challenge silence. It made me realize that the discomfort of others didn’t have to be the limit of my curiosity.
On paper, I was a “good girl” in high school. Part of the student body, involved, responsible, always smiling in the right photos. But the truth? I was sneaking out to smoke weed, ducking class, finding excuses to slip out of rooms. Weed became my excuse, my little rebellion, my way of bending the rules just enough to feel like I was in control. I’d duck out for a joint and come back to the cafeteria with first dibs on whatever food I wanted. I wore the good girl mask, but underneath it, I was already living in contradiction. And that contradiction was the soil Sue’s influence was growing in.
Then came the moment that still makes me shake my head. One of the younger girls at school confided in me. Her boyfriend was pressuring her to have anal sex so she could “save” her virginity. She was nervous, confused, and didn’t know what to do. And I—because of Sue—had words. I talked to her about what anal really was. I talked to her about consent, about not doing anything just to please someone else. I gave her language, confidence, and information that no one else in her life seemed willing to provide.
She told her sister. Her sister told her parents. Her parents made a complaint about me. And I was furious. Furious that adults were more concerned with silencing me than with actually educating their kids. Furious that I had done the thing teachers and parents should have done, and instead of being supported, I was punished. That’s when I realized, deep in my bones, how broken the system was. Where was the education? Where were the adults who should have stepped up? Nowhere. But Sue had been there for me, and so I had been there for her.
Looking back, it’s no surprise I ended up where I am. Sue planted the seed, and every rebellious act, every late-night babysitting shift, every classroom clash was just watering it. I was destined for this path.
Sue Johanson didn’t just teach me about orgasms. She taught me that orgasms are important, yes, but more important is the permission to talk about them. She showed me that pleasure isn’t shameful. That laughter belongs in conversations about sex. That we deserve to feel good in our bodies and to ask questions without fear. She made it okay to be curious, and she did it with a twinkle in her eye, like she knew she was breaking down walls one question at a time.
I think about her often. About how different my life could have been if I hadn’t seen her on TV that night in my friend’s basement. If I hadn’t kept her company on those long babysitting nights in Ottawa. If I hadn’t had her voice in my head when that younger girl came to me for advice. If I hadn’t felt the righteous fury of being silenced in Catholic school. Without Sue, maybe I would have followed a different path. But with Sue, I knew exactly where I belonged.
And here I am, decades later, still talking about orgasms, still challenging silence, still laughing at the awkwardness, still fighting for conversations that matter. Every product description I write, every toy party I host, every training session I lead—there’s a piece of Sue in it. She made sex not scary. She made orgasms not dirty. She made me believe that what I do isn’t just a job, it’s a calling.
So this is my thank you. To Sue Johanson, the grandmother of sex education, who turned late-night TV into a classroom for millions of curious kids like me. She gave me a language when the world tried to keep me silent. She gave me courage when the system tried to shut me down. She gave me the tools to become who I am today.
Orgasm for all—that’s not just a catchphrase. It’s a promise. It’s the legacy Sue gave me, and the one I’ll carry forward as long as I’m here.