We used to call him Brother Manolito. It was the time of The High Chapparel on TV and he'd always just struck us as more of a Mexican cattle rustler than a civics teacher. But he was given to the occasional moment of wisdom, and today was one such moment. Hands in pockets, legs akimbo, he announced: "Women don't actually like sex."

An uneasy silence pervaded the room. It lasted 30 years. There is no easy way for a class of 14-year-old male virgins to press a 44-year-virgin, and member of the cloth, on what exactly he means when he says "enjoy". Or for that matter what he means when he says "sex". Especially when the "women" he's talking about are the fourth-year 'girls' in Goldenbridge. There really was no middle ground.

Stephen Fry's similar comments last week brought the good brother back to mind. I won't be thanking him for that anytime soon. There was something about his pronouncement on the apparent disparity between male and female sexual appetites that begged a question that should have been asked decades ago: Like how would you, of all the people on earth, possibly know?

The idea that women mightn't like sex was one I took great comfort in for a very long time. It certainly seemed to go a long way to explaining certain things in my life. Indeed it wasn't until one partner suggested that she had always previously enjoyed it, and that it was just me that was disappointing that I felt the need to take off my clowns outfit and improve my technique.

But Fry's pronouncement on appetite struck a chord. Essentially he was suggesting that while women will accept fast food, they prefer fine dining. And whereas men appear similar initially, when pressed they will ask for the fast meal and the fine dining to be served at the same time, preferably with a few more fast meals. They will then eye the table, the plate and the leg of the chair in a deeply disquieting fashion.

I saw this once in San Francisco. Mid-afternoon, on Cuba Street, we decided to check out a bar called the Bunker. It was surrounded by sandbags –a warning surely – but not wanting to appear touristy we entered at a brisk pace.

Inside was pitch black. As our eyes adjusted we realised we were surrounded by hairy semi-naked men in leather shorts. They were aggressively masculine, predatory, threatening. On a TV screen over their heads one man was giving another a prostate exam, I think. He was being very thorough. We actually ran out screaming.

I later heard that the Bunker had many levels. The ground floor simply involved couples. The middle floor was more like team events and the top level was a blackout floor. It was dark so that you wouldn't know who you were with. It was also, worryingly called the 'wrinkly' floor.

I could be wrong but I would wager there are no female equivalents to the Bunker. Perhaps this was what Brother Manolito had in mind when he said "women don't enjoy sex". Maybe he simply meant to add "as much". Luckily, we will never know!