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Asia Experiences G-Spot Female Ejaculation on RadioSUZY1. Photo: Dan Yezhov

People hate to admit that they’re wrong, especially after they’ve just published a well-funded, highly publicized “scientific” study, like “The G-Spot: Fiction or Friction.” This was the catchy title of the King’s College London survey conducted by Dr. Andrea Burri and Dr. Tim Spector, that professed to have determined “fairly conclusively” that the “G-spot” is “probably a myth,” essentially forced upon innocent, G-spotless women by nefarious “magazines and sex therapists.”

Being both a sex therapist and a magazine publisher, I felt I was being charged twice with the same crime.  And what was the crime? Having a G-spot? Helping other women to find their G-spots? Encouraging men to go spelunking into the feminine cave to strike G-spot gold?

Whatever the charge, I felt moved to defend myself, my G-spot and the grossly insulted G-spots of women everywhere.  So I blogged an impassioned “Defense of The G-Spot: Yes, Virginia, It Does Exist!, with detailed instructions for finding it, in case she (Dr. Andrea Virginia Burri)—or anyone else—really wanted to look, as well as a point-by-point assessment of her study as  “ill-conceived, poorly analyzed, illogically interpreted and just plain wrong.”

To say the least.

But being demonstrably, obviously, enormously wrong is rarely enough to make most people confess they may have made a mistake. This is why it was so awesome and gratifying to hear that Dr. Burri had “backed down” from the claims of her spurious study.  She admitted her mistake. Wow, what a woman…
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Bonobos enjoy sex in the "missionary position," often gazing deeply into each other's eyes like Tantric sex practitioners or two people very much in love. Photo: Vanessa Woods

The “Make Love Not War” bonobos have a new friend. She’s an ape like them—a brilliant, beautiful, empathetic, courageous creature on the human branch of the primate family tree. Her name is Vanessa Woods, and she has written a wonderful, ground-breaking new book called Bonobo Handshake, a must-read for anyone interested in primatology, anthropology, sex, love, war, peace or that greatest of mysteries we commonly call human nature.

Now, if you don’t know a bonobo from a banana, let me introduce you to our kissin’ cousins who swing from the trees (as well as with each other).  Bonobos are a rare species of chimpanzee sometimes called “pigmy chimps,” (Latin: pan paniscus) and, like common chimps (pan troglodyte), they’re over 98% genetically similar to humans. Though they tend to be a lot hairier than us—and they don’t build houses or churches or corporate skyscrapers or Pentagons, like we do—they do look and act remarkably like us in many, often surprising ways. Take sex, for instance. The genitals of bonobo females are rotated forward, like in human females, allowing face-to-face sex, rather than just “doggie style” like most animals. Basically, bonobos can have sex in as many positions as humans can (even more actually) and they do have sex—a lot.

Peace through Pleasure

I’m not just talking about sexual intercourse, but also much of what we call foreplay: the give and take of sensuous pleasures of all different sorts, including fellatio, cunnilingus, sex with food, masturbation, gay sex, group sex, massage, sex in different positions and lots of long, deep, soulful, French kissing.

But it’s not just how bonobos have sex that fascinates—it’s how they use sex: as part of a barter system (e.g., I’ll give you an apple if you give me a handjob); to ease stress (e.g., Don’t be nervous, come here and sit on my face); and to reduce violent conflict. And here’s the kicker: unlike common chimps (and humans), bonobos have never been seen deliberately killing each other, neither in the wild nor in captivity. Apparently, all that hot sex just cools ‘em out. The males are especially peaceful. Unlike common chimps and other great apes, bonobo society is not male dominated. Female bonobos have the strong relationships, creating a chimp version of “sisterhood” that gives the ladies a lot of power.
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Mamie White pulls her cousin Les' pants down at her mother Bertie Mae White's 85th birthday party

Utopian feminists—the ones who profess that if only women ruled, society would be peaceful—should take a look at the ladies who preside over the violent, pill-snorting, gun-toting, hillbilly White clan in “The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia.” This riveting, hilarious, disturbing and profound new documentary directed by Julien Nitzberg and produced by Johnny Knoxville of MTV Jackass fame, opened to rave reviews at the Tribeca Film Festival and is now playing in LA and other cities around the country.

I interviewed my old friend Julien on radioSUZY1 last week, as he regaled us with tales of how the living legends that are the White family—outlaws, hellraisers, brawlers, speed freaks, gas huffers, kitchen-tattooed rednecks, robbers, shooters, homicidal maniacs and world-class tap-dancers (there had to be something redeeming about them)—is run by a matriarchy of violent, emasculating and generally all-around law-flouting mothers, grandmothers, sisters and coal miners’ daughters. Yep, even though crazy, charismatic, tap-dancing, knife-wielding Jesco White (star of Julien’s first documentary “Dancing Outlaw”) is the most famous living member of the clan, sister Mamie rules from the center of the White storm like the quintessential Queen of Chaos, while her daughter Mousie virtually rapes her quivering husband upon her release from prison and her niece Kirk brags about stabbing her ex.
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Asia and RubberNecro take Max and me for a ride on our 18th wedding anniversary

Our wedding was many years ago. The celebration continues to this day.
~Gene Perret

Ah, l’amor! With joy, devotion, multiple orgasms, mirrors on the ceiling and a friendly orgy (not in that order), Prince Max and I recently celebrated our 18th anniversary of wedded love. Ah, le mariage! It’s not for everybody. It looks like it’s not even for Democratic power couple Al and Tipper Gore—at least not now, after 40 years of it. It certainly wasn’t for Max the first couple times, but three’s the charm for him; the first time has been the only time for me.

For many, marriage can be deadly. Not that it kills the husband or wife—at least not usually. It does, however, tend to kill the romance. Why? Because romance thrives on doing what’s forbidden and, in marriage, sex is sanctioned by religion, family and the government. “God created sex,” said Voltaire (who happened to have a 15-year love affair with the married Marquise du Châtelet), “Priests created marriage.”

Marriage is an institution and, like court houses, jails, schools, hospitals, mental wards and other institutions, it can feel like a prison. As a therapist, I talk to many POMs (Prisoners of Marriage), doing my part to help them find a little freedom, either within or without the marriage.

But for some reason, I’ve never felt confined by my own marriage; it has always been a rock of sexual security as well as a constant catalyst for erotic change.   I realize that statement could someday explode in my happily married little face, just as Al and Tipper’s famous 2000 Democratic Convention kiss is now exploding in theirs, but I’ll take that chance, as I’m in a celebratory mood. Also, I feel that it’s important, in this age of marriage after “perfect” marriage falling apart, to ruminate upon the possible reasons why ours keeps on ticking, with lots of licking.
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Baby Golfer Tiger Woods and Little Prince Michael Jackson: Never Had a Childhood or Never Grew Up?

Rumor has it that Tiger Woods is building an “oxygen therapy” room in his Jupiter Island pad, possibly with a hyperbaric chamber similar to one Michael Jackson is said to have slept in. This wouldn’t be the only thing that the beleaguered golf star has in common with the tortured, late pop legend.

Tiger was born into golf just as Michael Jackson was born into music. A Mozart of this eccentric lily-white diversion, little Eldrick Tont “Tiger” Woods was another angel-faced boy prodigy driven by his taskmaster father, Earl Woods—a man who has fared somewhat better in the public eye than the notorious Joe Jackson. Tiger won early; he won big and he kept winning. Unfamiliar with the sensation of losing, it seems he never learned the important lessons of humility and empathy that the rest of us reluctantly discover as we stumble through life while Tiger continues to swing.

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Miss USA shows off her pole-dancing skills

Is the new Miss USA packing a bomb in her bikini? Rima Fakih, an Arab-American beauty who really knows her way around a stripper pole, has managed to upset prudes, neo-cons and anti-immigrationists alike.

“It’s a sad day in America,” writes conservative blogger Debbie Schlussel who has dubbed Miss USA 2010 “Miss Hezbollah,” as well as a “Muslim activist and propagandist extraordinaire.”

Despite Schlussel’s and others’ insistence that Rima Fakih’s bid for the crown has been supported by the Hezbollah organization, Hezbollah MP Hassan Fadlallah, when asked his opinion on the new Miss USA, answered disdainfully, “The criteria through which we evaluate women are different from those of the west.”

The raven-haired bombshell was indeed born to a prominent Shia Muslim family, in the village of Sfria in Lebanon—now controlled by Hezbollah. Most of the members of the Fakih family are Muslim, though some are Christian; Rima herself grew up going to Catholic schools in Lebanon, New York and Detroit. Moreover, she insists that she and her family are “not religious.” They certainly don’t appear to be—they are very supportive of Rima posing in bikinis and lingerie.

Is it possible that there are non-religious, non-fanatical Muslims, just as there are non-religious, non-fanatical Christians and Jews? Maybe some of them don’t even hate “our way of life.”
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Tigergate has gone from being a figurative pain in the neck to a literal one. Yes, Tiger Woods himself has insisted that the spasming neck pain that inspired him to quit the Players Championship has “zero connection” to the SUV crash that tore the veil from his harem of mistresses. But there’s little doubt in this sex therapist’s mind that the “bulging disc” or “inflamed joint” in the beleaguered billionaire’s upper spine is deeply “connected” to his struggles with that other bulge—that inflamed joint a little farther south in his anatomy.

Whatever the nature of his injury, Tiger should know from his mama’s Buddhist tradition—if not from his six weeks at Mississippi’s famed Pine Grove sex addiction clinic—that everything is “connected.” Certainly, everything that happens in your life is connected physically through your own body, as well as mentally and spiritually in your own head. Connecting the head to the rest of the body, it follows that the neck is often the locus of great emotional tension.

But before we get too psycho-sexual, let’s get physical. Tiger’s current neck injury could well be a delayed reaction to the November 29, 2009 crash. During his pre-Masters press conference, Woods told reporters that the “accident” gave him “…a busted-up lip and a pretty sore neck.” It seems that a “pretty sore neck” could easily lead to a very sore neck, should it start straining from the rigors of competitive golf.

Add to the mix the psychological effect of having just been exposed on a mega-scale as a sex maniac/sex addict/lying bastard (take your pick of demonizing labels), and—from insult to injury—you have a recipe for excruciating pain.
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May is National Masturbation Month, having been so declared by the Godmother of Masturbation herself, Dr. Betty Dodson. Why bother to have a National Masturbation Month here in the Masturbation Nation? Since just about everybody plays sexual solitaire at least sometimes, it’s virtually the country’s—and the world’s—preferred leisure past time, regardless of the month; far more popular than playing football (Sperm Wars notwithstanding), blackjack or even the lottery.

Yet far too few of us private Onanists are willing to admit publicly that we indulge. Here in our Land of the Relatively Free, we have plenty of Gay Pride and Leather Pride, but not much Masturbation Pride. “Sex for one,” as relatively harmless and healing as we now know it to be, is still condemned and ridiculed as an illicit, shameful act by our religious and political leaders, not to mention many of our parents. Thus, most of us keep our single-handed pleasures under the covers and in the closet.

National Masturbation Month is a respectful attempt to open that closet door just a crack, letting a little Spring sunlight shine in on that which is usually hidden and forbidden.

It’s all part of your masturbation education. Yes, it may feel like playing hooky, but masturbation can teach you a lot about your own body: what kinds of touch arouse you, what positions relax you, what fantasies stimulate you, what props get you hot. Masturbation helps you to find your mental and physical rhythm and style for maximum orgasmic pleasure.

Partner sex is more romantic, of course, and usually more meaningful, but it also tends to be more stressful. Unless you’re a narcissist, you probably concentrate more on your lover’s pleasure than your own. During masturbation, you don’t have to worry about pleasing anybody but yourself. That way, you can relax and explore at your own pace, learning all kinds of stuff about your erotic responses that you can use to become not only a better lover, but a more orgasmic, relaxed, happy, peaceful, sexually satisfied person.
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Dr. Suzy is blessed by Eros (Goddess Soma's Boi) & Venus (Miss Olive) on Eros Day XI. Want to see more explicit photos of Eros Day & more? Click the pic & join the bloggamy!

It was another wild, orgiastic Eros Day–our eleventh, to be exact–but this year we celebrated in a brand new space with shiny gold walls. It was kind of like being inside a big bullion vagina, a very auspicious opening for the new Speakeasy, as we welcomed the little cock-shaped planetoid 433 EROS, spinning closest to Earth on Eros Day, as well as the Spirit of Eros, into our glistening, golden, sugar walls.

I started the show from the G-spot of the Golden Womb, my bed, flanked by exquisite young beauties Sparkle, Asia and Cristina, with gorgeous, voluptuous April Flores and last year’s Eros, our hot ObamEros, Jonny Footman (appropriately enough) at my feet, everyone lounging around and on top of each other in various states of undress. Neither Hef nor Hof ever had it so good.

We began with a vision of Venus, Aphrodite to the Greeks, the great Goddess of Love–played by the organically lovely, all-natural Miss Olive–naked and tied to our great gothic Bondage Cross in the shape of an X. Like Prometheus was bound to a rock for teaching humanity how to make fire, our Venus was bound to the X for teaching us how to make love. And She suffered; oh how She suffered. This was “The Passion of The Goddess.” As Christ suffered on the Cross at Calvary, so Venus suffered on the X at the Speakeasy, at the cruel hands of the Queen of Chaos, played by the amazing Goddess Soma, whipping and torturing Her nude body with fire as She writhed upon the X, suffering for our sexual sins, suffering for our sexual stupidity, our sexual selfishness, our sexual hypocrisy, our sexual sanctimony, our sexual bigotry, our sexual aggression, our sexual jealousy and, most of all, our sexual shame.

But it was Eros Day! Enough suffering! Time to play…

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Dr. Suzy and Joanna Angel do Sex Week at Yale 2010. Photo: Max

Before we plunge into a couple of hot new episodes of “Travels with Max,” Wherein The Love Doctor and Her Butler—Who’s Really a Prince—Go to Sex Week at Yale and the Moonlight Bunnyranch Bordello, I want to announce the winner of our Secret Sexual Fantasy contest. It was a tough choice because there were so many wonderful submissions (many of which were deliciously submissive), and more keep coming—and cumming—in. But the Board of Bloggamists had to pick one winner, and that winner is (drum roll please): Shari! Not only did “Shari Baby” submit several excellent, sensuous, sexual fantasies, but she aroused the most response from fellow bloggamists. To enjoy Shari’s fabulous erotic imaginings, as well as everyone else’s, check out to the Secret Sexual Fantasy bloggamy.

We held the Secret Sexual Fantasy contest as that was the subject of my talk at a Saybrook Master’s Tea during Sex Week at Yale (SWAY) 2010. Of course, most Yalies themselves are too busy cramming for mid-terms, fine-tuning their dissertations, test-driving their Pocket Rockets and modeling their Lust et Veritas g-strings to actually enter the contest. But they weren’t too busy to pack themselves into the Saybrook Master’s Lounge for my Valentine’s Day talk and then whisper their secret fantasies to me (most of which involved sex with their study partners) during the informal chat after the lecture.

Building up to that sexual/intellectual climax, my darling butler Prince Max and I flew Delta into New York and shuttled into New Haven, arriving at our Saybrook guest suite in the wee hours, a troupe of mildly drunken undergrads serenading us from Branford, the college next door. It was enough to inspire a little quickie sex before we tumbled into jet-lagged slumber, later waking up to find ourselves within the marvelous, gargoyle-festooned Killingworth Courtyard of Yale’s oldest residential college, draped in snow and mystery.

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