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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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It’s the Valentine’s Season, so we’re off to our fifth Sex Week at Yale to frolic among the Young Blues, Old Blues, sexperts, science-of-love professors and intellectually-aroused porn stars, spreading Lust et Veritas and giving away Doc Johnson Pocket Rockets (Drop Pocket Rockets, not Patriot Missiles!), Condomania condoms (February is National Condom Month) and Lust et Veritas panties to the needy, climaxing in a Valentine’s Day Saybrook Master’s Tea at 2:30pm, where I’ll get to expound upon one of my favorite subjects: Secret Sexual Fantasies.

Your fantasies are always with you, playing hide-and-seek with your perceived realities, whispering wild ideas into your inner ear, showing movies in your mind, stirring your passions mysteriously, yet so powerfully. If you are imprisoned in any way–by your work, your family, your education, your religion, your government–your fantasies become your freedom. Sometimes your ability to fantasize is the only freedom you have.

Erotic Fantasy is the G-Spot of Your Mind

Where does fantasy end and reality begin? The English philosopher John Richter said, “Fantasy rules over two-thirds of the universe, the past and the future, while reality is confined to the present.”

Fantasy–the original “theater of the mind”–makes up a huge portion of human consciousness. Memory, as it filters through the mind’s eye, is a kind of fantasy that gazes backward, into the past. Hope, anticipation, fear and ambition are fantasies that look toward the future. Our sexuality is fueled by fantasies of the past and the future, as well as “pure” fantasies–wild dreams that never happened and that you never really want to have happen–that haunt and stimulate you like a kinky parallel universe.

A sexual fantasy can be a long, complicated story, a quick mental flash of erotic imagery or something in between. Whatever form it takes, it arouses your sexual feelings. As such, your favorite fantasy is the G-spot of your mind.

Experts agree that sexual fantasies are important, powerful and pervasive. But they can’t agree on much more about them. For every study that concludes that women or men fantasize one way, there’s another that concludes the opposite. If you look hard enough, you can find a study to prove any theory about sexual fantasies and another one to disprove it. Maybe this is because it is very difficult to measure fantasies except through questionnaires, and it is so easy and tempting to lie on questionnaires, especially when it comes to opening up about our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing, secret, sexual fantasies. Therefore, I will not use many studies to justify my points here. As a sex therapist with one of the largest private practices in the world and a sex-oriented radio and TV talk show host for over two decades, as well as an erotically-married woman for almost 18 years, I base my observations on my own professional and personal experience, which I believe is as good a “study” on fantasy as any.

Before we discuss where your secret fantasies come from and whether or not to share them with anyone, let’s take a look at some of the most common ones…

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Just Under the Roof of the Vaginal Cave Is The G-Spot

I’m not surprised when politicians, religious leaders, military chiefs, mafia bosses, corporate CEOs or media pundits make ignorant, misleading statements with great and somber certainty. But when people who call themselves “scientists” spout toxic stupidities with similar conviction, it is rather more unnerving. One current case in point: a team of British “scientists” at King’s College London claims to have determined “fairly conclusively” that the G-spot does not exist.

Even before I finished reading about Dr. Andrea Virginia Burri (I’m not kidding; that’s her given middle name) and Dr. Tim Spector’s “G-Spot: Fiction or Friction” study, my personal Malarkey Meter was careening off the charts. Burri and Spector’s study is ill-conceived, poorly analyzed, illogically interpreted and—dare I say—just plain wrong.

Nonetheless, that “scientist” label must have gotten to me because, the first chance I had, there I was, licking my middle finger and hooking it about an inch or so into my vagina in the “come here” gesture, pressing that sensitive, spongy, bean-shaped area on the anterior wall, just to make sure it hadn’t somehow vanished overnight. Then, before I could say “bogus findings,” I was enjoying a nice, pulsating G-spot orgasm. Well, at least there are some silver linings in this black cloud of bad science. Could we say that Burri and Spector’s anti-G-spot report stimulated my G-spot orgasm that day? Regardless, it was a case of friction, not fiction.

Dr. Burri Would Bury Our Hands in the Sand

How did Drs. Burri and Spector reach their snarky, international, headline-screaming conclusion that the G-spot is “probably a myth,” a “fiction” virtually forced upon innocent, G-spotless women by nefarious “magazines and sex therapists”? They did a survey of 1,804 British female twins aged 23-83 who answered questionnaires about whether or not they had G-spots. Or thought they had them. Or could find them. Or enjoy them. Or something. What a way to run a treasure hunt.

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Eros Day 2005: The Counter-Inaugural Ball with Big D as Eros & Leila Swan as Venus. Photo: Alex Filangieri

Brothers and Sisters, Lovers and Sinners, Artists and Exhibitionists, Voyeurs and Connoisseurs, Democrats and Republicans, Libertarians and Vegetarians, Eros Angels and Horny Little Devils…the time has come again…for us to come again! And this Saturday, we will come together yet again in our brand new space for our 11th annual celebration of Eros Day.

What, you may ask, is Eros Day? On Eros Day, we celebrate EROS, who is a great and powerful god, according to classical mythology, and a little cock-shaped planetoid, according to modern astronomy, as well as the Spirit of Eros, the feeling of love and lust within us. For a more elaborate description of the meaning, history and some of the sex stars of Eros Day, go to my 2007 Eros Day Bloggamy .

So, every year at this time, when the Planetoid Eros is closest to Earth, we celebrate Eros Day in a slightly different erotic way. Last year, we held a huge orgiastic Orgy for Obama, the Inaugural Ball with balls. This year, since we just moved into this new loft, things might be a bit “rough.” But you know, rough might not be so bad. In any case, our staff and lots of awesome volunteers are working their sexy butts off getting things ready, and fabulous porn stars, as well as Porn Klownz, dazzling Dommes and sexy subs are RSVPing, so you never know what might happen. This Eros Day could be your lucky night!

Make your reservations now – while we’ll still let you.

Dr. Suzy’s Speakeasy at the Block Institute is the primary temple of Eros Day celebration. But people all over the world celebrate Eros Day in their own beds and around fireplaces, with lovers and friends. If you need a little inspiration for your Eros Day, you can enjoy amazing photos and streaming video from almost every Eros Day since 2000 when you JOIN BACKSTAGE.

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The Explosive Underpants of Allah's Panty Boy, the Crotch Bomber

Frustrated male sexuality fused with terror in the burned undies of the Crotch Bomber, a.k.a. the Underpants Bomber, a.k.a. the Weeniebomber, a.k.a. Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a.k.a. Farouk1986. Many terror experts are trying to get “inside the head” of this privileged, 23-year-old Nigerian banker’s son who appears to have learned terror tactics from al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula as nonchalantly as he studied mechanical engineering at University College London, before boarding Northwest Airlines Flight 258 from Amsterdam to Detroit with deadly plastic explosives nestled right up against the Abdulmutallab family jewels.

As a sex therapist, I think it wise to try to get inside both heads of this young man, not just the one between his ears but the one between his legs, to look into the dirty underwear, so to speak, of the Panty Bomber who didn’t actually bomb anything, yet had enough PETN next to his junk to bring down a whole plane with all 278 passengers and 11 crew members.

In many ways, “Farouk1986,” as he called himself on the Gawaher Islamic Forums, was a typical, horny, young male virgin valiantly attempting to follow religious strictures that kept him from releasing his natural sexual tension in any acceptable way. Most orthodox versions of the world’s organized religions denounce sex before marriage as sinful. Though young people tend to be ready for the pleasures of sex long before they are prepared for the responsibilities of marriage, this is one of the bulwarks of “family values” and not to be disobeyed. Not only are observant, young, single males in the Christian, Jewish and Islamic faiths not allowed to have sex with anyone, they’re not supposed to masturbate either.

According to George Carlin, if God had intended us not to masturbate, (S)he would have made our arms shorter. But most priests, rabbis, ministers, ayatollahs and imams do not get that joke and do not tolerate their choir, yeshiva or madrassa boys “abusing themselves.”

Farouk1986’s religion is, of course, a “radical” form of Islam. That’s not to say the other religions are superior when it comes to being reasonable about sex; they’re just culturally different. But since we’re trying to get inside both heads of young Farouk1986, let’s examine what he was going through as he attempted to live the pure, asexual life of a modern, devout, unmarried, Muslim male.

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Sparkle gives me a sensuous whipping at the Exotic Erotic Ball. Photo: Alex

I don’t know how the internationally notorious Exotic Erotic Ball in San Francisco, “the world’s #1 wildest and sexiest party” according to E! Entertainment TV, slipped our social list for the last 29 years, but it did. So when EEB founder Perry Mann, Producer Howard Mauskopf and PR dynamo Chris Buttner offered me a free booth, VIP treatment and unlimited free tickets for my entourage to participate in EEB’s big 30th Anniversary Blowout, well, let’s just say it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Since the good folks at the Ball didn’t offer to pay for a tricked out pumpkin or First Class air fare for every member of my beloved Bonobo Gang, we decided to transport ourselves in the most economical, wild, crazy and trailer-trashy mode available: Motorhome! We rented a reasonably luxurious Cruise America home on wheels, filled it up with food, feather boas, vibrators, books, whips, DVDs and Agwa Cocoa Leaf Liqueur, and got on our way.

We were a diverse family of sexpots, adventurers and voyagers: Sister Mel, excited to see the Cow Palace of her childhood memories transformed into a barnyard of human exhibitionism, organized the trip with the EEB. Brother Michael, the Institute’s new business developer, music promoter and fellow Yalie (SOM 1995), brought in the Cruiser to pick up the rest of us, including Bloggamy web developer and Speakeasy lounge pianist Nori, Speakeasy photographer/ladies man Alex Filangieri and the beautiful, whimsical Sparkle Sparkle Bang Bang (RadioSUZY1 regular, go-go girl and aspiring DJ). Plus, of course, our own Prince Max, recently freed political prisoner, quadruple bypass survivor and loving husband. We stopped in the Valley to pick up retired architect and Institute patron Jack S, practically backing the Motorhome into his neighbor’s house. Next stop: Camarillo where we retrieved porn star couple Natasha Skinski and Tommy Lei and a ton of BDSM gear, including a leather horse; we were going to the Cow Palace, so of course, we needed a horse.

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Tiger Woods and Mistress Holly Sampson star of My First Sex Teacher

“The same principle which forbids me to lie does not allow me to tell the truth.”
Giacomo Casanova, Histoire de Ma Vie (Story of My Life)

I’m in the midst of a humongous move and have no time to even look at the news, let alone write about it. But how can I – how can anyone – avoid the Erotic Adventures of Tiger Woods? It’s a soap operatic porno reality show streaming live before our eyes, ears, sanctimonious sensibilities and deep voyeuristic desires.

At first, I thought, so what? Another sports superstar is caught having illicit sex with a few different mistresses? Well, more than a few. But is that such a surprise? So Tiger’s got wood! Sure, he presented himself as the honest, monogamous “Family Man” to score the most lucrative endorsements he could. But don’t all sports stars do that? And does anyone over 18 actually believe that any of these hot-blooded jocks really ARE that? I mean, isn’t Tiger’s active, messy sex life par for the course?

Yes and no. In some ways, Mr. Woods is a typical alpha male. And in some ways, he’s special. Tiger’s harem is bigger than most sports stars, though he hardly touches basketball Hall of Famer Wilt Chamberlain who confessed to having had sex with over 20,000 different women. Both Wilt and Tiger could be labeled what counselors and sexperts deem a “sex addict.” But professional athletes are often found to be addicted to all kinds of dangerous drugs. And sex – especially the way Tiger seems to have used it – is a kind of drug.

Interracial Sperm Wars

But why all the fuss? Because a black guy is getting all the white women? Not just a gorgeous, Swedish, blonde, blue-eyed, whiter-than-white wife, but a bevy of Aryan bikini models, porn stars, hot hostesses and waitresses. Are people secretly alarmed by all that interracial sex? Or are they aroused by it? Or both?

My cuckold sex therapy clients are blowing up my phone, like First Mistress Rachel Uchitel is reported to have squealed that Tiger was “blowing up [her] phone” when they first met. Just in case you don’t know, a cuckold is a guy whose wife has sex with other men. On the surface, it sounds like a bad deal for the cuckold, but a lot of husbands fantasize about their wives having sex with other men because the Sperm Wars Effect turns them on. The presence or mere fantasy of male competition for the woman you desire triggers a man’s testicles to increase sperm production so as to better compete for the egg with the other guy’s sperm, enhancing arousal, erection and ejaculation.

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Getting ready to MOVE with Sparkle Sparkle Bang Bang and Christina...

I now commit bloggamy from the eye of a storm of change.  Yes, change is good and the changes we are going through right now are all essentially positive, potentially even quite marvelous.  Nevertheless, major changes often cause pain to parts of the human body and mind that haven’t hurt since, well, the last time you went through major changes.  Like a good spanking, it stings as it stimulates.

So, right now, I am being spanked by the firm hand of fate.  Of course, I enjoy a little light spanking, but this is more like a stiff caning or a whopping  power-wallop.  Which is still kind of arousing, but it hurts.

Kinky CMS

Notice anything different about the bloggamy?  Yes, we are transitioning into a new platform or CMS,  joining the Word Press Revolution in content management systems.  Do I sound like I know what I’m talking about?  I don’t really know CMS from PMS, but with Norioku’s patient help, I’m getting the hang of it.  And I’m excited about new features I didn’t have on the old system, like multiple private galleries (almost as hot as multiple orgasms)!  But migrating everything is tougher than getting a visa to Tibet, so some of the blog entries don’t have all their stuff together and none have comments yet.  There are other kinks in the system (and I’m not even going to get into all the interpersonal melodrama that has accompanied this transition).  While we’re migrating, you can always look at the old bloggamies in Drupal, and you can see both the fabulous new Word Press galleries and the old Drupal galleries when you subscribe to the bloggamy.  Such a deal.

But such a headache!  Within a week or two, we should be full migrated, but in the meantime, my brain is exploding with themes and tools and settings.  Where’s my vibrator?  Where’s my husband?  I need something to make my body explode so I can get my mind off my brain exploding…

OMG, We’re Moving!
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One of the sexiest, most powerful, progressive, open-minded and inspirational characters in American history was a freethinking businesswoman named Victoria Claflin Woodhull. Newspaper publisher extraordinaire, mediumistic hypnotherapist and fearless advocate of “Free Love,” an important precursor to the feminist and sexual revolutions, as well as ethical hedonism, Woodhull was also America’s first lady broker on Wall Street (along with her sister Tennessee Claflin, mistress to Cornelius Vanderbilt). And in 1872, the first female U.S. Presidential candidate, before women even had the right to vote.

Woodhull’s independent thinking, dazzling personal success, journalistic “outings” of powerful sexual hypocrites like the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher and open advocacy of sexual freedom earned her multiple enemies in both conservative America and the sex-averse suffragist movement. Some of Woodhull’s stronger enemies managed to squelch her once-powerful voice in her own lifetime, as well as in the history books. Over the course of the 20th century, Woodhull was almost forgotten. American schoolbooks don’t tend to mention her along with Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, though Woodhull was at least as important a figure in the history of women’s rights.

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