Being an oral goddess may not be your top priority, but it's a pretty handy (or, er, mouthy) skill to have. After all, who doesn't want to be the kind of gal whose mere memory can bring a wistful smile to any ex's face? And if that doesn't convince you to upgrade your oral game, consider the benefits of potential reciprocity. Research sexologist, sex journalist, Lemondrop contributor and The Sex Bible author Susan Crain Bakos tells us how.
British artist Jamie McCartney is working on a sculpture called "Design a Vagina." Using only volunteers, he is making casts of 200 women's vaginas, and displaying them together in 40 block panels. He wants to show people that where vaginas are concerned, "the variety of shapes is endlessly fascinating, empowering and comforting." This is the story of how, for one of those volunteers, his message really hit home.
A woman confronts memories of being raped as a teen. "I just found out that my rapist is dead. Not only is he dead, but he ended up killing a lot of women. I always wondered if he would rape again, but I never thought he would graduate to murder."
I thought I'd had "rough sex" before; I'd been spanked on my butt plenty of times, had my hair pulled, even been caned once while strung up with my hands over my head. That hurt, and I cried, and I liked it, because I'm submissive like that, but it was just a one-time thing. I'd had plenty of encounters with talking dirty, spinning all sorts of nasty fantasies, where, most of the time, I was on the receiving end of some very hot epithets. But I'd never wanted to be choked until I got together with the guy I'm dating now.
The Venus Butterfly. It made its debut on TV legal drama LA Law, when— during the 1986 Thanksgiving episode—script writers Steven Bochco and Terry Louise Fisher referred to a mysterious sex technique that guarantees a woman endless, repeated climaxes. The day after Thanksgiving the media was buzzing with talk of the trick, and every loving couple across the nation was wondering how to do it. But hey, it's just an urban myth, right? Sexologist Susan Quilliam investigates.
Certain words I dread ("We need to schedule two more dental appointments") while others I would kill to hear ("Ann Coulter's physician confirms sex-change operation"). And then there are statements that defy imagination, such as; "My husband gave me the greatest birthday present last night—a public flogging." I actually overheard one of my exotic dance students say these exact words last week. Now, I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the BDSM scene.
We hear about relationships torn apart by internet porn addiction, but where are the support groups for smut-lovers like me, who suddenly and inexplicably get turned off by porn when they fall in love? Before I met my boyfriend, I was visiting youporn.com about a half an hour a day, hunting through dozens of clips to find the one most perfectly calibrated to turn me on. After I met my boyfriend, my visits to the site dropped off in equal proportion to how much I was getting off with a flesh-and-blood human being.
Everything I know about being a man I learned from women, and especially when we were stoned and in bed, f***ing and/or talking.
As far as I can tell, not only should you be having lots of oral sex with the father of your baby—even up to a year before conceiving—you should also make sure to ingest his seminal fluid. Listen to what I'm telling you: the international medical community is giving you an Rx for oral. Sure, they say frequent intercourse is good, too, but oral is better. So, if you care about having a healthy baby and not potentially unleashing what scientists call a "destructive attack on the foreign tissues" of your fetus, if you want to avoid immunological disorders during pregnancy, and I'm sure you do, get to work. Or to pleasure, depending on how you feel about it.
Sexual fantasies are something we rarely discuss, even among good friends. Our deepest sexual thoughts are often considered too weird, perverse, or just plain wrong to be shared amongst polite company; fantasizing might indicate there is something wrong with our relationships, or worse, ourselves. But research indicates that having sexual fantasies is an absolutely normal, if not necessary, part of being a sexual being. It's not having them that is aberrant.
Sex with A Married Man? Friends With Benefits? Office Affairs? Here, Cosmo queen Helen Gurley Brown personally answers your critical questions about all these things. Plus, why she's already saved you from a dreary life not worth living!
Back in April, I shared my story of having vaginal reconstruction. Of course, a surgery of this nature requires sex to be put on hold for quite awhile, but I promised readers that I would write again when my spouse and I finally gave the new runway a test flight. After eight weeks post-op, I was able to finally come home with the news, "It's cherry poppin' season, honey!" and we made our first attempt. The key word here is "attempt." Let me explain.
I just recently picked up a new vagina. It's brand new, shiny, and never been tested by man. You think I'm kidding, but its true: One week ago today, along with other repair surgeries, I had a vaginal reconstruction. I'm 37, but in more ways than one I feel like a new woman, a virtual born-again virgin.
We had been married for eight years. We had been trying to get pregnant for six of those years and between IVF and ICSI had gone through five fertility cycles. We knew we could get pregnant but we didn't know if we could stay pregnant. We had spent over $200,000, and all we had to show for it was a glossy photo of four egg cells. That photo still sits in the drawer of the night table besides out bed, buried there. We're unable to look at it—or dispose of it. Other friends who were on the IVF merry-go-round and got pregnant, had their children. Some had their second child while we waited and tried again. Every couple who had a child swore by their doctor, their method, their technique—success was its own affirmation.
Amy had been referred to a Beverly Hills fertility doctor, who was so reassuring that I took him to calling him Dr. Mellow. His office had a wall of photos of smiling babies, as if to say, "This will be you." We sat in his waiting room holding hands. We believed. We didn't know we had just taken our seats inside the Hope Factory. Once inside, the possibility of getting pregnant never ended. If one technique failed, you tried another, and kept trying. There seemed to be an infinite supply of hope.