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.
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.
Without referring you to the many, many, medical sites, books and journals I immediately consulted on the subject, there is some belief that a certain vein that traverses one or both testicles can, in one way or another, affect the quality of sperm production. Operating on it may, or may not, improve sperm quality. In my case, a double varocelectomy was recommended.
I suppose everyone remembers their first time. I certainly do. I put on some mood music, dimmed the lights and proceeded to romance myself. Eager to please the laboratory (and myself), I marshaled my forces to climax, and then promptly fumbled the collection. Most of my contribution missed the container.
As a kid, my ballet teacher nicknamed me Olive Oil because I was tall and skinny with long dark hair like the cartoon. By 14, puberty had left me squeezing into 32DD bras. My instant curves disgusted me. "You are not fat; you’re Zaftik," my mother would say in Yiddish, as she inspected my 5'7" and 120-lb. frame. She meant I carried my weight well. Large busts were so common among Jewish women they'd created a word in the Old Country for exactly what I'd inherited.
Men have long rejected women because of what they perceive as excess weight. We've all heard of men who pressure their wives, partners or girlfriends to lose weight, and often female fears of losing a man will prompt a major overhaul. On the flip side, experts say women often withhold sex as a weapon of last resort when their partners refuse to or don't lose weight.
Would Andy think Jake was as perfect as I did? Perfect manners. Perfect behavior. Perfect attitude. Jake had just turned three. He was a sweet kid, affectionate and kind—but perfect manners? Who was I kidding? It wasn't as if "thank you" was exactly a recognized word in his vocabulary.