Yes, there is a G-spot. Of course there's a G-spot.
There's always been a G-spot.
And while we're on the subject, it's not a spot. It's not a little button or dot. It's an area. While we're on the subject, we really should rename it all together. A man “discovered it." Uh, huh. And he named it after himself. Of course. But I digress. The point is, the G-spot very much exists.
How do I know? Because I've touched my share of them. I've touched them and stimulated them, and the women to whom those G-spots belonged had delicious orgasms from the said touching of them. Ask them. Go ahead. You don't have to believe me because the G-spot is not the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus or even God for that matter. It's not something to “believe in." It's something that exists because it's there and you can touch it.
As the author of two books on women's sexuality, “O Wow: Discovering Your Ultimate Orgasm" and “The Ultimate Guide to Solo Sex," I have talked to hundreds of women; researched and spoken to the experts; and read, read, read everything I could get my hands on. I know the G-spot exists because it exists. That is how you know something exists. You do not however, deny the existence of something because, well, it's self-serving.
And in case you're thinking, “You've written some sex books and slept with some women. You're no doctor." You're right. But Juliana Morris, PhD, LMFT, LPC is. She's a credentialed therapist, academic, and a bona fide (s)expert, with decades of experience “counseling and supporting thousands of individuals and couples on their paths to discover and own their sexual agency."
Her thoughts on the G-Spot? “Yes, it exists. Better stated….every (biologically identified) woman has the potential for pleasure in an area within her vaginal cavity. That is how I describe it. An area of potential. I am confident it exists because of hundreds of interviews and work with women. Women who have experienced pleasure in an area within her 'accidently,' women who have made purposeful efforts to find pleasure in this area as a solo or partnered endeavor using specific techniques to maximize the potential of pleasure for her and hearing both groups describe the difference of pleasure from other orgasmic experiences."
The fact that some folks who have the audacity to call themselves “researchers" when they only had thirteen women in their study – THIRTEEN – decided there is no G-spot because they couldn't find one is idiocy. I have touched more than thirteen of them personally. Just all by myself, no research study – OR DOLLARS – required. Morris adds, “That study is inaccurate and is inherently flawed. In large part because of the belief that it functions like other pleasure organs. Mainly, however, because it is asking the wrong questions and using inadequate parameters to prove or disprove it."
I'll tell you what outranks that study by a zillion – reality. I have touched the G-spots of women I have loved, women I have hooked up with, and even women with whom I have taken Body Dodson's famed masturbation workshop Body Sex. Of course there's a G-spot. Don't be ridiculous.
This is just another chapter in the on-going saga of “men who don't want to learn about women's bodies or have women know about their own bodies so let's just call women frigid or broken or too complicated." We and our bodies are none of those things. Women who don't want to have sex aren't frigid. They are tired of showing up for an activity that feeds male pleasure and leaves them hanging because too many men have no idea how to work the equipment.
Women aren't broken. We don't have penises. We don't want or need penises. We have something WAY better. We have clitorises with 8,000 plus nerve endings and no other job other than to give us pleasure. And, no, our bodies aren't too complicated. All you have to do is ask. Believe me, if you care enough to ask, she'll be happy to tell you what rocks her world.
The thing is, men, who are in charge of the budgets and the research and the media and the message, get nothing for themselves – zero, zilch, nada – from teaching and promoting the truth about women's bodies and sexuality. Not to mention is that all men want to do is measure and quantify. No can do with the G-spot. But that doesn't matter one bit.
Morris explains, “I do believe the reason behind the quest to invalidate the G-spot area is heavily rooted in the misguided notion that a woman's pleasure experience cannot be measured or seen and thusly cannot exist. The antiquated medical and scientific views of research do not apply to the variance and contextual nuisances of womanhood and female pleasure. And that difference-from the male, medical model is threatening and challenging and for some in that world, easily dismissed. Or must be dismissed. Unexplained + variance +can't be seen/measure= bad, crazy, non-existent. And frankly…the scientific and medical world, especially male practitioners in general still exhibit a level of discomfort if not distaste for female pleasure."
On the other hand, straight men gain plenty from creating and feeding the myths. They can keep women feeling less-than and self-conscious and dirty and broken and thinking that they need a man, that they are lucky to even have one since they are so broken. Then men don't have to learn or put in any effort in the bedroom or anywhere else for that matter because they are, all puns intended, cock of the walk. Well, fuck that.
Listen up, ladies. There is nothing wrong with you. Not one damn thing. Your body and your clitoris and your vagina and your very much existing G-spot are all perfect and they are all yours. And while we're on the subject, you have every right to enjoy them on your own, with a partner, with many partners, within a loving relationship, just for fun, whatever.
Masturbate, make love, hook up, you do you. Literally. You don't need a man. You can want one. But you do not – I repeat, do not – in any way need a man for sexual pleasure. The penis is completely and totally unnecessary for female sexual pleasure. COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY. There are mouths and fingers and toys and even vegetables that are actually far better suited for the job.
Too much of this “there's no G-spot" nonsense comes from the fact that most folks don't even know the truth about the clitoris. That tiny little bud on the outside is the tip of the iceberg. The clitoris has long, internal legs. Think inverted wishbone.
Women have just as much – if not more – erectile tissue than men.
Women have just as much – if not more – erectile tissue than men. Women can experience gobs of pleasure when some penis isn't just using the vagina like some sort of masturbation sleeve, banging away until said penis is done. And – side note – when it's done it's done, unlike the mighty clitoris which requires zero recoup time. ZERO. Sure the G-stop is a relative of the clitoris. Regardless of who or what it's related to - it exists. Not every woman goes wild when her G-spot is stimulated. That is true. Not every women can identify her G-spot. That is true. But every woman does have a G-spot. You simply have be enough of a human being to care about women and their bodies and their pleasure to know that. People can tell you about Game of Thrones in minute detail but they don't know the difference between a vagina and a vulva. (The vagina is the internal canal. The vulva is the external bits.)
This is getting so idiotic. We don't need any more studies. We need people to start talking to and LISTENING to women. The very pussy owning humans themselves. Want to know the truth about women's bodies? Pay attention to the ones you are insanely lucky to be intimate with. This is all verifiable info. This is not some Lochness shit here. Come on.
Women need to know their bodies. Human need to know about women's bodies. “I think it is crucial for women to understand, deeply, the implications of our variance in anatomy and pleasure," says Morris. "Our variance needs to be acknowledged, understood, celebrated and validated. Our variance is indeed beautiful. Normal. Expected. No big deal. Some of our variance is rooted in evolutionary brilliance. Some of it is evolutionary irrelevance, and it just is. We all need a roadmap to examine our sexuality and pleasure and medical studies like this just distract us from the REAL research."
"That dream aside, pleasure is our birthright. We have the right to seek, enhance and experience pleasure. On our own terms and in our own way. Validating the existence for the potential for pleasure in this area is one area where women can choose to claim this collectively." -Juliana Morris
If you're a woman, grab a mirror and have a look. Masturbate, please. Insert your own fingers into your own vagina, curve it upwards, and two inches in, toward the front of your body, you will feel a patch of tissue with ridges on it. Play with it and it will expand. That's your G-spot. Insert a toy that vibrates to stimulate it. Insert the classic and most reliable toy on earth for masturbation, the Betty Dodson Barbell, and try out her Rock and Rock Method of masturbation. (You can thank me later.) And once you have done that, you will smack the face of anyone who tells you what body parts you don't have. And if someone argues with you, make a note to never, ever, ever have sex with them. Ever. And to those “researchers," get a real job. Women don't need anyone else telling us that we don't have body parts that we clearly do. We don't need anyone else chipping away at our self-esteem. We don't need any more sex shaming. And thirteen people? Really? Thirteen? Shame on you. You and your practices and your findings are ridiculous.
And to anyone who has the honor of engaging with a woman and her body, be respectful, pay attention, put your own pleasure on the back burner, remember that just because it feels good to you doesn't mean it does a damn thing for her, and for God's sake, listen – listen, listen, listen.
Yes, Virginia, there is a G-spot.
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Dating. Divorce. Marriage. Being single. None of it is easy.
I don't think any of us have the right answers or know exactly what we are doing when we navigate through relationships or breakups, even if we do take every Buzzfeed quiz there is out there. What I have found out though, is by writing this book, Female. Likes Cheese. Comes with Dog: Stories about Dating, Divorce & Saying "I Do" most everyone can relate to some part of it, whether it is having an awkward date, being dumped, or falling in love. The short stories read as if we are talking over drinks at a bar gossiping about our love life. It's as if, you, reader, are one of my best friends. I hope by reading this book you are reminded that you don't have to be anybody but you and your mistakes are simply memories to learn upon. Get comfy, grab a glass of wine (or your beverage of choice), cuddle with your furry companion (pet or otherwise), and enjoy…
From the chapter "Kansas & The Firepit" from Female. Likes Cheese. Comes with Dog: Stories about Divorce, Dating & Saying "I Do"
I had lost my dog to my ex. I was a mess. I thought this man was going to be by my side the rest of my life, I had gained a lot of weight. Not the kind of weight you gain when you tell your friend "OMG, Kelly, I, like, put on five pounds this summer because of all the partying I've been doing at the rooftop bars," but real weight. The weight that makes you feel totally inadequate. The weight that makes you say, Hey I might as well keep eating because it doesn't matter anymore. I was inconsolable during that summer.
I still wasn't completely out of my trash TV and alcohol phase, but I had switched to vodka, at least. Which, let's be real, just hides the fact that you're an alcoholic. I wasn't really talking to anyone about my problems. My mom tried to take me to fat camp. Yes, fat camp. When your mother says the reason why you're not happy is because you're fat, there comes a point where you really don't know whether to laugh, cry, or drink. I think I did all three. The reason why I wasn't happy was because I was going through a divorce, and my life was unraveling. I was not only unhappy but also fat, so I guess there was some truth to that. It was just what I needed to hear to get myself back to reality.
While cleaning the kitchen one day, I walked by a pair of boxing gloves. Boxing was something I had always been interested in. Watching it on TV and having some friends that had done it professionally, I figured I would take the plunge and put this "body after breakup" into motion.
There was only one boxing club in our area for fitness. I walked into the afternoon classes knowing that I was going to be a little out of my element, but I'm not afraid of a challenge. I'm an outgoing person and being sports savvy, I knew that I would catch on quickly. The guy teaching the class, Kansas, was very attractive. Ladies, you know how in yoga when you have to do the sun god pose? Well, let's just say he was what you would hope a sun god looked like. With sweat glistening down the side of his face, it was almost as if the ceiling parted and angels started singing as he stood over you telling you, "Ten more!" as you got down for ab rounds between punches. This guy was exciting. He was energetic. He was. . . constantly checking on me during class to make sure my form was correct, since I was new, and let's face it—I was totally OK with the attention. After class I signed up for a one-year membership and became addicted, not just because I loved the workouts but also because of the hot trainer.
I started coming to class three times a week, initially taking only Kansas's classes, but not wanting to look obvious when I really started crushing on him, I had to mix it up. I mean, this is Crushing 101. This was my first crush out of the gate post-divorce, so exactly what you think would happen, happened. Kansas became my rebound guy. I would make any excuse to linger after class (which, looking back, just made me look desperate), but then sometimes I would switch it up and leave. I mean, it was a game. I was trying to figure out if he was interested or not. It was exhausting. After talking after class for a few weeks, I happened to mention a home improvement project I had been thinking of working on. Being the good listener (stalker?) that I was, I knew he just happened to be interested in home improvements, as he did many of his own. I figured that would be a great way to get to know each other better and for him to fall completely in love with me, of course. Duh. Now I had a reason to cross something off my "list". I love sitting outside and having a glass of wine and listening to music by a fire. I wasn't really sure how I was going to accomplish this task on my own, but recruiting a fine gentleman like Kansas would be a good start. So, he agreed to my firepit project, and after gathering supplies at Home Depot, he came over, and I quote to you from my journal, I kid you not:
So today he shows up, and we are in the backyard digging the hole, and he takes his shirt off. His body is a wonderland! I mean sweat is just glistening down his torso. So I had to change the subject somehow and shut my gaping mouth, so like an idiot I say, "Oh, look, a callus on my hand," and he says, "Those on a woman are sexy." FML.
Ladies and gentlemen, do you want to know what I did that day? Something so adult and so mature: I pushed him into the dirt. I pushed that beautiful body into the dirt. I couldn't take it. I was like a schoolkid on a playground. Because that is the type of tantrum this lady used to throw. Kansas took it as flirting. I took it as frustration, because I couldn't tell a boy I liked him at the time.
This whole awkward flirting game went on for a few more weeks. Kansas would come over, and we'd dig more holes (to bury my dignity in) or set stones—I don't know. I thought rebound guys were supposed to be fun, casual things, but this wasn't fun at all. This was like homework in school. Every day I'd come home from "class," and I'd strategize on what I needed to do to make better "grades." If I had actually spent half the time in real school that I spent on Kansas, I would've had a 4.0. I was having to chase him, but I almost didn't know what race I was running. After all, I hadn't dated since 1884. So I figured if the firepit thing didn't work, then I'd write him a poem... Like a moron...