My Quest to Find The G-Spot
When my dad ditched the training wheels on my bicycle all those years ago and launched me down the street, beaming proudly as I suddenly veered right and slammed over the curb, narrowly missing an ironically worded “SLOW CHILDREN” sign, I figured nothing in life would be tougher than learning to ride a bike.
I figured right. Well, for roughly the next 14 years anyway, until girls entered the picture. That’s when life got real tough. That’s when I embarked on the never-ending quest to find a woman’s G-Spot. All I can say is that it’s harder than riding a bike. Way harder. And there are no training wheels.
I can tell you that this spongy tissue, shaped like a bean and about the size of a dime, is sort of like mission control for a woman’s orgasmic launch into the galaxy of pleasure. But man is it tough to find! It even can get downright exasperating. I consider it the sex version of moving slowly down a supermarket aisle, eyes scanning the shelves up and then down, left and then right, and doing it once more on the way back while muttering to yourself, “Where the fuck are the pinto beans??”
That’s what it’s like.
I don’t think German gynecologist Ernst Grafenberg did men any favors when he identified this female erogenous zone during research in the late 1940s. The Grafenberg Spot — or G-Spot, as it came to be called in the 1980s –- has been hotly debated, studied, affirmed, dismissed and pooh-poohed within conflicted sexology circles over the years, all while researchers tried to determine why this little arousal button sends some women to the moon while others just get frustrated and put their clothes on and go shopping at Target.
This has squarely placed a lot of performance pressure on guys. The G-Spot is commonly regarded as being 1 to 3 inches up the front vaginal wall, between the vaginal opening and the urethra. One to 3 inches . . . that’s not real precise. It leaves men with a lot of ground to cover, sort of like trying to find a popular barbecue joint you’ve heard about in Texas.
So I just have to ask. What the hell was our creator thinking? For example, with a man’s sexual anatomy, what you see is what you get. Our little soldier is at-ease but usually ready at a moment’s notice, standing proud and erect. With a woman, it’s almost like we men are going on a cave exploration, probing the depths for that elusive G-Spot, the Holy Grail of erotic pleasure.
“How about there . . . is that it?”
“No, just a little lower . . . now up a little higher . . . good, good, now two millimeters to the right . . . RIGHT THERE!!! . . . oh no, you moved your finger . . . damn it, why did you move your finger???”
It doesn’t have to be that tense. Or that complicated.
Some years back I had to be gently corrected when I referred to a woman’s vulva as a Volvo, and though I didn’t know much about the vulva, I was damn sure the Volvo got much better mileage over a lifetime.
The point is, that’s the great thing about the Internet age when it comes to the vulva and the clitoris and the G-Spot. You don’t have to sweat where to learn about this stuff. In the past, if I wanted to know about the G-Spot, I’d ask my dad, who’d be in his easy chair while reading “Field and Stream,” basically about as clueless as I was.
“Go ask your mother,” he’d say.
Shitty advice as usual, pop. Thanks.
If I wanted to be Lothario, I knew I’d have to figure out the G-Spot location myself. Maybe I could plot its longitude and latitude — sort of like sinking a battleship with my torpedo. No, not good, too many variables. It had to be a direct hit.
So with a pencil tucked behind my ear, and a ruler and straightedge and calculator on the kitchen table, I studied an illustration of the female pelvic region, scribbling furiously, erasing, scribbling furiously again, my fingers a blur on the calculator, recalculating, all while figuring the logarithms and geometric triangles that would send a woman to Pleasure Island.
And then . . . THE BIG MOMENT! And I was a bust. How about there, is that it? Over here? Feel anything? What about now? How about with the hedge clippers?
I don’t know where it went wrong. I don’t care, either. Maybe I needed to be 2 millimeters closer to the urethral meatus. Or maybe I focused too much on the labia majora and totally overlooked the labia minora. Maybe the degree angle was all wrong for the dorsal perineal membrane.
Or maybe she never had a G-Spot. Could it be she had an . . . .