Susie Bright's Journal

College Call Girl Sets Her Timer

Today, on my In Bed podcast, Higher Sex Education weighs in on the question of the man who won't (easily) give it up. I share— and debate ten tips for hurrying up a slow cum-er, as advised from the highly articulate blog site, Confessions of a College Girl.

  Listen to an excerpt 

Listen to the whole show at Audible.com: LINK

Get my audio show free for a month: LINK

 

CCG is writing this story as an extension of her professional interest— she can't spend all day with a customer who's holding back. But I think every woman listens to these tips with uncommon interest because it touches on a competitive spirit that isn't always the most feminine thing to admit— it's a rush to feel like you can "get someone off" with a single look, a touch, a "technique" that knocks the fiercest control freak off their feet before they knew what hit them.

I suppose the "nice" way of saying this is that it is arousing, to both men and women, to see their lover orgasm as a result of their ministrations. Of course.

But there's also a prowess issue. Men talk about it frankly, but women— not so much. After all, if you're a woman who boasts of your ability to get any man's rocks off with uncommon flair, you'll be branded: a slut!  Which is exactly why College Call Girl doesn't have to give a shit about "protecting her reputation." Her reputation as a writer is certainly held in my high esteem!

One liberating thing about the lesbian world, is that the "virtue-worrying" element drops completely out. It's very relaxing to be a fallen woman, whether by dent of one's queerness, kink, or commercial enterprise.

But back to the men:  I have a vibe— nothing I can prove, just anecdotal evidence— that even though "premature ejaculators" (god, I hate that term) get a lot of press and advice, there are just as many men who are at the other end of the spectrum. This kind of man will control, delay, and push back their orgasm so that it becomes difficult for anyone to bring them off other than themselves— with their own hands, fantasies, and timing. In that sense, they share something with women who also can't just "give it up" to her ardent lover.

What do you think? Are you "easy," putty in your lover's hands— or will no one ever catch you in your hidey hole? Or is it more of a give and take scenario?

Back to my show... lastly, in my Try This at Home mailbag, a listener asks if it's possible for a  tigress to change her kinky spots. She's been poly, and submissive, since she started having sex, but now she's fallen head over heels for an innocent vanilla young lad.

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, feedback about the show, and requests for free show coupon cards to susie@audible.com. (Episode 317, November 9, 2007)

Global Orgasm Party Pooper

Everyone has been on my ass about Global Orgasm Day, this December 22nd.

"Harrumph," I say— and no, that's not the sound of my climactic approach. Before I even clicked on the G.O. link and listened to the new age strums of the global orgasm guitar, I was already turned off.

How could I be such a curmudgeon? After all, I do want to "stop the war," and any moment dedicated to orgiastic pleasure and whirled peas can hardly be criticized.

It comes down to this: If I had a shred of evidence that my orgasm would force an immediate American withdrawal from Iraq, I'd be beating off furiously now.

The thing is, I'm more of a monkey-wrench masturbator. I'm one of those people who believe you have to throw your body on the cogs of the machine:

"There's a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can't take part, you can't even passively take part, and you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop! And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!"

Listening to Mario Savio's speech still gets me more choked up than any arguments from the global-O organizers.

I'm an atheist; that may be the culprit. When the power of prayer, even lustful, is called upon— to "change the energy fields—" I get a little tense. I want to do something that has a chance of working, that goes beyond a media stunt. But rather than be a complete Scrooge about it— because I do appreciate the intent, after all— I always hope the prayer/orgasm marathon will at least be public, and defiant.

I could so get into the Global Jill-Off if it was combined with a work stoppage. I'd like it, if on December 22nd, everyone called into the office and said, "I'm not coming in today— I'm wanking for peace instead." Booyah!

I seek something that disturbs, something a little rude. Even if you didn't want to go to jail, get fired—or, in the most common scenario, have everyone stare at you—  there are still other risks one could take that chip away at the cement block of the military industrial complex. Like talking up the issues, for instance...

Have you spoken with everyone you know, about why we're still at war? Why cutting and running never looked so good? Here's some good crib notes from Monsier Moore. Feel free to add that you pray and beat off for extra measure. 

Since it's "Christmas Card" season, this is the perfect time to promote what Jesus might have said: "PULL OUT NOW."

Actually, George Carlin did say just that, and he was funnier. All this crap about "pulling out slowly" and a "timed withdrawal" is simply time for bankers to move their chess pieces. Every day there's another slaughter in Iraq, and a hell of a lot less orgasms, if you're counting.

I'd say the perfect gift this year for any your mates who still think there's a thimbleful of integrity left in the American invasion, is to offer them a DVD copy of Iraq for Sale.

After they watch it, invite them over to your house for hot cocoa and a letter-writing session to Nancy Pelosi suggesting she reconsider impeachment proceedings. The holiday warmth just couldn't get cosier. Go ahead and ice the cake with Big O Frosting if you like!

In fairness, I surfed over to the Global Orgasm folks' blog, and softened just a touch. It's started by two people. They're being attacked by bigots for being peaceniks, "anti-American," (what does THAT mean anymore?) and long-haired hottubbers... all of which I commend them for. It's marvelous that a couple of sex educators thought of a media performance to promote peace.

Maybe their idea of this baby step, like a prayer, will push the timid an inch closer to life-changing activism. —First a orgasm alone in your room, then a letter to your local congressman promising them you'll be jerking them right out of office if they don't get cracking. And then more— more bodies against the machine.

I read this from one of the G.O. entries:

"Is the Global Orgasm frivolous? If you're staring up the barrel of a gun, of course it is. And who knows if human consciousness can make a difference in the way the human race runs its world?"

That got me mad all over again. No, sexual liberation isn't frivolous, as pleasurable as it may be. That criticism is a puritanical shot from their hawk critics. Anything that promotes connection, and dissuades prejudice, is going to diminish violence. I'm with them on that.

But liberation is a philosophy, and without action, any philosophy looks stupid staring up barrels. Who needs more dilletantes: spiritual, orgasmic, or otherwise?  Human consciousness sits around like an unplugged vibrator if you don't DO something about it.

One of my greatest outrages from growing up in the Irish-American Catholic church, was the promise that if I prayed for something REALLY HARD, counted my beads, and was REALLY, REALLY GOOD— and didn't cry out when I suffered— then maybe, if I performed this piety, God would answer my prayers. 

I prayed for the war in Vietnam to  stop... it makes me cry to think how hard I prayed for that. I went directly from listening to Walter Cronkite's casualty report every night to my rosary necklace. I prayed for my mom to be okay, and not get upset anymore. I prayed for an end to violence in my own home! And as you can imagine, my Acts of Contrition, Hail Mary's, and even my improvised conversations with "God" were not effective. 

What made the war stop was the Vietnamese people, and the radical draft/war resistance at home. What stopped the violence in my own home was me getting out of it, which required action on the part of other adults... a little late, but better than never. All my virtue, rosary chanting, and begging didn't do squat. I might as well have been masturbating, or better yet, reading the good books that soon revealed to me that there was another way to look at the world.

My kind of Virgin Mary by the extraordinary Noistar.

Susie and Laura Kipnis Share a Female Thing

My podcast guest this week is Laura Kipnis, author of The Female Thing: Dirt, Sex, Envy, Vulnerability—  which follows her last yummy polemic against the monogamous ideal, titled: Against Love.

In Bed with Susie Bright 271: The Female Thing with Laura Kipnis

Listen to a little bit here...
 

Kipnis writes four essays like Pandora opening her box with more caustic eye this time. In her chapter, "Dirt,"  for example, she demands to know when liberated women will put down the soap and sponge. She speculates how women respond to the specter of vaginal "dirtiness" with an overzealous cleaning reaction.

With most popular advice manuals today still screaming about how women can obtain what they "lack," Laura says women now spend inordinate amounts of time keeping themselves and their houses spotless. Those bizarre vagina and labia operations would seem to fit that bill too, where you pay a plastic surgeon to "neaten up" your bits.

In my own case, I seem to have lost this "clean gene" many years ago, and I always thought it was because I got away from my mom's discipline, or because I worked so long as a house-cleaner that I vowed I would never treat housecleaning as anything less than a professional job. I never thought that my indifference to scouring might be related to my growing cunt-positivity as a feminist adolescent!  I kinda like this!

Kipnis is a theorist, so even though her titles make you want to needle her for advice, she avoids "solutions" like the plague. I'd have a hard time being in that position; I  always wanna fix stuff. (Okay, let's not analyze that...)

For example, in her sex section, she writes with some amusement and amazement about the "story of the ever-changing clitoris," the need to justify and explain women's orgasm, which reinvents itself as often as Madonna. The makeover never seems to end. Kipnis likes to consider all the orgasmic permutations from a distance, and says that the very nature of women's genitals, and the fact that their pleasure is not directly connected to the reproductive act, is what makes this merry-go-round of "explanations" such a frustrating loop.

This is something Elizabeth Lloyd (The Case of the Female Orgasm) and Rachel Maines (The Technology of Orgasm) have discussed, with a more earnest feminist motive, and I fall into that camp too. I don't give a shit that there's lots of silly explanations for women's frigidity or flowering... I want gals to put down the vacuum, pick up the Hitachi, take a mirror to their hoo-hoo, and WAKE UP.

My explanation for the contradictory fluff about women's sexual potential is that female orgasm has been not understood, not researched, not considered a matter for science until very, very, recently. It wasn't until the 1980s that women's bodies were considered anything other than an "abnormal" version of the male norm throughout medical practice.

Notwithstanding all the flavor-of-the-month books about how to have a hot sex life, most women are still in the dark about their own orgasm until they're  adults, and typically suffer some sort of sense of inadequacy if they are one of the 90% who don't come through hands-free intercourse in the missionary position. Hell, women are still feeling bad if they do come and it's not in  the confines of "love" or more traditionally, a marriage.

I know that the TV-crowd is supposed to think that women's sexuality has been revolutionized by rabbit-vibe-buying characters on Sex in the City, but I find that to be light propaganda, an amusement. If as many women used a vibrator, as the number who've only laughed at a vibrator punchline, we'd be living in a very different female world.

Laura says that the idea that women can ever go out and have sex "like the boys" is an improbable fantasy; that given our anatomy, it ain't going to happen— as intriguing as it sounds. She believes  this state of affairs hasn't always been factored into the larger feminist story. She has lots of provocative points to talk about, that'll make you wish I kept her locked in the interview chamber even longer than I did!

The most fun, for me, was at the end, when I asked Laura if she wanted to break all her rules against "giving advice" and help me out with a letter from a listener. Laura and I have both written about fat women in porn, so I asked her if she'd like to take  a letter from a listener who has been rejected by a new lover who says she's too fat.... OUCH! 

Once Ms. Kipnis agreed to respond, my god, the tiger was loose! She gave that woman PLENTY of advice.  I'm going to make Laura answer all the letters from now on!

You know... as an aside, I would never, ever, TELL a lover that I was breaking things off with them because of their body type— it's just too fucking mean. It shows some critical lack of empathy, or perhaps missing the point altogether. Sex is not an audition at a modeling agency— thank god. Your erotic opinion, in nearly every case, is  about your preferences— not about your partner's potential to be hot to someone else.

I've also never had anyone say to me: "you're too skinny, too fat, too white, too tall, too flat, too busty," — whatever. Am I unusual, or isn't this the norm? It's not because I'm so gorgeous. I'm sure I haven't been the "ideal body" for plenty of lovers, but no one's been rude enough to give me an "exit assessment!" Most people know to keep their mouth shut and simply decline future dates with the classic Marcia Brady euphemism: "Sorry, but something's come up!"

Don't forget, you can be everyone's favorite Santa just by writing to request Susie's free Girly Cards for your friends. Send those requests, as well as your confidential sex questions and feedback about the show to susie@audible.com. (Episode 271, December 1, 2006.).

Egg Sex

In 1966, when I was eight years old, my mother gave me a little pink book, A Baby is Born. In great detail, and with lots of close-ups and diagrams, it described exactly what a sperm and egg looked like and how they joined together, with subsequent portraits of the developing fetus.

How did the sperm meet the egg to begin with?

The book said simply, "Mommy and Daddy love each other very much. They lie close together and, after performing intercourse, the sperm is on its way to fertilize the egg."

There was no accompanying diagram, so I made what was probably my first earnest attempt to read between the lines of any piece of literature. I gleaned nothing.

Egg Sex © Susie Bright, from Susie Bright’s Sexual Reality: A Virtual Sex World Reader

Twenty-five years later, I was pregnant, and this time I went out and bought my own collection of pink and blue books bulging with instruction for prospective parents. Of course, there was a great deal to learn about fetal development and breast-feeding techniques, but I couldn't help but check each index under "Sexuality— during and after pregnancy."

All the manuals, from Dr. Spock to the latest yuppie know-it-all, followed an almost identical script: "Mommy and Daddy love each other very much..." Following this vein, the paragraphs on sexuality gave advice that was unexplicit, vague, and almost threatening in their avoidance of the nitty-gritty.

Steeped in a romance-novel notion of marriage, sexual advice to pregnant moms— whether revealed in print or in the strange silences at the doctor's office— gives short shrift to the dramatic changes in women's sexual physiology and desires. Great emphasis is placed on how to cope with the ambivalent husband's feelings towards his wife's body and the burden pregnancy puts on their normal sexual routine.

None of these books was written in the sixties. All of them glow with feminist and holistic approaches to mothering, supporting working moms, refuting the sexist prejudices against breast-feeding, and offering all manner of enlightened positive self-esteem for the mother-to-be.

I began to wonder if anyone knew what went on in women's sexual lives during pregnancy. The most definitive statement the books managed was: Sometimes she's hot, sometimes she's not. This wouldn't be the first time that conventional medicine had nothing to contribute to an understanding of female sexuality.

Meanwhile, my clit started to grow.

Everyone knows that a pregnant woman's breasts swell in accompaniment to her belly, but why had no one told me that my genitals would also grow? My vulva engorged with blood; my labia grew fatter; my clit pushed slightly out of its hood. I was reading absolutely everything on the subject of pregnant sex by this point and, by picking out the fragments of pertinent information, I learned I was not peculiar in this regard.

It's a little embarrassing to be thirty-one years old and finally get the message that my primary and secondary sexual characteristics are not simply for display and petting. I was being physically and psychologically dominated by the life growing inside me, and I wanted both to escape and to submit. I was unusually sensual and amorous, and yet, twenty weeks into pregnancy, I found I could not successfully masturbate the way I had been doing since I was a kid. I was stunned and a little panicky. My engorged clitoris was different under my fingers; too sensitive to touch my usual way. What other way was there?

That's when it hit me. The experts all say that it is a mystery why some women get more horny when they're pregnant while others lose interest.

I'll tell you something— no one loses interest. What happens is that your normal sexual patterns don't work the same way anymore. Unless you and your lover make the transition to new ways of getting excited and reaching orgasm, you are going to be very depressed about sex and start avoiding it all together.

It's not just a technique change, either. Feeling both desirable and protected are essential to a pregnant woman, and if protection is not forthcoming from the outside, she will build a fortress that cannot be penetrated.

I no longer believe that some women don't feel sexual during those long nine months. Some are frightened by the sexual changes their growing bodies demand. But so many others confided to me, "I was so hot, and I couldn't explain it to just anyone."

It's an awesome feat of American puritanism to convince us that sex and pregnancy do not mix. It's the ultimate virgin/whore distinction. For those nine months, please don't mention how we got this way— we're "Mary" now.

Your average Mary's physical transformation is quite different from an immaculate conception. A woman's vagina changes when she is pregnant, much like her vulva and clit. The lubrication increases; its smell and texture are different. Often exhibiting a pregnancy-type yeast infection, her genitals smell like a big cookie.

When I fucked during my pregnancy, I felt like I was participating in a slow elastic taffy pull. I was more passive sexually than ever before, with no ambition to strap one on, or get on top, or do much of anything besides take it all in and float. I was one gigantic egg cozy.

Truthfully, you don't get gigantic for at least five or six months. The advice books make much controversy over positions for intercourse, but I didn't find positioning to be that big a deal. It's typical of mainstream sex books to focus on "positions" in the masculine way one might prepare a sports manual. You can fuck on your back for a long time if you like, as long as your partner doesn't insist on collapsing upon you. Flat on one's belly is impossible after six months, but slightly turned to the side works just fine. It is often recommended that the woman get on top— but as I mentionned, I couldn't be bothered.

Sex is also a crucial way to prepare for childbirth. Start with the premise that birth is the biggest sex act you will ever take part in, and everything will flow from that. If you are smart and take childbirth preparation classes, you may even get a teacher who knows something about the sexual side of birth.

My teacher was subtle. She gave us an almost unreadable handout in the fourth month, an instruction sheet for an exercise called "perineal massage." I thought of my perineum, the little inch of skin running between my vagina and my anus. How could rubbing something the size of a birthday candle help me in labor?

The flyer (which opened, of course, with the obligatory spiel: "Mommy and Daddy love each other very much...") said that Daddy should massage and finger the vaginal opening until he could put more and more of his fingers inside, relaxing the vaginal muscles through such caresses until he might be able to press a small orange or even his whole hand into Mommy's opening.

His whole hand! I called up one of my friends who has the breadth of experience as both a mother of two and a retired porn star. "Is 'perineal massage' really fist fucking?" I asked her.

"Of course," she said, laughing, "and it really helps."

I could see why. A hand going inside my pussy is a little like a baby's head trying to move outside into the world. How exciting! For the first time I felt a surge of confidence about my chances for a successful labor. Since I had practiced fisting, clearly I was in great shape for the real thing.

Perineal massage is not discussed in every hospital or prenatal setting. Most couples and their care providers are steeped in the dominance of penis-vagina intercourse. It requires a different sort of orientation to devote attention to the possibilities of fingers and hands. But with a little encouragement and a flyer with pictures and plain English, I think more parents would enjoy the intense relaxation and vulnerability that comes with fisting, or "oranging," if you prefer.

I pestered my teacher for three weeks about whether she thought using a vibrator during labor would be helpful for pain relief. She said each time that we would discuss it next week. She recommended all sorts of other distractions and exercises: going to the bathroom frequently, changing positions, getting in the bathtub, focusing on a special object, etc. Well, I decided on my own that my Hitachi magic wand was going to be my focus object. I believed that stimulating my clit would be a nice counterpoint to the contractions going on inside my belly.

I have a great photograph of me in the delivery room, dilated to six centimeters, with a blissful look on my face and my vibrator nestled against my pubic bone. I had no thought of climaxing, but the pleasure of the rhythm on my clit was like sweet icing on top of the deep, thick contractions in my womb.

I would have been too tired and distracted to touch myself with my fingers at that point, and the power cord was just one of about ten that the doctors had coming from my bed. Due to my baby's unusual breech position, I had a complicated birth that finally ended in an emergency Cesarean. But I had a great labor.

My friend Barbara confessed to me after her first child that she had never been so turned on in her life. When the baby's head was crowning, she called out to her husband over and over, "I want to come, touch me, please touch me!"— and he thought she was hysterical.

We are utterly unaccustomed to seeing birthing as a sexual experience. A lot of us think of childbirth as something close to death; at least, that's what I was afraid of. I heard women screaming in the rooms next to me at the hospital and I knew those screams weren't exclusively from physical pain, but from wild, wild fear. It's terribly frightening when you don't know what your body is doing and when your sexuality is divorced from this incredible process. Being afraid makes the pain much worse and makes your stamina unknowable.

There was a traffic jam of births at the city hospitals the week I had my daughter. It was about nine months after the big earthquake hit San Francisco, and apparently staying home had been a fertile pastime during that otherwise sobering period.

The other women who had children the day and night I was in the hospital did not appear to have husbands at their sides. It was easy for me to imagine their stories: they were single; they were lesbian; they had husbands who didn't want to see them that way; they had husbands who had left them earlier in their pregnancies; they had husbands in the service and far away.

I didn't read a single parenting book that reflected any of these lives, although they are as commonplace as conception itself. The fractured fairy tale ("Mommy and Daddy love each other very much") is only resonant in the sense that parents need to be loved and nurtured, because they are about to give of themselves in a way that they never dreamed possible before.

If the mother doesn't receive tenderness and passion during her nine months, the bitterness she develops lasts well beyond childbirth— her kids will knew all about it. Perhaps I could encourage childbirth professionals to advocate good sex during pregnancy as a key to psychologically healthy children.

After the birth, you will get doctor's instructions to abstain from sex for the next six weeks. We've all heard the woman who says, "I don't care if I don't have sex for the next six years." But if her pussy is so sore, why can't she enjoy oral sex? Her breasts are leaking colostrum, ready to start expressing milk, and they need to be sucked by someone who knows about sucking breasts— babies don't always get the hang of it instantly, or at mom's command.

The truth is, this six weeks rule is arbitrary, and it's based on the fear of an infection resulting from a man ejaculating inside the vagina. There is a lot more to "sex" than this. Nothing magic happens at the end of six weeks. Not everyone's os and vaginal passageway are in the same condition after birth. Having had a Cesarean, mine had not been through a full-blown vaginal birth. Without knowing exactly what risk I was taking, but knowing that the doctor didn't know what he was talking about either, I came home from the hospital and made love on the sixth day after my daughter was born.

I've spoken with many women who admitted the same. "My husband and I had waited so long for this child," said my nurse practitioner/midwife, who had a child after she was forty, "that we had to be intimate right away."

I appreciated her using the word "intimate," because I don't think it's the case that you just have this wild hair to get it on once the baby is born. You might want a closeness, a release, and a celebration that you haven't necessarily experienced during labor.

My midwife also told me that she started asking her patients how soon after childbirth they had resumed intercourse. Lots of people break the rules, as you can imagine, and she found that women who had intercourse earlier on also resumed periods much sooner than those who waited. This little discovery— from a professional who wouldn't ordinarily tell me such things— reminded me again how little we know because no one shares taboo information.

Nursing is another source of mixed feelings, erotic and otherwise. One women winces in pain from chapped and bleeding nipples, while another has orgasms from her baby's suckling. Again, if these things were brought out in the open, a lot of nipple soreness would disappear. Breast-feeding does not come instinctively, and it helps to have someone show you as well as tell you how to nurse comfortably.

I was satisfied just to nurse my baby competently. My erotic feelings came not so much from my baby's sucking as from feeling my breasts express themselves at other times. Sexual arousal will make your breasts leak when you're lactating, another important fact missing in most parent handbooks. As much as I have lectured on G-spot orgasms, I had never had anything come out of me when I was making love before, and this made my head swim with embarrassment at first, and then arousal.

I've always been one of those women who could be secretive about her climax. I could come without crying out. I could be very sneaky. Having my nipples not just stiffen, but release milk like a faucet every time I was turned on took me for a very un-private loop. But I loved rubbing it on my lover's chest, or my own. I felt some feminine equivalent of virility, making the biggest wet spot of them all. This was the very opposite of being hooked up to the electric breast pump, which made me feel like a working cow. Handy, but totally un-erotic.

It would be unfair to conclude the erotic disposition of pregnancy without talking about changes in sexual fantasies. Our fantasies often seem to be written in stone at an early age and are not too easily transformed in our adult years. But having a baby is the next big hormone explosion a woman can have after puberty, and she may surprise herself with what comes to mind at the moment of orgasm. I did.

In retrospect I see that my fantasy life during my pregnancy was cathartic. One of my biggest and most irrational reservations about having a child (besides fearing that I would die in childbirth) was that if I had a boy, I wouldn't know how to raise him. I would be a disaster, whether teaching him how to use the toilet or to fly a kite. Petty sexual stereotypes aside, I didn't know what little boys were like. I have no brothers, was raised by my mom, and always preferred dresses.

Some folks were concerned that concerned that I was planning a politically correct dress code for my offspring. "If it's a girl, I suppose you'll always make her wear pants," one fellow pouted.

"Oh no," I said. "If I have a little girl, I'm going to make sure she has the frilliest, laciest, puffiest dresses you ever saw—" remembering the kind of dresses I always wanted.

"And if it's a little boy?" he started.

"Of course," I interrupted, "He'll have the frilliest, laciest, puffiest..."

My teasing was just a cover. I really didn't know what little boys were supposed to wear.

One night, I was making love with my boyfriend, and I spontaneously imagined that he was my son. I came like a rocket, and I didn't have the nerve to tell him about it for weeks.

I was so puzzled and embarrassed. In the meantime, I could not get this image off my mind. I recalled a really tacky porn movie I had seen years ago, Taboo, where beautiful mom Kay Parker has a son (in real life, a grown-up actor named Mike Ranger) who only has eyes for her. I wasn't aroused by the movie the first time I saw it, but now this scene could turn me on instantly. I couldn't masturbate or make love to anyone, man or woman, without conjuring up this incestuous exchange.

At the same time, while making my plans for the baby and talking to friends and family, I was noticeably more at ease about having a boy child. I didn't knew what sex my baby was, and unlike so many other moms, I didn't want to know.

I started noticing mothers with their sons on the street, and I didn't panic; I smiled at them. Somebody gave me a book on how to be a "dad," with all sorts of fabulous hints on butch activities from skipping stones to throwing a ball. I read the whole thing and thought it was a blast. I asked all my friends how many of them had fathers who did any of these things, and our answers shed quite a bit of light.

When my team of doctors finally pulled my daughter from my womb, they were exuberant. "It's a girl!" somebody said. I was shaking very badly from the anesthesia, but this warm little yolk of feeling spilled in my head, and tears of relief came to my eyes. I was so pleased to have a daughter.

When I came home and had my first chance to fantasize (something sleep deprivation cut into quite a bit), I could not for the life of me conjure up my "imaginary son"! He had split. My odd incest fantasy had expressed my fear of having a boy, and when that possibility disappeared, the fantasy lost its magic. I don't know what would have happened to my fantasy if I had indeed come home with a son. I think I would have moved on, just as I did after Aretha's birth, to new sets of anxieties which became fresh erotic fodder.

In the early years of motherhood, I fantasized about being pregnant again— talk about kinky. In reality I had no desire to be eating soda crackers for a month and going to the bathroom every ten minutes. But I do have glowing memories of the sexual discoveries I made during pregnancy, and I'm grateful I had a sexually loving and inquisitive support system around me. If the whole process could be like that.... Well, maybe I'll have another one, I told myself, when my daughter is old enough to change the diapers.

I wrote this story... 16 years ago this month. Gulp. Yes, it's my daughter's birthday this week, and my little egg is all grown-up! Happy Birthday, little one, and sweet birthday wishes to all the other moonchildren out there!

This story is one of our Top-10 most popular posts! If you've found it valuable, enjoyable, or beneficial— or just a great kick in the pants— consider making a small donation.  I'd love you to be a part of our latest schemes...  Subscribe for $5/mo. or donate what you can afford now— and I'll send you a Clits Up! button and my latest book/movie/whatever I'm up to! Thank you so much... Susie

The G Spot Fraud Detection Squad

A few weeks ago, my friend Jared Rutter, editor at AVN, asked me if I would look at a series of porn movies about prodigious female "squirters"— wall to wall girl-flooding features. He said he had a hard time believing they were real, and he wanted my expert opinion. I decided to devote my new radio show to the discovery process!

In Bed With Susie Bright #254: G-Spot Fraud Detection Squad

I quickly assembled a screening in my living room, inviting my pals Jackie and Shar from SIR Video to be part of my examination team.

So why did Jared think I'd be so proficient at discovering a hoax? I'd love to brag that I was "The Queen of the G.," but personally, I'm not. However, when I edited On Our Backs, we broke the G-spot story, twenty+ years ago, with a series of articles and book reviews in the 80s that redefined the clitoris. My, how time flies.

My publishing partner, Debi Sundahl, discovered her own shooting abilities during a shift at the Ultra Room, and was so excited about the whole thing that my ex, Honey Lee Cottrell, shot Debi's tsunami orgasm in one of the first  movies we made, Clips. We were shocked to find that porn distributors across the country refused our video, because they said it was "water sports," illegal by their community standards.

The female ejaculation became a feminist cause for us: this is how women come, buddy, not some fetish sport for you to make legal decisions about about whether it's an "obscenity."

Meanwhile, the Mitchell Bros. made a widely seen spoofing comedy about the whole phenomenon, called The Grafenberg Spot, which DID use turkey baster bulbs to simulate ejaculation, and Debi and I were both extras in the film.

Jim and Art show you their little bit of "stage magic" in the special features at the end of the movie— it's all a goof. The movie promoted mega-porn stars Ginger Lynn and Traci Lords at the time, (Traci's stuff is now excised b/c she was underage) but none of the actual juicy women in the Mitchell's strip club, who jacked off every night on stage, were part of the footage!

In other words, the dykes were the only ones promoting it for real, and everyone else was questioning its authenticity or having a laugh at the whole notion. But that was the 80s, and in the twenty years since, the  debunking crap fell by the wayside, women are squeezing out Kegels like there's no tomorrow,  and heterosexual porn now looks upon "rain-women" as a hot fetish.

It's this latter trend that  has a whole series of super-squirter movies coming out from  a company called Elegant Angel, which has as one of its company mottoes: "letting the girls cum too."

"Letting?" Ugh. Carpe Diem with a gusher is more my style. Their patronizing sentiment gave me the willies.

I don't even like the term, "squirt," because it reminds me of "Little Squirt". Do we talk about men porn stars dribbling, squirting, leaking, holding up teaspoons? Swallow My Dribble! No, if you're going to promote women's jacking talent, call it a flood, call in Moses, prepare the ark!

So, with all my doubts and outrage, I settled in with my giant projection screen to watch "Swallow My Squirt 3." [If you type "squirt" in E.A.'s search box, you'll see all their titles on the subject).

Holy Hellcat!  Yes, this is real. It is also extraordinary.  These women are on a mission, and they keep themselves pumped up, pulsating their clits and masturbating with "no fake about it" intensity, coming again and again and again and again. And again.

(You can see the preview on the link I provided. You have to register with a name and password first, but no big deal. The preview shows a lot more cock and blow job action than are actually in the movie. It's 80% women getting themselves off).

Their clits are so engorged that their whole pelvic area swells up with definition. The room is soaked. They roar like lions and shoot like geysers. Camille Paglia with her "arc of transcendence" notion about male pissing contests really needs to see this.

Now, before you watch the clip, let me tell you: this is not fancy-pantsy, Playboy-Channel porn. No fashion models here. The men who function as "stunt cocks"  are homely and look like they're going to have a red-faced heart attack from all the Viagra they're on. There's a kitchen funnel involved at one point... It's "tasteless," in-your-face porno, without the slightest middle-class affectation.

They also have no intention of being feminist, yet the very nature of this soak-a-thon, with women running the fuck, is a spectacle that kinda gives new meaning to the tired phrase "women doin' it for themselves." 

You know, femmes have often criticized the amount of goo men shoot off in typical porn movies. The whole plot is about the guys climaxing. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's been comically one-sided, and dyke-made porn was the first to challenge that paradigm.

But what I observed with the Swallow My Squirt, is that yes, indeed, watching women come repeatedly, with force and authenticity, made me want to come— it made all of us totally aware of our cunts. My g-spot is permanently enlarged from the experience. It was that visceral a viewing— even at the same time that we were laughing and criticizing various details.

Jared told me that the mastermind behind these tapes is not the directors listed, but a woman named Tiana Lynn, who starred in all the girl-jack features and is now Elegant Angel's Sales Manager, behind the scenes. She was born the year before we published On Our Backs' first issue!

SB:    How do learn/train/whatever to squirt multiple times? Does doing anything beforehand help?

TL:    I usually build up my juice by using a pocket rocket [vibrator] at least for a half an hour before a scene. I use it to get almost to my peak and then contract my muscles to control my orgasm.

SB: I noticed that some of your actresses used their hands on the outside of their clit to keep hard and jack off, and others needed to have something inside them to squirt...

TL:    Well usually, it's best to stimulate the clit, then get some good hard lovin' inside, and soon as you're ready to release, stimulate the clit to pulsate the muscle and to keep stimulated for a longer, harder orgasm.

SB:    For you, what's the difference in how you feel between ejaculating WITH an orgasm, and ejaculating without one?

TL:    Ejaculating during orgasm is more like a rough romp sort of reaction. When you do the whole thing nice and slow, you feel like you want to blow, but you have enough time to let it seep out— as opposed to blowing it as quick as you can—to get to the next one.

SB:    The guys you worked with made me laugh a lot of times, b/c they were so red, or sometimes they were completely off camera, and it was just so NOT about a romance or interaction with them. What kind of guy likes to work in these pictures?

TL:    I like to work with guys that are submissive to my needs, the ones who dive for the girl juice, and furiously work hard at making me explode over again. The guys I choose for my films, get excited when I'm excited.

SB:    Does it help if they're a bottom? [I recognized one of the fellows from several S/M movies]. Is there a certain kind of guy who wouldn't do this sort of picture?

TL:    There are guys who are intimidated, and there's even girls who aren't okay with letting their sexuality overcome them.

SB:    Would it have been easier, for the movie, to use hands and dildos?

TL:    Sometimes it is easier to just stop and stimulate yourself, but if you can find a nice, warm and hard to do it for you, (so your hand doesn't cramp) I say, go for it.

SB:    How did you discover your own jacking capacities?

TL:    I honestly just practiced. I based it on what I felt when others did it to me. I focused on finding that same feeling, and once I did, I didn't let it go.

SB:    Everyone was really vocal in the movie, which added to the sense of intensity.... was that all for the entertainment of the movie, to make it more exciting, or do you think jacking off is impossible to do quietly?

TL:    It's pretty impossible to do quietly. Even being next to it you find yourself groaning just in the thought.

SB:    What would you say to women who come, but don't ejaculate and wouldn't know where to begin?

TL:    Get a Kegelmaster [dildo-like toy you squeeze your kegel muscle on]. Go to the bathroom first so there is no bladder pressure, nor confusion. Take yourself to another level, starting with your mind, because once you let your mind go, the juices will flow.

SB: The Kegelmaster??  I'm always dubious about stuff that's expensive and tries to make you feel like you need some esoteric initiation...does this PARTICULAR toy do something that you can't do just squeezing your PC muscle on its own, or any old dildo you might like to put inside you?

TL:    That works too, the only thing special about this toy is it measures your strength, so as you get stronger PC muscles you can see the progress.

SB:     How the hell did you get everyone (both women and the man) to come at the same time? Did you really shoot that at the end?

TL:    Actually it seems to be easier to do it all together. You can feed off of the others' orgasmic energy which speeds things up, or even cause a simultaneous eruption. All of it is filmed as it goes, no order. The second one person might feel pooped,  the other person's energy brings you back up.

SB:    One last thing: I love that you perform wearing your glasses.

TL:    Well, I do need them to see, otherwise I just kind of aim to the black blur. Once the action gets started, I can see what's in front of my face. Most of it I can do better with my eyes closed anyways ;-).

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, feedback about the show, and requests to get Susie's "girly card" to introduce your friends to my show for free— by writing susie@susiebright.com. (Episode 254, June 16, 2006)

This story is one of our Top-10 most popular posts! If you've found it valuable, enjoyable, or beneficial— or just a great kick in the pants— consider making a small donation.  I'd love you to be a part of our latest schemes...  Subscribe for $5/mo. or donate what you can afford now— and I'll send you a Clits Up! button and my latest book/movie/whatever I'm up to! Thank you so much... Susie