SAN FRANCISCO — This city has an obsession with the male sex organ, and not just on Gay Pride Day. San Francisco is ever on the scout for new ways to elevate and honor it as the municipal icon.

Gay Pride Day and the parade on Sunday was a big hit, with the usual complement of flags, floats, papier-mache penises held proudly aloft and naked men marching resolutely down the avenue. But now the city’s serious work, as Baghdad by the Bay measures work and defines serious, begins in earnest.

There’s a referendum in November to determine whether circumcision of male infants should be prohibited by law, punishable by thousand-dollar fines and misdemeanor sentences of a year in jail, with no religious exemptions.

Read more here, including Russell Crowe’s Down Under view.

– Guy Sez

We’ve had a ton of fun together here, swapping sexey books, talking about stuff. Grl and I love and laugh our way through life, and I think the blog reflects this.

After a few months, Grl’s employment took her away on the road, where internet access is spotty, and her time wasn’t quite so plentiful, especially time researching sex sites on the web when sharing hotel rooms with workmates. We run another blog together, one that isn’t quite so explicit, so we still have fun, and fireworks on the few times we get together in real life.

But this blog kind of fell by the roadside for a while. We recruited Chica as a co-writer, but she never got into it, which is a pity, because as we read her private blog we realized that she was a whole lot spicier and sexier than either of us. Oooooh, the things she does! And she writes well about her experiences. Maybe we can talk her round…

A couple of months ago I looked at the stats for My GF Sez, and realized that despite not actually posting anything for a long long time, we were still getting hits. Quite a lot, actually. People were entering all sorts of things into search engines and winding up here and taking a look around and clicking on things. Just a step along the cyber road, but not a dead end. Not yet.

So I decided to get back into it, on a more solo basis. This isn’t going to be one of the great sex blogs, and I’m going to take my hat off to San Francisco’s own violet blue here, but I’ll do what I can and what I like.

What I like is looking at lovely ladies taking their clothes off, and talking about sex and against censorship and sharing a joke or an interesting website and just, well, writing about things that don’t belong on my other blogs.

Sex blogs come and go. We’ve seen a few go under in the past year, including a couple of biggies. Abby Lee’s Girl With a One Track Mind is pretty much comatose after two books and a heap of media time. A pity, because Abby wrote some sizzling stuff and got out and about talking about sexblogging at SXSW and other places. However, she never really got over being outed, which was obviously a major invasion of her personal life.

A lesser light, but still an entertaining read, was Tania Haze and her Confessions of a Nymphet. After an unexpected exposure, she retreated into private blogging.

The spunky and funky Twanna Hines has slowed down her posting rate, but still puts out a few salty words and pix.

Well, that was 2010. Fun but fractured.

For 2011, I’ve got plans. For starters, I’m going to indulge myself with regular reviews of Abby Winters shoots. Honestly, I can’t praise AW too much for a really positive attitude towards women and nudity and sexuality. There are new shoots on a daily basis, not to mention a rich back catalog.

I’m going to keep talking about sex and love and laughter. Opinions, news, photographs, books – whatever tickles my fancy.

And I’m going to begin a new series on virginity – how to lose it. I’ll be soliciting contributions, scouring the web, and writing about my own first time. Losing your cherry is an intensely personal and emotional experience and despite our ongoing and fantastic sex lives, we never forget our first time, do we?

I’ll also be looking for co-writers. Obviously it’s hard to replace the dynamic shared by Grl and I, but I’m not hunting down a sex partner, just someone who feels comfortable talking about stuff and is willing to spark me up with a little banter. Oh, and share in the vast revenues of the site – there are a few ads, but I’m keeping it restrained, because I find blogs with a little square of content surrounded by dozens of advertisements for sex toys and hot pussies and bulging bosoms just a teeny bit tacky.

So that’s where I’ve been, where I’m at, where I’m headed.

And finally, may all my readers relish 2011, filling it with sex, love and laughter! It’s a wonderful world out there – enjoy every day and share the experience with those you love. Happy New Year!

—Guy Sez

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
—William Shakespeare

True love standing firm against time’s ravages – what a fine and noble view of love this is!

But erroneous. This is a poem so often read out at weddings, to urge the two “true minds” to love forever, though rosey lips and youth’s beauty may fade, until the Grim Reaper, with his bending sickle, should break the bond.

What rubbish! Love endures beyond all that. Love is more than the feelings of two people for each other. Love is the unfailing mark; the mariner of life’s passage may set his course by love and need no other compass for his barque.

Love is not owned by any person, nor by any two people. Love is not broken by death. Love is eternal. Love is beauty. Love is all you need.

Love is more than romantic love. Love is the feeling of a mother for her child. Love is the way we regard life, and beauty, and truth. Love is the bond of affection between friends. Love is what ends conflict, overcomes enmity, makes a handshake more than a touch.

Love is always there for us to find, to draw upon, to drink from without limit. It is boundless. What two lovers feel for each other is love, true enough, but that mutual affection is not the limit of love. There is far more than that.

And far less. Love is not passion or lust, though one may mistake either. Love is always there for us to lift our hearts, to sparkle our eyes, to forgive every wrong and to make everything beautiful.

Love needs no explanation, is what I’m trying to say. You know exactly what it is. When you love a work of art, a bird soaring, the beauty of a sunrise or the truth of a poem, you know it without having to think about it.

Have I reached you? Has Shakespeare touched you? Can you, dear reader, feel the union of true minds between we three?

—Guy Sez

One participant was a high-profile church leader. He had (and has) a public image as a defender and helper for minorities. He preached tolerance and forgiveness and holiness and stuff.

His line was that there should be a public election for one particularly eminent position, but that candidates should first be screened by a committee in order to “weed out the unelectable, such as Alex Jones and members of the NRA.”

WTF? Wouldn’t the definition of unelectable be that these candidates couldn’t get elected? They wouldn’t need to be screened out, because they wouldn’t last the distance in a campaign. And if they won, then wouldn’t that be the democratic will of the people, freely expressed?

But more than that, it taught me something about tolerance. Tolerance isn’t a matter of getting along with people you like. It’s getting along with people you dislike.

You have to give a little. You have to get over that hump of dislike. You have to respect people whose views may be totally different.

Tolerance is accepting that Islamic folk might like to build a mosque near Ground Zero. It isn’t resigning yourself to the inevitable because in a nation where freedom of religion is a fundamental, places of worship can’t be outlawed. No, it’s a matter of respecting the rights of others to live as full and free a life as you do.

So it is with love. I see any number of young men sighing “I love you” to young women. They may have a genuine desire for that person, and they may have an overwhelming urge to get into their pants, but that isn’t what love is.

Love isn’t lust or desire or a flood of hormones. Love isn’t roses and moonlit nights and holding hands.

Love is love when those things don’t apply. Love is when the young lady is run over by a truck and is crippled in a wheelchair for life. Love is when she gets AIDS or cancer and becomes sick, needing expensive, time-consuming care.

Love is really, truly, deeply caring for the person you love. When their life is as important as your own. Love is sticking by your lover for as long as they need you.

The more enlightened among us connect the dots. Love isn’t just one person. Love is everybody, especially those who hate you.

Love is Jesus. Love is Buddha. Love is a puppy. Love is life.

I’m really not going to get into who did what to who, and how the condom got broken, and who paid for the mango yoghurt. I wasn’t there, the whole mess is in a foreign language, and as the cartoon implies, there are political overtones. Stieg Larsson would have loved it.

But I’d just like to say that “Sex by Surprise” is a phrase we’re going to hear a lot of, and it apparently isn’t something you give to your partner as a birthday present. A better translation might be “More Sex than you Really Wanted”.

In Sweden (the only place where you will find such a crime) it doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal, punishable by a fine of about $700. Something like a traffic fine for going too fast, so to speak. What is Interpol doing, getting mixed up in something like this, and why is it front-web news all over the world?

I’m not condoning the crime, or the wider one of rape through withdrawal of consent. If your partner says “Stop!” and you keep on going, that’s clearly not the same thing as having sex against your partner’s will right from the start, but it’s still something you shouldn’t do. Likewise if protected sex is agreed to and the protection fails, that’s a bad thing, though perhaps one might pin a bit of blame on the rubber factory here.

Anyway, I’m not getting into it. It’s speculation, it’s going to be one person’s word against another’s about acts performed without witnesses and without physical evidence. It’s messy, and anything I said about it would undoubtedly be wrong. I made up that stuff about mango sauce, by the way, just to add a bit of spice to the one story that doesn’t need it.

My point here, and I do have one, is that sex is a powerful word, as is rape, and how people use these words in connection to Julian Assange is more likely a comment on how they feel about WikiLeaks than about either sex or rape.

Secretary of State Hilary Clinton, a woman twice betrayed, once (at least) by her husband and again by some as-yet-undiscovered leaker in State, is going to have some pertinent comments to make about rape and surprise leaks and failures of protective barriers. I look forward to hearing them, confidential or not!

—Guy Sez

Have I sold out? Promoting a movie I haven’t seen yet?

I don’t think so. I guess the function of a movie trailer is to make you want to watch it, and in this case, the trailer(s) for Love and Other Drugs has done it for me.

“My character in this movie obviously has a lot of sex, so I had to practise a lot,” male lead Jake Gyllenhaal says of his Viagra salesman character. “That was very important.”

I like his attitude!

He also reveals that he has never used Viagra, so obviously research for a film role isn’t that important for him!

Loosely based on the book Hard Sell: The Evolution of a Viagra Salesman, this film is stiff with penis jokes. And humor. This is a blog about sex, love and laughter, right? Right up our alley! Buttons pushed every which way.

The movie takes a good hard look at three things: drugs as in Viagra and medications needed to treat the Parkinson’s disease of Anne Hathaway’s character, sex as in the two stars getting it off as many times as possibly, often with each other, and love.

I’m cold on drugs, to be honest. The odd Tylenol for a cold or a headache, and that’s about it for me. The flood of V-mail was just background noise, and things like “Horny Goatweed” just make me laugh at the thought. There’s only one thing I need to make sex a fabulous experience, and that’s love.

Which is the message the film is selling, once you get down to it. Gyllenhaal’s character might be pushing Viagra, but he doesn’t need it for his relationship with Hathaway’s character. He goes all the way for her in every way, and he doesn’t use drugs to do it.

Let’s face it, when your lover is going downhill with a terrible disease, if you are in it for the sex, you’re getting out before it gets too hard. Sex and sickness aren’t a good mix for any market. Viagra, movies, popcorn – sure, but when the Grim Reaper is standing at the foot of the bed, who can get it up?

But these two stay the course. Sickness strengthens the bond, rather than snapping it.

The film seems to be wandering into Love Story territory here, and a number of critics pan it for its lack of focus. Parkinson’s and porn, hard sex and soft love – together in the same film?

Well, it seems that way. I’m a sucker for films like Notting Hill and The Time Traveler’s Wife where the love far overshadows the sex.

But it looks that it’s the reverse here. Both important, but more sex than love.

Right. Grl, your theater or mine?

—Guy Sez

Two weekends, two women.

In the days between, they talked together, they cooked together, they had dinner together.

I wondered, when I wasn’t with them, whether they compared notes, and if so, what would they say about me while they diced carrots, sliced cucumbers and fried up the sausages?

Moving away from this alarming thought, there’s a movie that’s always struck a bit of a false chord with me. It’s Dave, a movie about a body double who becomes the real thing when a stroke incapacitates the true President.

Yes, I know it’s ridiculous and implausible, but what really stuck in my craw was the scene where the double confronts the First Lady – and has sex with her. How, I wonder, could anyone not be immediately aware that their partner is a stand-in? Especially when the two are supposedly husband and wife.

There are so many intimate signals and habits that are unique to a long-term relationship. When to do what, which pet names are spoken, what little caresses and touches are given.

I won’t give away any details of the signals and the routines I use, but if an identical twin were to take the place of a regular partner, I would know it in an instant. The bodies might be the exact same down to the last pink fold of skin, but the personality, the habits, the gestures – they would be different.

This is a staple of fiction and drama. The mistaken identity, the dark embrace, the lover switched. It’s a great gag. We laugh at the farce and the fumbles.

But in reality, both participants would know in a moment. Sex, and especially foreplay, is different with every couple.

I remember one encounter with a new lover. We stroked and caressed. We held each other intimately. I kissed my way downwards and felt that she was physically ready. But I didn’t recognise any signal that she wanted me to go further, and I’m not one to insert myself without knowing that the time is right for her. She said nothing.

So we both sort of fumbled on, confused. It was pleasant, to be sure, but it wasn’t what I was hoping for. It wasn’t what she was expecting. Not until some time later did I realize that a signal had been given, but I hadn’t recognised it for what it was. And of course, by that time it was too late. Far too late. We were in different cities.

My two women are both beautiful, intelligent, funny and loving. I love them both deeply, and somehow they love me back. I sometimes think I’m the luckiest man in the world.

But even in the darkest night, there’s no chance I could mistake one for the other.

What’s that? Yes, one of the women is Grl!

–Guy Sez

Guy sez: I spotted a headline the other day: Teen has Boob Job! Yes, it was the sort of magazine that aims to catch the eye. The story talked about a sixteen year old girl having breast augmentation surgery.

Is this crazy or what?

It is actually rather common, I find. In every sense of the word. Perhaps the most visible example was model Alicia Douvall, whose daughter, then twelve, wanted an iPhone and bigger breasts for her 13th birthday. Alicia, who at that point had undergone 14 breast operations, declared that her daughter wait until she was sixteen before she would consent. It didn’t stop her calling in the photographers for a tasteful round of mother and daughter snaps. And again when daughter Georgia changed her name to Destiny, believing it would help her modelling career.

Links to stories and photographs of doctored breasts here and doctored photographs of breasts here.

Well, I guess people can do what they want with their bodies, and I’m as much a fan of the perfect breast as the next man, but these stories leave a sad taste in my mouth.

In my male opinion, the breasts women have at sixteen are usually the ones they want at twenty-six. And thirty-six. And forty-six.

It doesn’t really get much better than sixteen. Gravity, sun, babies and just plain aging take their toll as life inexorably proceeds. The wrinkled, empty, droopy, stretch-marked, blotched breasts of the senior citizen await all.

And, though I’ll probably be hurled straight out of the “Members Only” entrance to the Penis Club for saying this, this guy doesn’t care all that much.

Despite what the glamor mags say, women are not their boobs. Nor any other part of their anatomy. I think that the sexiest part of a woman is her…

Love that smile!

…smile.

Give me a lady with a sense of humor, a genuine smile, a loving heart and eyes that sparkle, and I won’t worry too much what she looks like under the covers.

This is not to say that I don’t go all weak above the knees when a big-bosomed waitress leans low over the table to serve me a slender latte. She knows exactly where my eyes are fixed and why I’m unable to talk or breathe or do anything but drool as my gaze is drawn irresistibly down her cleavage.

It’s the way we men are wired, okay? It’s somewhere down there in my brain between the lizard cortex and the caveman lobe.

Women know this all too well. It’s why, when you think about it, cosmetic surgery is rather like choosing a style of clothing. Like fashion. “Breasts are pointy this season.”

In the end, it’s up to the wearer. Having a sweet pair must make a woman feel good. Hang on to them as long as possible, is my advice. Support those babies. Cosmetic surgery if you must, but it’s not going to fool anyone too long, if fooling is your game.

Unless it’s breast reduction surgery. If your address is 38D Braberry Lane and you’re still a teenager, then maybe it’s worth dropping a size or two, to save the strain on chest and shoulders, keep gravity at bay, and increase the number of men able to look you in the eye.

If I must give an opinion, it’s for quality over quantity. As a close friend of mine observes, “anything you can’t fit in your mouth is wasted.”

Halloween video – with pumpkins

This woman is gorgeous! But those jugs have got to be giving her gallons of grief. In my humble opinion, she would be every bit as vivacious and attractive if she were an A cup rather than LL. Yeah, she wouldn’t be quite the blinding beauty in that Marilyn Monroe dress, but she’d select something different, something more suited to her ittie-bitties.

Perhaps my co-writers have different opinions. I’m outvoted, gender-wise, these days, and really, what business does a guy have telling women how to wear their bodies?

–Guy Sez

Video report: breast surgery for graduation

Grl sez: I’m actually with you on this one. Mostly. There’s a few reasons I can think of for having a boob job – breast cancer for one. Or if you genuinely aren’t happy with the size of your breasts – it’s hard for me to imagine! I think mine are the perfect size, for me anyway. I guess that’s the point really.

The issue I have with increasing your breast size is when people think having bigger breasts is going to make them happier – I suppose in some cases they would, but when people want them because they think they will make them more popular/cooler/etc etc etc, that (for me anyway) is a concern.

Like what Guy said – it’s who you are and how you show it that makes you popular/cool etc. This is so true. People tell me I have a nice smile, and I like to think that this is reflective of my personality, not the actual physical smile!

But, on the other hand, there are always situations where it makes perfect sense – not that I can think of any right now, but if you were to put a sensible argument to me, I’m fairly sure I could be persuaded otherwise!

She’s from back East – Berkeley – but we won’t hold that against her. Too much.

So don’t think we’ve gone to sleep on you. We’re just catching our breath, and we’ll be coming back quicker and fresher. Stay tuned for more.

Grl, I’m sad to say, is now on the road, and out of immediate physical contact. Maybe it’s time for a post on chatsex…

–Guy Sez

Cartoon by xkcd

The elusive erotic zone said to exist in some women may be a myth, say researchers who have hunted for it. – BBC

He sez: Lookin’ for it is as much fun as findin’ it.

So I’m reliably informed, anyway. I can report the personal discovery of a textured area just inside and up a bit, in the location they say it should be. Sex marks the spot, maybe. But, well, it’s all fun terrain in there, and hard to say if one bit is funnier than the next. Especially from my male point of view. Maybe I should hand over to uh, my fellow researcher, for a female perspective.

But before I put her on the spot, as it were, let’s recap:

The location in question was first described by a Teutonic doctor – relocated to New York to escape Jewish persecution in his homeland – in 1950, when he was 69 years old, sez the ever-reliable Wikipedia. A celebrated career of intimate examination of the female sexual areas, backed up by frank discussion with his patients, led him to form the opinion that just inside a lady’s love tunnel lay an area that, when stimulated, resulted in more intense climaxes than clitoral stimulation. He was also excited by the idea that this spot was the source of “female ejaculation”, a liquid rush at the moment of climax.

A female prostate, as it were.

The spot was named after the doctor in 1981, well after he had passed on, and the 1980s were notable for a rush of popular literature devoted to the search for the spot, and what to do with it once found. Lick it, stick it or pick it, went the debate at dinner parties of the tackier kind. I remember them well.

Or prick it and nick it, in the case of some women who underwent biopsies in studies to map the distribution of nervous tissue in that area. What induced them to participate in such an experiment we don’t know.

Whatever, the results of three decades of exhaustive scientific research have been inconclusive. The problem is that much of the evidence is anecdotal, with small sample sizes. One inspired study, a dream job if ever there was one, involved 900 pairs of identical twins who were prevailed upon to point out the location of the spot to hardened scientists. Identical twins = identical spots, went the theory, but alas, only 56% provided identical answers.

Maybe the procedure needed work. No matter how you positioned the mirror, it would have to be a difficult task with a white pointer in the pink bits to indicate the exact location. Or if you relied on an assistant to touch various spots – “Here? What about here? Or over here? Down a bit, maybe? Is it nicer here or there? Well, what about if I wobble this bit?” – there would have to be a certain amount of imprecision, especially if the assistant employed a pen or spatula or thumb instead of whatever the subject normally employed for stimulation. If it were me, faced with a pair of identical twin ladies, I’d be inclined to tickle. And snicker.

G-Spot, courtesy Google Maps and violet blue

In the end, scientists are prone to debate. The involvement of well-meant folk who surmised that women who couldn’t find their spots would feel inadequate beside their better-endowed sisters sent the discussion in a different direction. And, I must admit that this point has merit. Women face the beauty literature every day. The ideal shape, the ideal face, the ideal breasts. And now, the ultimate sex parts. No woman is ever perfect, if you rely on the tracts found on the news-stand racks.

Me, I think it’s all hokum. Just how am I, as a man, supposed to stimulate this notional spot? My anatomy has the knobs and bumps in other areas. Am I supposed to slip in a pinky as well as a porky to press the point?

For self-stimulation, the ever-popular rabbit-ear vibrator has any number of lumps and bumps, but the intention seems to be to fill the void and buzz the bean, rather than hit the spot.

I’m done speculatin’. I’ll hand the topic over to my partner, for a female point of view.

She sez: Does it really exist?

Someone who might know is local sex goddess/guru violet blue. In the introduction to her book on the G-Spot, she sez:

That’s why I had to write this g-spot guide for smart girls like me. There are way, way too many guys online who think that watching porn or reading other people’s websites gives them the knowledge to spout off about what is and isn’t up with the g-spot and female ejaculation — often getting facts wrong in horrifyingly shaming ways. And the books out there were either piecemeal, dated, or intended an audience of women who wanted a spiritual experience — when all I wanted was to figure out how to get off.

Resources

• violet blue’s gspot resource guide, complete with Find-it-Yourself illustrations and hints.
• Wikipedia’s article on the G-Spot, written by geeks.

A fresh look at the G-Spot – photo by Guy Sez