The first sight of the Grand Canyon. The dip of the roller coaster. The bite of wasabi. Your first orgasm.

Remember that craze of nostalgia movies back in the Seventies? Well, I know you don’t, Grl, but we’ll fire up the laptop and watch Paper Moon one evening, snuggled up together.

Summer of ’42. It came out in theaters when I was a teenager (barely), but I had to wait for a television rescreening years later to see it. My parents certainly weren’t going to take me to an R-rated film! I had to rely on Mad Magazine’s version in the interim, so my memories have the same soft focus as the film itself.

The film and the novelization by Herman Raucher were huge hits. The “nostalgia” craze of the ’70s was just beginning, with The Way We Were, American Graffiti, Paper Moon and others to come.

It was the baby-boomers reliving their good times, I guess. The years before jobs, children and mortgages. The years of high school, college, good music, fast cars and first love. A dollar bought you an hour and a half of memories in a dark hall, and you emerged, sighing, into the present day.

There was more than happy memories in this film. There was the conflict and confusion of those years. The war, to be sure, always looming just over that sea horizon and underscored by the young men in uniform, but beyond that, the threat and promise of adulthood.

As Raucher says,

Nothing from that first day I saw her, and no one that has happened to me since, has ever been as frightening and as confusing. For no person I’ve ever known has ever done more to make me feel more sure, more insecure, more important, and less significant.

There’s conflict and confusion. And there’s a great story.

Hermie, Oscie and Benjie are three boys, summering on the fictional Packett Island in that summer of 1942.* Oscie is a little older than the fifteen year old Hermie, and Benjie a little younger, and the “Terrible Three” play their roles to perfection. Oscie is the knowitall, brash and bold; Benjie is the nerdy youngster, always just a few paces behind. And Hermie, as played by Gary Grimes, is in between: cute and handsome, shy but willing, romantic and gawky.

We first meet Hermie as the three boys conduct a commando reconnaissance raid on the beachfront house of young bride Dorothy (Jennifer O’Neill) and her soldier husband. Peering over the dunes at the couple, Oscie and Benjie make ribald comments, as the husband kisses Dorothy and then picks her up and carries her inside, while she laughingly protests. His friends leave, but Hermie is smitten, frozen to his observation post until the shouts of the other two boys rouse him.

Over the summer holiday weeks, Hermie braves the scorn of his friends to get closer to Dorothy, left alone on the island when her husband ships out. He performs chores for her, cringing with embarrassment when his attempts to show worldliness and sophistication flop. “You should be more careful – you could get a hernia,” he advises her about lifting bags of groceries.

As boys are, they are obsessed by sex, and painfully ignorant of anything but the basics. The discovery of a medical text with body parts named in Latin, and photographs that no drugstore would possibly develop, provides help, but ultimately even more confusion. Just what is this mysterious “foreplay”, why is it required, and exactly how do you play it?

There are teenaged girls, and fumbling encounters at the movies and marshmallow roasts, but it’s Dorothy that Hermie desires. One evening he shows up at her place for coffee, but all is silent save a record stuck on its final groove and the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Nervously entering the house, Hermie finds a crumpled telegram, advising the death of the husband.

Dorothy emerges, tear-streaked and devastated. She puts the record on again. It’s That Old Feeling, a reminder for Dorothy of her lost love.

She holds her hands out to Hermie, they dance, slowly and tenderly, and then she takes him to bed.

It is an incredible scene. Sweet, poignant, soft and sensual, but without being salacious or sleazy. It’s soft-focus sex – you know what’s going on, but you can’t see any details.

And that’s what makes it. After all the embarrassment and ribald speculation, Hermie’s fantasies have come true, but in a way that he never imagined.

He leaves the house, drifts away home through the grass on the dunes, and in the morning returns to find her gone, the house empty, a note on the door. He never sees her again.

The film ends with Herman, now grown, returning to the island, returning to the house, decades later. We hear him as he looks out to sea,

Life is made of comings and goings. And for everything that we take with us, there is something we leave behind. In the Summer of ’42, we raided the coast guard station four times. We saw five movies, and had nine days of rain. Benjie broke his watch, Oscy gave up the harmonica… and in a very special way, I lost Hermie forever.

This film speaks to me, as it did to so many of my generation, and, for all I know, everyone. Our own first experiences may be wildly different, but like going over that first rollercoaster dip, we can’t go back to the safety and innocence of a minute before. We’re different now.

I’m romantic enough to think that losing our virginity isn’t so much a loss – after all, what have we physically lost? – as it is a gain. An entry into adulthood, solid knowledge, a feeling of confidence, a desire to do it again and get better at it. And I’m romantic enough to think that it isn’t so much sex that we learn as we explore further, but love. Love and intimacy and the shared feelings of another human being. I love being able to give my partner that ultimate pleasure. And I love it when we come together, and I know that just a few inches away, the same waves of bliss that are rolling through my happy brain are crashing ashore in my lover’s head.

Go see the movie. See it again if you’ve watched it a long time ago. Enjoy the scenery, the three boys coping with the world, the funny moments – there’s a fantastic scene where Hermie goes into a drugstore to buy condoms – the interactions between the characters, and finally that delicious, bittersweet scene where Hermie becomes Herman.

—Guy Sez

*In the novel, it’s Packett Island. Herman Raucher based the story on his childhood holidays on Nantuckett, but in the film, it’s clearly California around Fort Bragg.

Here’s a delightful – and thoughtful – blog post by my second favorite sex nerd, Emily Nagoski, on lovely things you can do with a sleeping beauty.

Favorite line:

You can rub your genitals against his, noticing and reveling in the unique sensation provided by flaccidity. Soft penises are fun!

Right on, Emily!

She keeps a cool blog, and when she includes a photograph, it’s a ripper!

My favorite sex nerd? The young lady who wrote Bonk, which had me hooting with laughter on a packed flight between DFW and SFO. Mary Roach, who has now written a bunch of books on weird subjects, all informative and hilarious.

These two women should get together and do the ultimate educational funny sex video – fully clothed with puppets, maybe.

—Guy Sez

Sleepy doggie pic by mexikids

Grl: Guy! So nice to see you!

Guy: Yeah you too! I’ve been missing you.

Grl: been missing you too, work’s been crazy busy *long slow kiss to make up for it*

Guy: Mmmmmm. *tastes Grl’s tongue* So hard with you on the road. *runs tongue over lips* Mmmmm, barbecue.

Grl: …*sigh* I know. Jeez I miss you.

Guy: You know I want to do a post on chatsex?

Grl: yeah, I had noticed

Guy: I was wondering how we should approach it. For example, half the fun of a good chatsex session is the setting. I remember that time on a plane, in coach, redeye flight to Chicago. *wraps blanket over us*

Grl: mmmm that was fun! I still can’t believe the person sitting next to us didn’t hear anything!

Guy: *quietly undoes safety belt* We were very quiet.

Grl: *follows your example*

Guy: The crew were in the galley, doing crew things. *slides hand under blanket* Nobody noticed.

Grl: *grabbing your hand and squeezing it* Thank heavens! I might be open, but I’m not that open!

Guy: *squeezes Grl’s hand* Just holding hands is fun with you. We could just chatcuddle if you want.*slides hand around a bit under blanket*

Grl: mmm remember that time coming home from the airport?

Grl: nah, I’m too turned on to just cuddle now!

Guy: Oh, good! *hand explores under blanket* Interesting shapes under loose flight clothing.

Grl: yeah it’s all those layers of clothing I can’t fit in my suitcase anymore!  *cursing layers*

Guy: It made it difficult. Especially the oral part. Can’t believe nobody noticed.

Grl: yeah, specially with all my moaning and your heavy breathing!

Guy: *breathing heavily*

Grl: *stretching up for a kiss*

Guy: *kisses Grl with intent* I love the way you taste.

Grl: *hand creeping down*

Guy: The beauty of a good chatsex session is that you aren’t constrained by physical restrictions. Of clothing or cramped coach seats.

Grl: or the person sitting next to us Or that we weren’t even sitting remotely near each other

Guy: Or that it was a day flight. Still, we can relive the experience the way it should have been. *exploring hand at last finds some skin*

Grl: yeah, in a perfect world… *sharp breath in*

Guy: Sorry. I think that was your shoulder - I was hunting for a nipple. Ah. I wonder what happens if I press this button.

Grl: really? I could’ve sworn it was my belly!

Guy: Hard to tell in the dark, under a blanket in cramped seats. All good. *presses button* Oh look, the moon is full, the blanket is under us, the waves are crashing onto the tropic beach, the palms are waving above us in the mellow night sky. And we’re all alone. Just us. *undoes top button*

Grl: *smelling the salt air* mmmmmm

Guy: *admiring Grl* You are beautiful. *kisses Grl again*

Guy: *and again*

Guy: *undoes a few more buttons* Not as many layers of clothing in this scenario. Still, it’s fun to slowly undress you.

Grl: mmm just you wait till you hit my bathing suit. THEN you’ll be gasping! *giving a helping hand*

Guy: I’m gasping already! *removes Grl’s top and admires well-filled costume beneath*

Grl:

Guy: Just wearing board shorts myself. Getting uncomfortably tight around the front bulge area.

Grl: I can help with that *gently stroking bulge*

Guy: Yikes! The problem’s growing!

Grl: mmmmmm *sliding hand down shorts*

Guy: I’m not talking fantasy now. I wish you were doing that for real!

Grl: :D:D:D:D:D

Guy: *ignores growing tension down below*

Guy: *slides fingers over Lycra bathing suit*

Guy: *feeling interesting shapes*

Guy: The full moonlight highlights the curves. I can see clearly what is shoulder, what is belly, and what is breast. *tickles nipple through thin cloth*

Grl: Is it full tide? Cos I’m getting really wet

Guy: *slides hand downstairs*

Guy: Sure that bathing suit isn’t chafing? *Undoes cord on board shorts*

Guy: *begins wriggling free*

Grl: *grabbing your hand to stop you*

Grl: *kissing you hard*

Guy: *tasting the salt on Grl’s lips, feeling them warm and full and soft*

Grl: *sliding your shorts off*

Guy:*feeling the warm tropic air*

Guy: *rising to salute the moon*

Grl: *sitting on you and kissing you hard again*

Guy: mmmmm. *begins peeling the clinging, stretch fabric down over shoulders*

Grl: *nipples getting hard*

Guy: I can see them, trying to escape! Here, let me help! *rolls top down*

Guy: *admires perfect breasts in the pale moonlight* nipples jumping and bouncing on top, glad to be out in the open.

Grl: *kissing you again*

Grl: can you tell I like kissing

Guy: Oh yeah! Can you tell I like…

Guy: *strokes Grl’s skin* Lips, cheeks, chin, throat, shoulders. *softly, caressing, lovingly working the way down*

Grl: *breathing harder all of a sudden*

Guy: *still kissing Grl*

Guy: *breathing faster*

Grl: *heart racing*

Grl: *sliding down your body to lightly tease your cock*

Guy: *moans*

Grl: *grins*

Grl: *peeling bathing suit completely off*

Guy: *moans louder* OMG, you are beautiful! A goddess in the moonlight!

Grl: *kissing you hard*

Grl: *tongue sliding into your mouth*

Guy: *sliding fingers gently down, over shoulders, over arms*

Grl: *gasping*

Guy: *tracing the outlines of your upper body*

Guy: *backs of hands gently touching sides of breasts, almost by accident*

Grl: *kissing down the side of your neck*

Guy: *feeling nipples hard against my hands*

Guy: *stroking breasts, circling in on each side, fingers climbing those rounded slopes*

Guy: *reaching the little peaks at the centre, feeling them crinkle under his gentle touch*

Guy: *bends down to kiss them*

Grl: *kissing down your shoulder, down to your nipple, down, down, down*

Guy: *nibbling Grl’s nipples, circling them with tongue strokes*

Grl: oh god

Guy: Funny, I was thinking the same thing… Don’t you love the way that in chat, there’s no awkwardness as hands, mouths, tongues, bodies writhe and move into impossible positions?

Grl: mmm yeah!

Grl: *feeling nipples get even harder*

Grl: *moaning*

Guy: *kissing even harder*

Guy: *moves hands down, gliding lightly over the delighting curves of breasts and tummy*

Grl: *getting wetter and wetter*

Guy: *circling lower, feeling the first soft curls under his fingers*

Guy: *stroking down onto thighs*

Guy: *feeling the smooth shapes of legs, the angles of knees, the trim calves, the toes, taking time to tickle each one*

Grl: tease *kissing you hard again*

Grl: *sliding down over bump to kneel over your legs*

Guy: *responding to the kiss*

Guy: *growing harder yet*

Grl: *taking you in my mouth*

Guy: Oh my god! *closes eyes in delight*

Grl: *wondering what to do next* :p

Guy: It’s all good here. ;D

Grl: *s-l-o-w-l-y dragging lips down*

Guy: *hands moving back up legs, tracing the contours, teasing the inner thighs*

Guy: *tickling your fancy*

Guy: Gently, lightly touching just the curls.

Guy: At first…

Guy: *Stroking the triangular outlines, just lightly touching the skin*

Grl: *tongue teasing, tantalizing*

Grl: *taking your hands in mine*

Grl: *holding them still*

Guy: *enjoying the sensations of lips and tongue on me here, and the feel of female curves under my hands there*

Grl: *dragging lips up again and off completely*

Grl: *tongue circling tip*

Grl: *sliding in to you as far as I can*

Grl: *putting you back into my mouth*

Grl: *tongue moving around inside mouth*

Grl: you still there?

Guy: Oh yeah!

Guy: Wondering what to do with his hands…

Guy: Thinking of something…

Guy: *gently eases thighs apart*

Guy: *softly but firmly, unticklingly, strokes the curving shapes of outer lips*

Guy: *tracing their outlines, feeling the curls against his fingers, the soft, smooth surfaces of inner lips*

Guy: *Gently touching, sliding along the skin, slick with girl juice*

Guy: *Moves around, kissing his way down*

Grl: *coming up to kiss you again*

Guy: *meet’s Grl’s lips halfway*

Guy: *tasting the salty tang*

Guy: *holding you close*

Guy: *embracing Grl, skin to skin, head to toe*

Guy: *heart pounding*

Grl: *sliding a finger inside myself, then putting it in your mouth while we kiss*

Guy: Oh yes! Mmmmmmm. Tangy. Tasty. *sucks on finger*

Grl: *kissing the side of your mouth, then continuing to kiss around to your ear while you suck my finger*

Guy: *feeling Grl blow in ear* I hear the sea!

Guy: *takes Grl’s hand, moves it down, down, all the way down* Say hello to the boys! But don’t squeeze them too hard!

Guy: *slides his own hand way down*

Grl: *nibbling your ear lobe* :p

Guy: *slides one finger inside*

Guy: *gently*

Guy: *moves it around*

Guy: *moves it out*

Guy: *tracing the soft folds*

Guy: *finding that little bean of pleasure*

Guy: *stroking it softly with moist finger tip*

Guy: *smooth, gentle touches*

Grl: *deep sharp breath*

Grl: *gently tickling balls*

Guy: *breathing hard* Oh yes!

Guy: *moves down*

Guy: *kissing his way down*

Guy: *all the way down*

Grl: *toes curling*

Guy: *kissing into the triangle of curls*

Guy: *tongue seeking out the tender, tangy, places*

Guy: *kissing, licking, softly at first*

Guy: *tongue touching, stroking, caressing clitoris*

Guy: *darting inside*

Grl: oh god oh god ohgod *arching up for more contact*

Guy: *pushing harder*

Guy: *kissing away, away up*

Guy: *sliding himself in*

Guy: *feeling the grip inside*

Guy: The most intimate of caresses, enjoying every inch of the journey.

Grl: *crying out*

Guy: *thrusting slowly, all the way in*

Guy: *holding it a moment*

Guy: *pulling back*

Guy: *And in again*

Guy: *feeling the pleasure, the exquisite pleasure*

Guy: *gently, firmly thrusting in a slow rhythm*

Guy: Matching the waves on the beach. We’re on a beach, there’s a blanket under us, the warm air is caressing our skin and we have the island to ourselves and all the time in the world.

Guy: *pushing in and out, a steady tempo*

Grl: *feeling you inside me*

Grl: *kissing you hard*

Grl: *and again*

Grl: *and again*

Grl: *and again*

Grl: *over and over*

Guy: *responding to kisses*

Guy: sweet kisses in the silver moonlight

Guy: *continuing a steady stroke*

Guy: *pushing down, pressure on clitoris as well*

Guy: *Making every movement count for the maximum in shared pleasure*

Grl: *getting closer to that edge*

Guy: The pressure is building for me. *pushing on, sweet sensations growing*

Grl: *fingers busy here*

Guy: *Thrusting quicker now, in and down*

Guy: The waves seem to be rolling in, crashing ashore, the universe moving faster as we move in harmony.

Guy: *feeling the exquisite pleasure with every rhythmic movement of our shared bodies moving as one*

Guy: *Sliding in and out, surfing the rising pleasure*

Grl: *inches from the edge*

Guy: *feeling Grl moan and tense and writhe under him*

Guy: *loving her with every breath, every beat of his racing heart*

Guy: *holding her close, every inch of her body, every point of pleasure, every pore in her skin*

Grl: *moaning loudly*

Guy: *breathing hard*

Guy: *thrusting in, sliding in, filling her up*

Guy: *pushing on and on, breath in gasps, heart in harness*

Guy: *moving together in a race, two working as one, hearts and limbs entwined*

Guy: *each feeling the other’s every move, every thrust, every precious pressure*

Guy: *temperature soaring, skins slick with sweat*

Grl: *crying out*

Guy: The feeling is unstoppable, the rythmn pounding

Guy: Working together, breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps.

Guy: *thrusting, grinding, riding, moving together in a dance of joy*

Grl: *can’t think mind off in space body in exquisite pleasure*

Guy: *unstoppable waves of pleasure pulsing through me*

Guy: *arches back in a climax of ecstasy*

Guy: *gasping at the pleasure*

Guy: *gulping in air to cool his body, furnace-hot in the tropic night*

Guy: *slowing and stopping, just pressing down*

Guy: *enjoying the aftertingles*

Guy: *feeling the shared bliss*

Guy: *holds Grl close, this most intimate embrace*

Grl: *breathing gradually slowing down*

Guy: *feeling the shared warmth*

Guy: *rolls out, lies gasping*

Guy: *smiling*

Guy: happy beyond belief

Guy: *holding Grl’s hand*

Guy: *touching her fingers*

Guy: *feeling so close, so loving, so happy*

Grl: *bringing your hand to my mouth and kissing it*

Guy: *kissing Grl’s hand*

Guy: *sighs in happiness*

Guy: *looking at Grl’s loving face*

Guy: this is heaven

Grl: mmmmmmmm

Guy: you are amazing

Grl: I love you

Guy: I love you

Grl: enjoy?

Guy: Oh yes

Guy: We’ll have to do that chatsex post one day, you know. It won’t write itself!

Guy Sez: As all the world knows, the Marina Safeway is the best supermarket. Simply the best. You can hardly miss this fabulous place of legend as you tool by on the way to Sausalito for a night of delight, top down, the Bay on the right hand, the Bridge ahead, Cow Hollow on the left.

But just peel off to the right and park outside those big old government issue buildings. The old wharves at Fort Mason. There’s a funky stage made out of old car parts and computer guts, and there’s one of the best bookstores in the world. Book Bay, one of the outlets of the Friends of the San Francisco Public Library (the other one is at the library entrance, but not quite as much fun).

I’ve been hauling myself in here for years. It used to be half the size, and the shelves would tower over me in that authentic cramped bookstore fashion, as I browsed in wonder, reaching out with both hands on both sides to seize treasures.

God, but I love old bookstores! Shakespeare and Co in Paris, The Strand in New York City, Alice’s Bookshop in Carlton, and Larry McMurtry’s awe-dropping Booked Up in Archer City, where two girls and a cat run four huge stores spread over three blocks. But you don’t have to travel the world to find good bookstores. City Lights is proof of that. And Book Bay at Fort Mason underscores the fact.

Book Bay is now twice the size, and twice as good. It’s airy and bright, full of the aroma of books, Treasure Island fierce and tropical, the cooking section savoury, the smell of oil and leather from the Transport section, and a thrilling, musky smell from a half height shelf in direct eyeline from the sales desk.

I kind of thought the Sex and Erotica area, not to mention Gay and Lesbian, was better in the old corner, where you could study the illustrations in more detail, maybe adjust your clothing if necessary, without some cheerful grandmother looking at you with interest, or an intense young person crowding your space.

But hey, it’s all good. Just camouflage the good stuff under a Frank Lloyd Wright book about the size of a coffee table, check it out, and appreciate at your private leisure.

What did I buy? Apart from 50 Favorite Houses By Frank Lloyd Wright – a mouth-watering read for the architecture drooler – I found a couple of gems.

There’s a Bear in There (and He Wants Swedish) by an Australian lady called Merridy Eastman. I chose this for the weird title as much as the topic. One should always judge a book by its title, and this one promised delights. Where could this bear be hiding? And what was Swedish about him?

Merridy, it turns out, is a presenter on a popular children’s television program – hence the reference to teddy bears – who moonlights as a worker in a Sydney brothel. “As a receptionist!” she constantly reminds people. Be that as it might, she has a book full of tales to tell about the prostitutes, their wacky customers, and the joint owners of the establishment, who try to hide their earnings not just from the Tax Office, but from each other. Merridy wonders just what each night will bring, and there is always an adventure of some kind! “Hey, don’t I know you?” some puzzled father of toddlers will muse on entry, and Merridy makes herself scarce when he leaves, just in case the answer comes to him during a different sort of entry.

Hilarious, but ultimately it’s a story about the women who work in these places and what drives them to it. You know why the junkie is there, shooting up in the bathroom between business, but why the university law student, daughter of a good home and never shy of a buck? Is she really that fond of latex-shielded sex with random strangers?

Perhaps my other purchase would supply the answer: The Good Girl’s Guide to Bad Girl Sex: An Indispensible Guide to Pleasure & Seduction.

Unfortunately, while I leafed through it in the store and when I got it home, I can’t find my copy. Perhaps Grl has it. But hey, who isn’t interested in Bad Girl sex? Every Good Girl I’ve ever met has been fascinated by the subject – once the parents and the church elders are out of eyeshot.

Luckily, Amazon’s delightful ability to look inside the book gives much of the game away: Barbara Keesling, the author, is a sex therapist who has distilled her knowledge of the advice she hands out to women who come to her with hangups. You can get the good stuff for a few dollars instead of a few thousand in weekly sessions.

But I get the feeling there’s not a lot to it apart from the basic advice given by every therapist, sex or not. Get comfortable with yourself. The chapters on technique are fine, but there’s nothing startling. It’s a matter of attitude. Instead of lying there and taking it, climb on top and enjoy yourself. You have to suck a dick with love and enthusiasm, not as an act of duty. You have to guide your lover’s tongue to where you need it for your pleasure.

Just, well, enjoy yourself. There. Common sense advice dispensed for free and practical sessions available at all hours. Grl, what are you doing tonight?

Obviously, with a used bookstore, I can’t guarantee what’s in stock. But Book Bay is always worth a visit. You never know what’s going to turn up in that little half-height bookshelf. Even if it’s been stripped bare – or bear – the rest of the store is good for a happy hour of browsing, and they sell tote bags for the stack of books, and CDs and DVDs, you’ll surely accumulate.

And if you aren’t in San Francisco with we gentle people with flowers in our hair, riding a cable car halfway to the stars and so on and on, there’s always a second-hand bookstore somewhere in the neighbourhood. When you find one with an interesting shelf or two, let us know, will you? We’ll be right over.

—Guy Sez

And eventually, at the end of the story, there are no secrets left. Maybe there are breasts jiggling and dancing, nipples pointing up at the stars, lips parted, fingers busy inside a happy cleft. Every inch of girlskin showing for my drooling delectation.

For me, it’s the story in an expicit shoot that makes it. Or at least the steady undressing, the glimpses becoming flashes becoming views becoming landscapes.

Which is one reason why I couldn’t warm to this link from the quirky erotica site Erosblog. It’s one thing to begin with an image of a lovely young nurse leaning low over a patient, her uniform top one button too far down, her cleavage a curving cleft drawing the eye, raising the temperature.

One might imagine things going further, one thing leading to another.

But when the picture sequence begins with a breast fully exposed, and ends with the nurse holding her vulva so far apart that there is nothing at all left to the imagination, I’m not satisfied. That’s a medical text, not erotica.

Where’s the art? Where’s the romance?

Sure, one downloads porn to look at naked women, but do you really want to be peering down a speculum at the inside contours of someone’s inside contours?

Now, I’m a visual kind of guy, and there’s nothing quite like looking at a well built woman with her clothes neatly stacked somewhere out of my sight. But there’s a limit to how far I can feast my eyes, and there are parts of the female anatomy that I prefer to explore with fingers, tongue or penis. Some sights are best left to obstetricians.

So, most of the world’s porn, judging by years of exhaustive research, is not my cup of tea. It goes too far, it’s simple-minded, it’s scripted.

It’s fake. It’s forced.

Which is a good way to direct the reader’s attention to Abby Winters. Honest sex, I call it. Abby Winters hit upon the perfect formula. Find young women and offer them good money to pleasure themselves with the camera rolling. Sometimes the shoots stop short of that, or go on to girl/girl sex. Sometimes there are several models performing at once, sometimes there is dancing or yoga or sports.

It’s all up to the models themselves, who are literally the girl next door, filmed in bedrooms, back gardens, kitchens. The sex is genuine, the orgasms authentic, the conversation unscripted and frank. The production crew is all female, which accounts for a lot of the relaxed behavior, I guess. Easier to be yourself when it’s just you and the girls joshing around, rather than a crew of strange men adjusting their pants when you unhook your bra.

Sometimes there’s no crew at all. Just an unattended camera on a tripod aimed at the young woman doing exactly what she does when the boyfriend – or girlfriend – is not around and she’s all by herself.

It’s an education for any man. Forget the airbrushed Penthouse vaginas, the plastic smile of the professional strip tease, the forced frolics of Russian sexworkers, or the fake moans and sighs of the professional pornstars.

You want to see how women turn themselves on and reach a climax? Here’s the real deal. Just follow along and take notes. Penis in vagina is the cherry on the icing on the cake, and there’s a lot of stroking and caressing, kissing and licking, rubbing and cuddling that goes on before you get anywhere near that point.

More to the point, it’s fun. Fun for the models, fun for the watcher.

A typical Abby Winters video begins with the model at home. On a bed, on a couch, fully clothed, at ease. The crew – usually offscreen, but occasionally seen interacting with the model – talk with the model, asking her about her life, her hobbies, her likes, her favorite clothes, food, sex positions. Whatever the model wants to talk about.

Along the way, clothes come off. Sometimes they go on again if the model wants to show off her favorite frilly knickers or heels. But whatever happens along the way, and there are often surprises, ranging from the sudden intrusions of household pets to the impromptu demonstration of some odd bodily skill, full nudity is achieved.

A smiling, happy woman, proud of her body, glad to show it off. Is there anything more sexy than this?

Usually there is. The model begins to caress herself, stroke here and there, becoming more and more focused, moving inexorably downwards, sliding a finger in, rubbing herself with increasing urgency… Sometimes toys are involved. But always the eyes close in bliss and the back arches and the hands slow from their frenzy.

It’s a genuine pleasure.

I’ll be frank. There’s one scene the model sometimes plays at the request of the production crew. “Can you give us a guided tour of your body?” they’ll ask, and the model obliges, telling the story of every scar and piercing, every freckle and fold. They talk frankly of their choices in things like shaving or tattoos. They weigh their breasts and tell us how much they like them. They’ll pause for a moment after showing their navels, their bouncy buttocks, their red-painted toenails. They glance at the camera.

And then they lean back, spread their legs and talk us through the most intimate parts of their anatomy, sometimes revealing unheard of pet names for their parts. One lovely young lady called it a “minch”. Another pointed out her vital organs with a twig plucked from a tree – that particular shoot was outdoors – and gave particular emphasis to her clitoris. “Guys,” she said firmly, “pay attention to this part right here and your girlfriends will thank you!”

That’s one reason I love Abby Winters. Their videos might end with a young woman holding her labia wide apart, but it’s the woman’s choice, at her own pace and pleasure.

And guys, if you’ve got a grl, just ask her, next time she’s in the mood, to give you a guided tour of her body. And maybe ask her to show you how she likes to reach orgasm in her own way in her own time.

I think she’ll thank you for it.

— 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

Girl with a One-Track Mind – the UK original

Guy Sez: This is the international edition of the British book of the awesome sex blog of Abby Lee AKA Zoe Margolis.

Believe it or not, this book has been translated into fifteen different languages!

There is blogging success for you. Harry Potter and Dan Brown get translated across the world, but a book based on a blog? C’mon!

And how simple is it to write a book once you’ve got a year’s worth of solid posts? Just lift out the best, staple ‘em together, send the bunch to a publisher. Right?

Wrong! This book is obviously based on the blog, but it’s so much more. And less.

More, because there is material inside not found in the blog. It’s more of a coherent storyline than the fragmented life presented by Abby every day or so online. Many of the original posts are rewritten in a more elegant form.

Less, because many minor posts are omitted entirely or incorporated into other material. It’s not quite the “This is how I felt today, warts and all” writing of the blog.

But, unmistakably Abby Lee. There is no getting away from the constant rumble of sex thoughts through her mind and out into her blog. She glances at a guy and she’s imagining him stripped, erect, inches from her face. Or her pussy. And then she’s feeling him inside, and we’re along for the ride, while her fingers are busy down below.

This woman masturbates at the drop of a hat. She’s always ducking into the bathroom for a quick rub. Or working at herself under the table. Or on a train or a plane.

Her panties are always damp.

No wonder that some of her readers thought she was a man. Women don’t think about sex – and act on it – quite so much as Abby.

Or do they?

Zoe’s female. This book saw her exposed in national newspapers, and after a fair bit of trauma, with paparazzi camped outside her house etc. etc. she accepted the outing and is now a frequent sight on television, at conferences, in photographs. We’re awaiting the movie with keen interest.

As a book, it gets just a teensy bit repetitive. Bridget Jones’ Diary this ain’t. But it remains compelling reading to see how she copes with her powerlust. In the end, there’s a bit of a twist. Sex isn’t everything, we discover.

As a book of the blog, it’s a tangy, tasty serve of the website. You can almost feel the slickness begin as she has an evening out with some handsome hero. As a guy, I know what he’s thinking, and as a reader you know what she’s thinking, and you wonder why they bother with the wine and the small talk. That sexual flash in the eyes and she should be pulling him into the bedroom to get it over with!

Ah, but that would be getting to the climax all too soon, and the foreplay is half the fun. There’s a LOT of foreplay in this book. A lot of steamy thoughts, a lot of sex and a lot of fun.

Highly recommended. Don’t take it on a long plane flight, though. The little old lady in the seat beside you will try to sneak glances at the pages to see what is making you sweat and fidget, and you’ll be whipping off to the can for some relief, long before landing. If the cabin crew aren’t wary, they’ll be dragged in for an impromptu Mile-High Club membership.

Right. On that note, I’m shipping this book off to Grl, last heard from somewhere east of Tulsa.

–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!

FunkyBrownChick.com

• Blog Name: FunkyBrownChick
• Type: Lifestyle
• Level: Spicey
• Author: Twanna A Hines
• Location: New York City
• First Post: June 21, 2005
• Popularity: “On a good day, upwards of 3,000+ people visit this site. Funky Brown Chick isn’t huge. It isn’t extremely tiny either.”
• Platform: WordPress

My name is Twanna and I own Funky Brown Chick.
All rights reserved. So, please, don’t be a dick.

Guy Sez: You gotta love someone with a copyright notice like that one!

Perhaps the best introduction is FunkyBrownChick’s own words in her first post:

let’s see … this is the first entry so i should probably tell you more about myself. i’m somewhat new to new york, but i’m used to big cities. i’m black; hence, the “brown” in funky brown chick. i’m single and dating so you’ll get to read about all of the crazy stories from my 30-something love-less life. i could write more, but i’m sure we’ll come to know each other better with time. best not to rush these things.

Twanna A Hines, Funky Brown Chick – photo by Bill Wadman

Twanna maintains another site at twannahines.com – a site unlike any other I’ve seen. More than a Twitter feed, less than a blog, it’s a net-bite series of snapshots of her life. The more I read of Twanna, the more impressed I am. You don’t expect deep insights from a sexblogger, usually more noted for erotic entertainment than analysis and philosophy, but here in the Huffington Post she sticks it to Steven Levitt, author of Freakonomics. Then again, she has two degrees – a BS and an MA.

A self-described sexpot, she looks good enough to eat. Her chocolate skin has sent any number of delicious thoughts scampering through my hungry mind.

She gives good blog. Well written, entertaining, punchy. Not heavy on the explicit details, but she doesn’t pull her punches – if she is sleeping with someone, she sez so. It’s more a relationship blog than a sex blog; presumably you know what to do once you’re in bed together, you don’t need to be told who put what where and how many strokes per second.

There’s a “Best of First Year” post here. Even better, there’s a “Worst of…” post the very next day. Twanna doesn’t take herself too seriously! There’s a few broken links, due to a platform change or two from Blogger to WordPress and one domain to another, but it’s not too hard to find the original posts. Better yet, just read the whole first year, skimming if you wish. Her posts aren’t long. Then read the second, third, fourth and fifth years! It’s all good.

If I have a criticism at all, it’s that the blog looks very “busy” on the page. There’s a lot going on, with advertising from various sources, an archive list as long as a short arm, a category list likewise, the posts themselves, and other bits and pieces all over. Then again, blogs that are solid slabs of text turn me off.

Twanna began blogging under the pseudonym Stollie (for Stolichnaya vodka) but gave that up after a while. She’s not the sort of person who works well with deception. She’s genuine, honest, upfront. You get a good flavor in an online interview at Clutch Magazine:

Best part about being FBC is that it’s me %100. Whether I’m church, with my friends or at work, I am Twanna Hines, Funky Brown Chick.

Twanna’s interest is in men. Young, sexy, exciting, often with a foreign accent. She has regular testosterone-based posts. Manly Mondays, Testicle Tuesdays and – sigh – Wanker Wednesdays.  I must admit to a certain level of fascination. Who will be the next man in her sights? Will she date him? How will it turn out?

Not just men and relationships, of course. For any single woman (or man) aiming to live in New York City, this blog is your homework. Native New Yorkers will have it in their genes, but Twanna moved to NYC from Chicago five years ago, and she has seen it all from an outside perspective. More outside than Chicago, actually – she’s lived here and there around the world and has insights and experience that put the frosting on top.

Sometimes her life reads a little like the script for a television series. Sexie in the City, maybe. She’s always got something on her plate, from heavy-duty writing workshops to interracial dating. There’s the flavor of an active metropolitan lifestyle. Twanna’s not writing for the sake of filling up blog pages – she’s taking time out from an actual life to fill us in on things interesting and thoughtful, entertaining and stimulating, fun and funky.

Which makes the titbits about her book all the more teasing. She’s working on the book of the blog, and unlike others I’ve seen, this won’t be just the pick of the website bound and gagged, this will have new material and a theme. Perhaps like Melissa Plaut’s Hack, where the Jewish Lesbian NYC night cabbie’s blog was transformed into a book that was edgier, more personal, more comprehensive, more coherent than the blog had ever been.

Looking forward to reviewing the book. In the meantime, Twanna’s blog has become one of my must-reads. Highly recommended for a smart, funny, literate woman’s view of life, the Big Apple, and the world.

–Guy Sez

Bonus video: FunkyBrownChick and Girl With a One-Track Mind talking at SXSW

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