G-Spots on Pluto

My personal treasure hunt for the elusive G-spot began the first time I heard the term used… by a boy in the backseat of his car.

“I feel it,” he whispered.

“Ummmm…feel what?”

“Your bean,” he breathed into my ear.

“My what?”

“Your G-spot! Jeez, aren’t they teaching you freshmen anything these days?” And then, to no one in particular, “I’ve gotta stop messing with these dumb virgins! Askin’ too many damn questions…” Through his 501s, I felt him lose his hard-on and that was pretty much the end of that.

A bean, huh? When I got home I was going to have to see for myself. So I did. And then I had to see for myself again the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Screw doing homework after school—my hands had other business to attend to.

Pretty soon, I was combing the house for things that would better reach my magic button. I started looking at every inanimate object in a whole new light…Barbie doll legs…items from the produce department…the handle of a hairbrush…anything that would hit my newly-discovered G-spot, was fair game for my afternoon date with myself. The discovery was life-altering, and has since played an important and pleasurable role in my life.

But back to the study… I’m blessed to be surrounded by a group of sexually-liberated friends, many of whom were more than willing to discuss the findings of this study and their personal feelings (figuratively and literally) openly. My admittedly unscientific study involved both women and men, asking women about their G-spots (or potentially lack thereof) and men about their experiences with partners’ G-spots. Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

Heather is a thirty-something writer who, when questioned on her G-spot, was refreshingly forthcoming (excuse the pun) and overly eager to relay enough graphic information to write either a medical book or a female-centric pornographic movie.
“G-Spots don’t exist? That’s the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” she told me. “That’s like telling me my arms don’t exist or my legs don’t exist. If something is clearly there, how are you going to tell me it’s not?”

The proposition that the G-Spot was purely mythological and more mental than physical appeared to anger Heather, who gesticulated wildly and began punctuating sentences with “That’s some bullshit.” She vehemently insists that she has one and, as proof, regaled me with tales of various lovers both who could and could not satisfy her.

“Anyone who says size doesn’t matter is fooling himself. But it’s not just size, it’s shape, too. I was with this one guy who, for the life of him, could not make me come when we had sex. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t hit it, you know? I think it was the shape, it kinda curved to the left, so he would put it in and it just wasn’t hitting it. So don’t tell me that there’s no G-spot because it is not that hard to get me off. All you have to do is hit a certain place a few times (at this point she goes off on a tangent, describing her plumbing in explicit detail), and if you hit it, I guarantee I will come.”

I asked how she could be so sure that it was, in fact, a G-spot issue. “The scientists are claiming though that it could all be mental,” I countered. “How can you prove that this wasn’t just a psychosomatic thing; like your subconscious telling you, I’m not so into this guy, and not allowing you to come?”

Heather flashed a coy smile. “I didn’t say he what?”couldn’t] make me come, I said he couldn’t make me come when we had sex.” Laughing, she continued. “Oh, he made me come all right, trust and believe that. It’s just that he had to use his fingers or his fist to hit [my G-spot].”

My friend Brad was in agreement with Heather and insisted that women do have a G-spot. To reach this conclusion, he relied heavily upon his experiences with one particular woman who was very vocal regarding her needs.

“I know it’s there,” he said, “because she could have multiple vaginal orgasms, not just clitoral. [On one occasion] I had her over the hood of my truck. She said, ‘Whatever you’re hittin’, it feels good.’ Usually, in her apartment, on the bed, or tied down to the dining room table, different positions yielded different results but the verbalizations were all the same: ‘That’s it, baby. Right there! That’s the spot!’ I assume [she meant] the G-spot.”

After offering to provide “the hardcore play-by-play, with all the dirty talk and spanking and light bondage,” I was not only convinced that Brad knew what he was talking about, but was kicking myself for never having let him throw me over his truck. Still, I had to ask if it was possible that there was some mental component to it all. “Perhaps it’s merely a matter of how tightly wound up a lady gets, or how turned on she is. I’m sure there’s a number of factors involved,” he conceded.

Several more interviews combined with years of experience under my belt (literally) leads me to conclude that the G-spot does exist, albeit with some limitations. Is it there? I believe it is. Are there additional factors that determine whether or not a woman gets off? Absolutely.

Ultimately though, it doesn’t really matter whether the G-spot is an actual part of a woman’s anatomy or a figment of her imagination. What matters is whether or not she’s being sexually satisfied. If believing she has a G-spot works for her, right on. If believing she doesn’t, that’s fine too. And if believing there’s a magical Leprechaun up there granting entry only to those deemed worthy of entering the gates, even better. In the end, I’m not sure what is to be gained by telling a woman that something she finds pleasurable is nothing more than folklore, fantasy or delusion. So despite what the scientists say I am holding firm. Women definitely have G-spots.

And also, Pluto is totally a planet.