Another week, another bit of G-spot news. Does it exist? Doesn’t it? Are you a Richard Dawkins or an Archbishop of Canterbury (Cuntebury?) The debate, which alarmingly seems to be dominated by sciency white men, is somewhat wearing, so we decided to just ask some real women. Hence the G-Spot diaries, part one…
“I bet I can do it- I’ll find the fucker… Just pass me your vibrator.”
That’s where this story starts. Me, naked on my back, legs akimbo. My then boyfriend on his knees in front of me, peering into the depths of my vagina. I wasn’t drunk. At all. He was on a par with most characters in Hunter. S. Thompson’s novels. I was shaking my head and staring at the ceiling thinking of ways to get out of the impending embarrassment. His embarrassment- not mine. I have no shame when I have a man between my legs.
Let me fill you in on why this story started in the first place. The boyfriend and I had been out at a bar with some friends and I had (in front of everyone) admitted to having never had an orgasm with a cock before. I didn’t see this revelation in any way damaging. All the girls there were all nodding in agreement but the men were all looking at my boyfriend like he had asked them what football was.
Self-diagnosing himself with a shattered ego, the boyfriend proceeded to inform me that I obviously didn’t have a G-spot. I corrected him (I am a horrible person) and said, “No, no- you obviously just don’t know where it is.” So now you know why he was drunk and what “the fucker” is.
Back to me on my back.
So I lent towards my bedside table and took out my vibrator with a tremendous sigh and handed it to him. He had now started to sway in front of me. He held up my vibrator, examining it like it was a screwdriver. He then said, “Right” like a first-time gynecologist and lent towards me as he started jabbing my thigh. With my vibrator.
Still lying on my back, I ran a hand through my hair. “This isn’t working…” I am so thankful to hear him say. I sit up but just as I am about to speak he continues “…it doesn’t work, its not moving”. I wince at the word “moving”- ‘its not a worm’ I think as I turn it on and collapse back to my horizontal position of shame.
For as long as I can take, I let my drunken boyfriend jab my thigh and lower stomach. I didn’t even bother to make courteous enjoyment noises, which he didn’t seem to even notice. He sporadically said things like, “mmm you like that don’t you” which I found disturbing as I was totally mute during the whole ‘stabbing’ episode.
Eventually I gave in and guided my own vibrator inside my vagina. Normal procedure of-course but I had never felt so cold towards my favorite implement of pleasure before. I was about as wet for it as the Sahara in July. ‘Surely he can work out the rest’ I thought to myself. Alas not. He started to dig my vibrator around my cervix as though he was looking for a lost sock under a bed. He kept saying, “urm, is that…” and “hmmm, there? No…?”
Eventually he seemed to find what he was ‘looking for’ as he nudged me one last time before just leaving my vibrator inside me, whirring around obediently. He then sat up. My eyes darted around the ceiling while I frowned, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. I threw out a, “everything alright?” to the room. He replied, “I’m waiting.”
I was genuinely perplexed by this reply. I pulled my head up from the pillow to see what he is doing down there. He was just sitting crossed legged in front of my open legs, hands on his hips, still swaying. “What are you waiting for?” I ask him, a little annoyed now. He seemed confused by this and pointed at the vibrator in my vagina, “Well I found it…Your G-Spot…its there.” Total silence from me. If he had found anything it’s more likely to be my ovaries. Where the vibrator was resting was giving me was the same feeling as when I had had my last ovarian ultra sound. I muttered, “I know where my G-spot is and its not there…” He interrupted me by slurring out, “Its your turn now…so do it.” I sighed, “You want me to cum? Are you being serious?” He half shrugged before pointing at my vagina again- as if I hadn’t noticed what was going on- as if I wasn’t aware of what a talented explorer he had become. A talented moron more like.
At this point my vibrator was as tired as I was as its batteries had started giving out. I lay back down and quickly decided that the only way to end the whole scenario immediately was to moan and writhe as good old Meg Ryan has taught us all.
Into the second octave of my orgasm recital (I have been known to use up to 4 octaves depending on which rendition of ‘fake’ I am going for) I heard snoring. I sat up to see the boyfriend, still in seated position, with his head against the wall, fast asleep. And that is where I left him. I took the duvet and slept on the sofa, which obviously perplexed him immensely by the time he woke up. What confused him most was apparently waking up to my vibrator leaning against his inner thigh.
Waking up to this scene- me not in my own bed, him with a vibrator for a duvet- meant he conjured up his own story in which he believed that he had drunkenly tried to use my vibrator on himself to night before, which had freaked me out enough to go sleep on the sofa. I never had the heart to tell him the truth. Plus I enjoyed him ‘making it up to me’ far better than my vibrator had the night before.
He never did find my G-Spot though…