The Vagenda

The G-Spot Diaries, Part Two

Growing up with a girl crush on Britney Spears (the wholesome 1999 version), I spent my teen years believing the G-spot was a hip hop indie metal band I wasn’t fashionable enough to like. So when women’s magazines introduced me to the infamous ‘walnut’, I was keen to discover more.

According to sextruction manuals, a ‘legs over shoulders, pillow under bum’ manoeuvre is enough to stimulate this mystical vadge button and provoke earth shattering orgasms. Of course, they fail to mention it’s a logistical impossibility for any woman in possession of a spine or internal organs. I felt more ‘hamster with Rigor mortis’ than wanton sex goddess in the throws of ecstasy. Finally, after some overly energetic lunging began to constrict my breathing, the whole shebang was abandoned in favour of a good old-fashioned spoon. 

Boyfriend number two was far more adventurous in the realms of G-spot exploration. But when his carefully structured four month search operation failed to render satisfactory results, he was forced to admit defeat. Perplexed by my problem, he said he was ‘sorry for me’, adding that it ‘worked on all his exes ‘. I ended up feeling sorry for myself too. Because if my acting skills were on par with Meg Ryan’s in When Harry Met Sally, I could’ve faked my way through every mediocre shag sesh without endless analysis of my dysfunctional vajayjay. So if men folk aren’t up to the job, why haven’t I tried it with sex toys? Well, call me vanilla, but poking a rampant rabbit around my foofy with military style precision isn’t my idea of a rocking Friday night. One year, my university flatmates bought me an inflatable ‘dildo chair’ as a Christmas gift. Ann Summers assured it would ‘increase G-spot stimulation and satisfaction’, but I could never bring myself to bounce around my bedroom on an eight inch fluorescent pink willy. Instead I named him Phil and used him as a deterrent against undesirable suitors.  

From the “King Warrior’s Donkey Ding Dong” to “Boris’ Bombastic Balls”, sex shop products come in one of two models; instrument of torture or male genitalia. And though I’m the first to admit boy’s bits serve a great purpose when attached to a guy you fancy, I’ve yet to come across a scrotum so magnificent I felt compelled to own my own synthetic replica. So despite shop assistants doggedly insisting that G-spot orgasms can be achieved at the touch of a button (or plastic testicle), I always leave these stores empty handed. (But if I do ever feel the overwhelming urge to shove a spiky rubber banana up my fanjo, I know where to go.) Luckily we sex toy phobic, G-spot bereft women need not despair. According to a recent Daily Mail article, help is on hand in the form of an £800 non surgical procedure. Promising to boost your love bean to the size of a 10 pence piece, this bargainous enhancement will ensure the elusive erogenous zone never gets lost again. I can see why you’re sceptical. You’re thinking WTF? It’s a fanny, not the black hole! Surely there’s only so many places to hide in four and half inches of vadge canal!? But a woman tried it out for a tabloid newspaper, so it must be true. 

Sadly for me, until I can afford to inject my muff with silicon sludge or they start selling G-spots on eBay, I’ll have to call off the search party. That said, if the right guy came along I’d be willing to resume investigations. I’m nothing if not persistent.

- Lizzie (twitter here, and blog here)

2 thoughts on “The G-Spot Diaries, Part Two

  1. God, I’ve had the ‘it worked with all my exes’ line used to me. SORRY TO BE SUCH A CHALLENGE, DUDE! SORRY TO WORK YOU SO HARD, DUDE!