For Bestie or for Worse

My best friend, Karina, can have multiple orgasms when the ceiling fan blows her the right way.  As for me, the closest thing I’ve had to multiples involved two guys named Ben and Jerry, and lemme tell ya, there was a lotta spooning going on.  I hate to admit it, but there is a little bit of clitoral competition between Karina and me.  What I hate to admit even more is that I’m losing.

Karina knows nothing of the depths of my passion pitfalls.  She’s been my bestie since we were in diapers and probably will be until Shady Acres puts us back in them.  But, adult incontinence notwithstanding, not even our airtight friendship can protect against my secret getting leaked.  What would happen to my practice if it got out that I can’t do for myself the very thing I help my patients do to themselves – and to others?  But it’s not just about protecting my professional reputation.  I fear that what I’m really protecting is my ego.  Am I breaking the vows of best friendship by not loving all the notches on Karina’s no-chastity belt?

If Karina knew I couldn’t have orgasms, everybody would know, because Karina has a big mouth, which she uses in a myriad of ways with a merry-go-round of sexual partners.  And, like any good best friend (especially the bestie of a sex therapist), Karina can’t stop herself from telling me all about her sexual exploits.  And I wish she would. Stop herself.

Karina: “Ooh, Lainey, remember that guy…you know…the one with the foot fetish and the rent controlled apartment in Weho?”

Me: “No.” (I totally remember)

Karina: “Well. I didn’t remember him either until I saw him at the Sports Club yesterday. Then I remembered him six times back at his place!”

Or…

Karina: “Ooh, Lainey, did I tell you about that bi-curious hand model I met at the Ralph’s on Ventura and Alcove in Studio City?”

Me: “No.” (She totally did)

Karina: “Well, she ain’t curious anymore!  I bought her some Palmolive and killed that kitty all weekend long.  That stuff softens hands while you do a lot more than dishes!”

Is Karina over-sharing, or am I just over-sensitive because, no matter how soft the hands are, my kitty’s still curious?  I don’t like keeping things from my bestie, but I also don’t like competing in a game I haven’t figured out how to win.  So, what do you think, girls?  When it comes to comparing coital conquests, do you say, “I do” or don’t you?

Sincerely,
Dr. Lainey Toussaint
(I'm not a doctor, but soon to play one on TV)

The Politics of the Punani

Sometimes my pillow talk feels like a presidential debate.  Two relatively sane adults playing nice while not so subtly plotting to get their own way.  Though Jim Lehrer isn’t usually the moderator of my mattress, and I’m generally quite happy when my coital opponent goes over the 2-minute timer, I’m too often left feeling much like an undecided voter…as if the more aggressive candidate doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, and the smart one isn’t getting the job done.

Jobs.  The buzzword of the 2012 election season.  We talk a lot about jobs in my line of work too…hand, blow, snow, the trickle-down (use your imagination with that one).  And just like out there, in here on my couch, a lotta folks really want one, but have given up trying to find a good one.

Which brings me to my patient, Lilly (names are changed to protect the not-so-innocent).  Lilly has started to develop a pretty significant resentment against her boyfriend…we’ll call him Border-Crossing-Chris.  Lilly’s been working overtime with all her jobs, particularly hand and blow.  In the politics of punani, Lilly has taken reaching across the aisle to a whole new level.  The poor girl has developed a pretty serious case of carpal tunnel, and is well on her way to permanent lockjaw, all in the name of appeasement.  And for all her hard work, Chris just heads straight across the border !!!  He does not pass GO, does not collect $200, just guns it for the punani promised land.  Well.  Lilly’s had enough.  She’s secured her southern border so tight, Arizona is calling her for ideas.  So now, nothing’s getting in, but Lilly’s orgasm is dying to get out.  How do Lilly and Chris cross the punani political divide and save their sex life?

I have to reach into the annals of my own political history to help my patients, but often, they end up helping me.  Lilly and Chris’s problem forces me to ask myself, in the arena of intercourse discourse, have I been too politically correct with the punani?

Maybe I made nice a little bit too often, when I should have more aggressively asserted my needs.  C’mon girls, who amongst us haven’t let the south rise again…and again…and again…all the while, wishing our partners would pay more attention to the rest of the landscape?  What about the east coast?  Or the west? Personally, I’d like a little more attention paid to the Black Hills of Tennessee?  And though I counseled Lilly to verbalize to Chris her desire to add zones 1,2, and 3 to their foreplay, I must admit, with my ex, sometimes I just voted absentee.  I phoned it in.  Licked it, stamped it, and just let him ram it my box.  Lilly took my advice and told Chris the truth.  Lilly has now opened up her border again, and Chris has promised her no illegal entry.  Their punani peace treaty made me realize that the truth is, in the past, I’ve preferred to leave the debates to the presidential candidates, and the arguing to the pundits.   But if I’m going to find my deepest orgasm in the next 364 days, I’m going to have to get to the point and stop Romneying, i.e. stop talking about what the last guy did wrong, and start talking about what I really want and what I’m willing to do to get it.

We Are the 75%ers

There's a lot of hubbub and ballywho around percentages lately.  The 99%ers who will never achieve super richdom.  The 47% who will never register in Mitt Romney's scope of interest.  But mums the word on the 75% of women who will never achieve vaginal orgasm.  Okay.  It is, admittedly, a bit of a buzzkill.  But the fact that a considerable majority of the fairer sex isn't achieving orgasm as easily as the unfairer sex is...well...un-friggin-fair.

So.  If YOU aren't part of the 75%, and your best-friend who insists on recounting her mind-numbing sexual exploits to you every Sunday over mimosas and egg white omelets isn't part of the 75%, and your upstairs neighbor Brad-the-Bastard-Bachelor's freak of the week booty calls definitely don't sound like they are part of the 75%...who is?  Do the statistics lie or do we?  I challenge you to conduct a sexy survey, and ask the men in your life if they've ever had a woman "fake it" with them.  I dare to guess that more than 25% of them will say "no".  Poor gullible chaps.  They just don't know.  Or they just don't care.  The real question is, do we?

In this 50 Shades of Sex & the City society, it certainly doesn't seem like sexual serenity is a problem for American women.  When's the last time you saw a romantic comedy's climactic sex scene end in anti-climax?  How often did we see Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, or Samantha's oh, oh, oh's turn into...meh?  Do we tolerate the promulgation of this sexual propaganda for the sake of fantasy?  Or do we just wanna believe that at least some girls really do get to have all that fun?  Whatever the reason, I'm putting the kabosh on the, "oh, oh, oh my gosh!"  I'm going, "look ma, no hands!"  I'm talkin', "bring out the lie detector, Maury" because my days of FAKIN' IT are finito!  In the next 365 days I'm going to do something I haven't done in 35 years...have a hands-free, toy-free, guilt-free vaginal orgasm.  I don't care what it takes.  If I gotta change my diet, my man, or my mind, I will not stop 'til I get enough!

If you're part of the 75%ers, take this challenge with me.  Send me your tricks and revelations as you walk the sexual road less traveled to happy destiny.  I'm doing this for the 75% !!!  Wait.  No.  That's a giant effin' lie.  And this is now a no-lie zone.  I'm doing this for me.  I'm doing this because I've given many men mind-blowing, eyes-rolling, body-shaking, earthquaking orgasms when all they've given me was a sore throat and a headache.  Except, of course, the Bartender.  It wasn't the big-O with the Bartender, but he got O so close.  I'm talkin' L, M, N, and P close.  And if you can figure out what that stands for, you will appreciate just how close I'm talkin'.  But whether it's the uncommon size and sexual stamina of the Bartender, or the tender loving caress of my ex-fiance whom I lovingly refer to as the lost-Cosby-kid, I know it's not about the man.  I don't yet know what it is about, exactly.  But, dammit, I'm gonna find out.

And if my mom is reading this...it wasn't that "many men".

Okay. From this point forward, this is a no-lie zone.

Sincerely,
Dr. Lainey Toussaint
(I'm not a doctor, but soon to play one on TV)