Buzz: The Stimulating History of the Sex Toy

December 20th, 2018

Buzz: The Stimulating History of the Sex Toy starts with an introduction to home sex toy parties and the author’s own history as a salesperson. We learn firsthand how she was taught to push toys to bored housewives despite the very act being illegal in so many places. In her introduction, Hallie explains to the reader how she always had an interest in sex toys. And while she could no longer support companies that mislead their customers, her curiosity continued — enough to write the history of sex toys.
She continues on with the ancient history of sex toys (there are some photos of ancient devices and early sex toy ads included), which may be older than you think, and continues to bust some oft-touted stories about sex toys. Pop culture doesn’t always get it right, and our author wants us to know better.
In Buzz, the reader learns about the competing factions that helped to legitimize or, at least, make saleable sex toys. This includes seedy porn store operators, dedicated toy makers, feminists (both those for and against sex toys, especially dildos), mom-and-pop shops, and mega-corporations. Lieberman attempts to illustrate these forces while clearing supporting/promoting the feminist-run stores, a point-of-view I also agree with.
As readers, we learn about original stores such as The Pleasure Chest and Eve’s Garden. We discover the history of Good Vibes, Babeland, and masturbation month and feminists such as Joani Blank, Betty Dodson, Claire Cavanah, Del Williams, Susie Bright, and more who fought for sex toys and a woman’s sexual autonomy. Buzz discusses how seedy businessmen will always be businessmen, even while paying million-dollar fines and sitting in jail. The reader also has a chance to learn how far back the practice of using sex toys goes and how able-bodied people were able to experience sex toys due in part to their marketing as devices for people who were disabled.
Two other opposing forces that the author does a great job at depicting is how sex does indeed sell and how the American public and government railed against sex toys for so long. Lieberman lists case after historical case against sex toys. It’s amazing that any of the smaller stores or chains managed to stay in business while they were fighting the law and competing with unscrupulous competitors.
However, by trying to tackle every angle in Buzz, Lieberman has produced a book that is sometimes confusing and frazzled. These opposing forces are working simultaneously but the retelling is not quite as skillful as I would have liked.
For example, the author illustrates how important sex toys were as a way for women to revolt and yet how divisive toys were among feminists. Lieberman also dedicates time to discussing Friedan and Dodson, and while these women influence feminism and female sexuality greatly, this section seems to veer away from the topic (less time may have been spent on the biggest online retailer: Adam & Eve). Yet, we’re thrust back into it (no pun intended) with force when she introduces Ron Sturman, the founder of Doc Johnson and owner of numerous sex toy stores and distribution centers.
A large chunk of Buzz is dedicated to Doc Johnson, Sturman, his many business associates (including Ron Braverman) and the sordid history involved. It’s fascinating (and I have no idea how I didn’t come across more of this information/history before) but, at times, this book seems more like a history of that drama than an overall history of sex toys. Although the author does frame each chapter with a message about the progression of sex toys through the eras, it’s easy to forget that Buzz is not a book about Doc Johnson specifically; although, I suspect there’s enough history there that one could be written.
While Lieberman spends so much time on the Sturman era, much less time is dedicated to changes in sex toy culture in the 1990s and beyond. I suppose it may be too soon to write about the more recent drama, which I’ve experienced as a sex toy reviewer in the last decade, but it seems remiss for the author not to mention that Good Vibes bought out Babeland while referencing other sex toy news from 2017.
The author may have simply published this book too soon to mention smart sex toys and other advancements in sex tech, but there have been a lot of changes over the last few years that I would love to see chronicled. I suppose that will have to wait until the sequel.
Toward the end, Hallie writes perhaps the most forgiving description of Fifty Shades that I’ve ever heard while quickly (phew!) following it up with a warning that the sex toys used within those pages and sold and merchandise are acceptable because they still focus on sex toys as devices for couples to use and a woman’s sexuality as under the control of a man. The reader is reminded that all the progress we’ve made as a sexual society is impeded still.
Ms. Lieberman ends her book with a reminder that sex toys are important and not shameful, that we should not still feel ashamed about using or selling them, and they she personally will not be shamed. It’s a strong ending after a somewhat shaky middle.
Lieberman’s voice is the strongest and possesses the most clarity when she’s making those impassioned pleas. And I would have been thrilled to read a manifesto by Lieberman that lauded significance of sex toys when it comes to a woman’s autonomy and independence while highlighting the ways that sex toys remain unaccepted and in some jurisdictions illegal.
But Buzz is not that book. The strengths of Lieberman’s voice become lost in the making of this historical tome. Lieberman is not a bad writer, she simply attempted to write the wrong type of book. As a writer myself, I empathize. I, too, I’ve tried my hand at types of writing only to realize that they were not my forte. So while I look forward to what she might write in the future. I am not sure that Buzz is the strongest example of her talent.
With that said, I would recommend this book if you’re interested in the sordid history of Doc Johnson, the way that feminist leaders such as Dodson helped politicize sex toys, and the antics of at-home sexually parties. I plan on reading a similar book titled Vibrator Nation and posting my review of that here to compare with Buzz. Perhaps that book will garner my recommendation, but until now, I’m glad that I did read this book.

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A Lover’s Pinch: A Cultural History of Sadomasochism

December 15th, 2018

A Lover's Pinch: A Cultural History of Sadomasochism
%18.70 (Kindle) from Amazon

Although there are many books about S&M, most of them focus on the erotic or instructional. This isn’t the case with A Lover’s Pinch: A Cultural History of Sadomasochism, a book by kinkster Peter Tupper. This means that A Lover’s Pinch fills a void, and it dives to depths I couldn’t have imagined before I started reading.

A Lover’s Pinch is a deep dive that goes far beyond Leopold von Sacher-Masoch the Marquis de Sade. Admittedly, I wasn’t expected to read analyses of how religion, war, and slavery impacted our sexualities (and relevant imagery is included on some pages), but the author of this book is not afraid to broach those subjects.

I wouldn’t say that tricky subjects aren’t handled with care within these pages or that it’s un-PC, but the tone is sometimes decidedly frank. If you’re especially religious or still experience trauma from war or slavery, then A Lover’s Pinch might not be a book you wish to pick up (or you may wish to skip those specific chapters).

With this in mind, the book starts with a strong historical tone. The author touche on worldwide (sometimes longstanding) stereotypes of sex and power including the Orient as well as Nazis (and the strange, erotic movies inspired by them).  It’s, thorough and interesting to learn but definitely dry and perhaps not applicable to modern kinksters.

I found that A Lover’s Pinch really picked up as Tupper dove into Victorian England’s relationship with sex, one that is similar to that in modern America: both obsessed and prudish. As he analyzes the (not-so) secret kink in this era, describes the lives of specific individuals and introduces the reader to publications that deal with S&M, you really get a feel for how long we’ve been into power exchange in our sex (and lives). Of course, these ongoings are generally fragmented, and there isn’t much to speak of in terms of community.

The reader watches the community come and build together in the 20th century, and this is where I think Tupper does the best at describing how things really were. Yes, some men returned from war, donned leather vests, and continued to live within the structure they’d grown to know in the service by practicing S&M with other men. But the author describes how, for some, the leather community was not one that was sexual.

As the book — and time — progresses, we learn how the kink community overlaps with the gay community and how, slowly but surely, gay women and, eventually, straight people join the S&M community. Tupper discusses some of the better-known groups from across the country and world, including DC’s Black Rose, Janus, and the many gay and lesbian communities that supported — and sometimes opposed — such activities.

I was especially struck by the way that the book describes how some feminists railed against S&M as something that was misogynistic. I learned of similar opposition from feminists to sex toys, especially dildos when I read Buzz.

Tupper’s analysis of gay, lesbian, and straight S&M is important, and he impresses upon the reader how these communities are still separated in ways — and even the division within the leather/gay S&M communities due to an entire generation succumbing to AIDS. If there is a more overarching theme of A Lover’s Pinch, I don’t know what it is. While many people are into S&M, and there are groups in many major cities, it’s still as fragmented as the Android market.

Still, S&M has followed a similar trajectory as homosexuality, first ignored and denied, then pathologized and illegalized, next slowly decriminalized, increasingly understand, and, to some extent, accepted. Tupper skillfully draws the parallel.

It was interesting to see the progression from haphazardly-created communities and risky scenes to planned organizations (and to learn the origin of munches) to the adoption of the “Safe, Sane, Consensual” creed, which was never intended to guide an entire sexual subculture. In some ways, BDSM became commodified alongside these other cultural shifts.

My favorite chapter in this book may have been that on “Alt.sex”. Although I am too young to have used Usenet, I remember the days of HTML-based chatrooms, which may have been my own introduction to BDSM. Tupper discusses the usefulness (and lack thereof) of capitalization conventions and how S&M relationships have existed solely in the online realm. He touches on Gor communities and online roleplaying. I remember many of these things fondly, and while they’re in relatively recent past when it comes to the overall history of S&M (as this book does a good job at pointing out), my own memories from 15-20 years ago seem so long ago.

As the book wraps up, Tupper reveals his own interest in S&M and coming out, and how coming out is different for kinksters than those in the LGBTQIA+ community, especially when it comes to the still-existing ramifications for those who might like their sex on the kinky side. Tupper discusses specific cases as recent as 2001 in which S&M interests left people ostracized and unable to find employment. And this is all despite the strides society has made to accept those who practice consensual S&M.

Finally, the author makes the case that S&M has both expanded sex and brought the idea of consent to the forefront in sexual and nonsexual interactions. He makes a nod to Fifty Shades while arguing that thanks to its popularity, BDSM is more visible than ever but still not part of the mainstream because the story wraps mild kink in a package of acceptable hetero romance. In comparison to this and other pop culture representations, BDSM can much more extreme, and mainstream portrayals still struggle to get it right.

On the other hand, Peter Tupper has worked hard to “get it right” in A Lover’s Pinch. His hard work is noticeable. It’s easy to appreciate the research that went into making this history of sadomasochism.

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FemmeFunn Diamond Wand Vibrator

December 9th, 2018

Femmefunn Diamond Wand
65.00 from Peepshow Toys

The FemmeFunn Diamond Wand Vibrator is not the vibrator you reach for when you want to feel full, stretched impossibly. This vibrator won’t give you the satisfaction of overcoming a seemingly impossible obstacle.

Nor is the Diamond Wand the toy you want for intense textural stimulation, even though the diamond texture is visible on the shaft.

And if you want firm clitoral pressure while using this vibrator externally, you’ll likely be disappointed with it.

This isn’t a toy that’s long enough to use for A-spot stimulation (there are 6 insertable inches, but you’re going to have to sacrifice some of this if you want to actually hold the toy), and I cannot recommend it for safe anal play.

The Diamond Wand wasn’t made for precise movement, either.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t a high note to start a review on, and you’d be correct in that thinking. However, it’s my way of explaining that while the FemmeFunn Diamond Wand might not good at everything, it could be good at something.

I realize this is a departure for my usual review style. It’s not that I want a toy that’s capable of stimulating my G-spot, clitoris, nipples, perineum, or ass whenever I choose. I know that sometimes trying to do too much leads to a toy’s downfall, much like GVibe 2, but I also look for a toy to have the capacity to work in multiple ways in case I don’t love using it in a specific way, perhaps the most obvious use of the toy.

This brings me to the FemmeFunn Diamond Wand, At first use, it was underwhelming. While the toy has a contoured head, there’s no curve to the shaft. The shaft, while flexible, is too narrow to warrant a second thought. And while I anticipated feeling something from the texture of the toy, I just didn’t.

One upside is that the vibrations were reasonably strong and not overly buzzy.

To be honest, I put the FemmeFunn Diamond Wand away for months before I picked it up again. It was just one of those toys that had let me down upon my first experience, and I wasn’t thrilled to try it again.

I am one of the people for whom first impressions matter a lot. If I don’t like a toy off the bat, I will probably never like it. That’s just how it goes.

So imagine my surprise when I finally picked up the Diamond Wand again and felt my mind change little by little.

The first thing I realized was that the tapered head of the vibrator was ideal for the first time I’d been interested in penetration in months. It was easy and comfortable. A point for the Diamond Wand.

And while the narrow, flexible shaft may not have been great for pressure or precise moments, I could bend the toy enough for G-spot stimulation. There’s enough resistance that I cannot call it “floppy.” And it works.

I even forgave this vibrator for not being thrustable because I tend to stroke my G-spot more slowly. Being able to bend the shaft provided me enough G-spot stimulation to squirt with ease — and a surprising amount of force.

This vibrator is surprisingly powerful for its large size, and the lowest setting isn’t entirely buzzy. Unfortunately, the buzz increases almost exponentially as you increase press the single button on the base to cycle through the three steady vibration modes.

If you can get over the buzz, the pulsations are backed by impressive oomph. In fact, as I hold the Diamond Wand in my hand and shift through settings, the vibration makes the toy turn over in my hand.

The 20 modes of vibration are probably overkill. There are 17 levels alone of pulsation or escalation, which includes fast and slow pulses, flutters, and waves. At first, I thought the vibrator turned on to the last-used setting, but there’s actually a random pulsation before the three levels of steady vibration. It takes an inordinate amount of time to cycle through all three. And although most people probably aren’t doing that during routine use, I think if manufacturers are going to have that many vibration modes, then a second button is a must. I would rather make the argument that no toy really needs 20 settings, however.

So where does this leave us? The Diamond Wand serves a limited function but one that’s useful enough for me to keep it around. I would be remiss if I didn’t recommend this toy for those who like pinpoint clitoral stimulation. It doesn’t give me the pressure I need, but if you don’t mind slight buzziness, it’s quite powerful.

I also want to mention that the USB cable that the Diamond Wand comes with is nearly identical to that of a few other toys I own, so keep it separated or labeled to save yourself the hassle.

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November 2018 Media Recommendations

November 28th, 2018

The last month has really flown by. I feel like I was just writing last month’s media recommendations. Yet, I’m unsure exactly what I’ve done since then. It hasn’t been writing reviews.

Nor did I watch anything to include in this month’s recommendations. I’ve been reading — but no books I haven’t already mentioned. I did listen to some fantastic podcasts this month, however.

I’ll hopefully return next month with a few more book recommendations and the list won’t be quite so short. This also means a couple of upcoming book reviews!

In the meantime, I put out a call on Twitter for more podcast recommendations. I’m familiar with about a dozen, several of which I regularly listen to, but I’d love to know what my readers are listening to and why they think I might enjoy it.

 

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Science of Sex: Arousal, Disgust, and Decision Making

November 24th, 2018

Welcome to November’s issue of Science of Sex, wherein I tackle issues about human sexuality. Why do we do that? How do we know? This month, I discuss another issue related to arousal (although I’ve barely scratched the surface, it seems) and what happens when the arousal cycle ends.

I hope you enjoy this article, and if you’re interested in more, check out the Science of Sex archives.

science of sex - arousal disgust decision making

Initially, I was just going to write about the interplay between arousal and disgust, but sexual arousal affects so many of our systems — especially cognitive ability.

If you’ve given a thought to how being aroused affects your thinking process, you’ve probably realized how easy it is to make poor decisions when aroused. Anecdotally, I have risked my sexual health by not using condoms, but foregoing protection and birth control is only one example of this risk. Arousal might lead you to have sex with someone who is a bad choice (an ex, a friend, someone with whom romantic feelings are unbalanced, etc). Disgust plays a role in why most people don’t have sex with family members; although, Science of Sex: Genetic Sexual Attractionsome people do.

Studies have even found that a woman’s attractiveness can influence whether a man chooses to use a condom during sexual activity with her.

Less obvious and perhaps more indirectly related to cognitive ability is how arousal seems to lower disgust, at least, in some individuals. Researchers theorize that disgust evolved as a way to keep us away from potentially dangerous things. So humans developed aversions to things that are dirty and “yucky,” such as fecal matter, bodily fluids (urine, blood, semen etc), and even actual dirty in our environment. It makes sense that arousal would inhibit disgust because sex involves precisely some of those things.

This interplay explains why you might be more open to the idea of a certain sexual activity, say, anal sex, once you’re already aroused than you would be “cold.”

You might even notice disgust returned once the arousal cycle has completed, either through orgasm or simply subsiding over time. This can manifest as disgust or guilt toward yourself or partners after sex. If you’ve ever found yourself completely disinterested in any sexual activity, then you know what I mean. As you’re frantically closing every browser tab once you’ve finished masturbating because you cannot stand to see it, you’re experiencing the return of disgust.

At least one study finds that this isn’t the case with women. This could perhaps be due to arousal non-concordance: a woman’s mental and physical arousal is typically less in sync than a man’s. The canceling out of disgust when aroused that men experienced could simply be an effect of their higher levels of arousal concordance.

Arousal continues to affect our system in other ways, too. Sexual arousal is often accompanied with the promise of sexual gratification through either solo or partnered activity. Dopamine receptors activate when aroused, which is one reason sexual tension can feel so good. The promise of sexual reward can also encourage poor decision making. The drain of dopamine and hormones after your arousal cycle completes can also contribute to negative post-masturbation or post-sex feelings.

This is also related to post-sex blues (described as postcoital dysphoria in research), something that women experience more frequently than men. As hormones decrease in your body after a sexual experience, you might feel down even if the sexual encounter was enjoyable.

I suspect that arousal inhibits or overrides a number of feelings and responses that we either don’t yet know about or understand, and I look forward to telling my readers about them in a later post.

Further Reading

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Why I Don’t Tell People I’m a Sex Educator (Even Though I Should)

November 16th, 2018

It’s only been this year that I have come around to calling myself a sex educator. I am late in the game compared to some of my fellow bloggers and authors, perhaps because I failed to see how this hobby could become a legitimate career for anyone. Before this, I would describe myself as a freelance writer who often, but not always, wrote about sex. While this isn’t wrong, it’s not the complete picture. I compartmentalized the work I am paid for and the words I write on this blog, despite much of it being about sex and despite that some of my working relationships originated because of this blog.

It’s 2018, I have been writing about sex, toys, and relationships in this blog for over a decade, and I have finally accepted myself as a sex educator. Yet, I am still hesitant to be upfront about what I do for work.

When people ask about my job as a writer, I usually gloss over the specifics. The reasons are twofold and while explaining how copywriting on the Internet works and reassuring people that, yes, you can get paid for that, the bigger hangup I have is that I so often write about sex. It’s not my own shame that prevents me from answering honestly; although, others sometimes respond in that manner, which I’ll touch on later.

No, it’s the response, almost always from straight men. It’s the assumption that any mention of sex, no matter how intellectual or removed from my own preferences, is viewed by these people as an invitation to pry into my personal sex life. Specifically, these men want to know if my interest in writing about sex, which must be spurred by a personal interest in sex, will lead me to sleep with them.

Then comes the question. To be fair, it’s not exactly one question. It’s simply the type of question that follows what was previously a non-sexual discussion. The question often pries into whether it’s my sexual interest that inspired me to write about sex. Of course, this is the case for me and plenty of other sex educators. I know this. You, my readers, know this. But that’s not the point.  People will take any mention of sex as an invitation to ask invasive questions or as a segue to discussing sex with them.

Let me make it clear: just because I talk about sex for my job doesn’t mean I want to talk about my personal sex life with you.

Sex coach and erotica writer Stella Harris discussed this briefly in an episode of American Sex about sexual communication. Stella, like myself, is a sex educator. Ms. Harris mentioned how disheartening it can be when these discussions happen because people may be so starved of any opportunity to discuss sex or because they “conflate the job with the person,” losing the decorum people usually abide by. I immediately knew what Ms. Harris meant when she said this about interactions with female-presenting people who are sex educators:

gives them license to be overly intimate right away

Although I would never classify myself as highly as someone who is certified as a sex coach, I have come to realize how valuable it is for as many people as possible to discuss sex in a positive and healthy way. In doing so, I have “invited” some of the same unwanted attention that Stella Harris discussed. And it’s not fun.

I write about sex and may be willing to talk about sex intellectually and hypothetically with you, but I don’t want to talk about my own sex life or my preferences. This is not an invitation for a man to fish to see if I might be willing to sleep with him and, dear god, I certainly don’t want dick pics from anyone with whom I have not already established a sexual rapport.

I do not want my personal space, safety or comfort invaded in the way that men so often do when the subject comes up. Yet they continue to fail to see how inappropriate their questions are.

While I have thus far focused on my interactions with men, I’ve noticed a different trend in some people when I reveal what I do for a living. Instead of creeping on me, they respond with coquettish giggles or hushed whispers. I realize both of these responses are due to society not discussing sex often or positively enough, in part because I was once guilty of the same behavior. Sometimes people are so starved for discussions about sex that they act giddy because it’s oh-so-naughty to do so. But there’s a place for knowing winks among friends, and it’s usually not when I am in sex-educator mode.

There’s no doubt that sex is concomitantly on display and hidden away in American culture. Those people who want to talk to sex may resort to hushed tones because they have never been taught how. And others may respond with shame because they have been taught that sex is something we don’t speak about.

That ties into how men react when they find out that I’m a sex educator. No matter the response, it’s based in the way that sex is shrouded. The response I often receive when people learn that I am a sex educator devalue the work I do because society devalues sex.

People probably don’t mean it, but because they don’t see sex as something that should be talked about, let alone something that needs to be discussed, they respond with giggles or jump straight to intimacy that is unearned. It’s not their fault if they’ve never been taught anything else.

Truthfully, this makes educating people about sex all the more important because they don’t treat the subject with the respect it deserves. They haven’t realized how significant sex can be to a satisfying life let alone a relationship. They fail to understand that an inability to discuss sex with partners leads to orgasm inequality, breeding resentment, boredom, and potentially cheating. People have yet to learn the basics of anatomy, physiology, and psychology that play very real roles in the sex they have — or don’t have. And this dearth of knowledge leads to risky sexual decisions including those that sometimes lead to sex.

The fact that some people try to change the subject or hem and haw over my job as a sex educator and others try to force themselves into my sex life when they realize that I write about sex means I need to keep talking about it. I’ve read the comments and emails from readers whose sex lives have somehow improved after reading my work, and I know there are people who have yet to stumble upon the information that will transform them and their understanding of sex, even if the information is presented by someone else.

I’ve stated that we don’t talk about sex often or correctly enough so many times that it might as well be my mantra, but it’s sadly as true today as it was when I started this blog a decade ago, and the interactions that follow after I explain to people that I am a sex educator prove it. I will continue to use myself as an example and continue to educate about sex, even if it leaves me open to inappropriate comments because I know how valuable sex education is — always will be. 

If I, and others like me, keep talking about sex, we may eventually see a world where people make smarter decisions about sex and more fully experience their sexualities and, perhaps, when someone reveals to another person that they are a sex educator, their audience will respond with, “Wow! I respect what you do.”

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Science of Sex: Why Do Genitals Look Like That?

October 27th, 2018

In this installment of Science of Sex, we take a look at why genitals look the way they do. Surprise: it’s for reproduction. Keep reading if you want to learn a bit more, however.

Originally I was just going to focus on testicles, which are surprisingly more interesting than I had been lead to believe. However, I couldn’t help myself from going down the rabbit hole and touching on other genitals.

Note: The language in this post is cisnormative because I am focusing on reproduction alone.

science of sex - why genitals look that way

Testicles and ovaries are the two types of gonads or reproductive organs; although, the scrotum is more analogous to the labia. Both split down the middle, and the scrotum even has a “seam.”

Anyone who has seen a certain Seinfeld episode is familiar with shrinkage, which occurs when the body is cold, and the genitals retract closer to the body. It’s the cremasteric muscle that’s responsible for pulling in the testicle.

The muscle doesn’t just pull the testicles up and down. Each testicle has its own orbit, so they’ll hang unevenly. Apparently, the right testicle usually hangs higher than the left. Some suggest that this is also a defense mechanism should one testicle become harmed; the other may remain safe. But anatomist Stany Lobo suggests that testicular orbit maximizes space for each testicle, allowing it to remain cool enough.

The current theory is that testicles and the sperm inside them remain slightly cooler than the man’s body by about 3 degrees Celsius (cooler temperatures at night lead to descended scrotums, which may play into why humans so often have sex after dark), but the heat of a woman’s vagina and uterus reactivates the sperm, which are able to survive at those temperatures for the amount of time it would take to fertilize an egg (approximately 50 minutes to 4 hours). Voila!

As best as we can tell, the comparatively-large human penis is designed mostly for pleasure. A larger penis may attract and keep more mates.

The shape of the penis also aids conception. The large, contoured head acts a bit like a shovel as it thrusts into a vagina. This doesn’t necessarily benefit conception by a man’s sperm, but it does displace sperm for any previous partners a woman may have had. A larger corona and more vigorous thrusting can also increase the sperm-displacing effect.

The refractory period prevents a male from re-entering his partner and displacing his own sperm, aiding the continuation of his lineage.

The vagina and uterus are obviously shaped for penile penetration. However, the position of the organs aids reproduction in another way. Before our ancestors walking upright, the uterus tilted to aid “doggy” style sex. When our ancestors did become bipedal, the uterus tilted. One theory posits that to aid face-to-face sex, female lips became more pronounced and darkened in color (mimicking her labia) to attract a mate. I imagine those same characteristics attracted mates to female partners, especially when swollen and darkened due to arousal.

Interestingly, I have yet to come across a lot of information about the shape of the vulva. Perhaps the penis does most of the work when it comes to reproduction. And researchers have yet to come to a conclusion on whether female orgasm aids or hinders conception.

Like the foreskin protects the glans, clitoral foreskin protects the clitoral shaft (which extends deep below the surface). The labia also provide protection for the vagina, which is further protected by the hymen, stretchy tissue around the vaginal opening that can sometimes cover it.

The vagina itself balloons outward during arousal, a process known as vaginal tenting, that makes intercourse easier. The elongation of the vagina reduces penile impact against the cervix, which many women find uncomfortable or painful. No one wants to reproduce if it hurts, after all.

It’s interesting that despite all these adaptations, sex can still be so uncomfortable, especially for women. But perhaps nature’s focus on reproduction is why issues of pleasure, comfort, and connection are so often overlooked.

Further Reading

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