A song in the key of g

I don’t know about you, but it has taken me years to make friends with my g-spot. Decades, even. My clit and I had that magical connection you feel with that weird-hot guy you’ve seen around, you know because you go to the same clubs and bookstores and used clothing shops, and then something happens, some strange serendipitous act throws you together like perfect salad ingredients—like dried cranberries and crumbled gorgonzola, say—and you both realize in a blinding white epiphany that you were lovers just waiting to happen.

My clit and I were like that: fast friends on first acquaintance. My g-spot and I, not so much.

It might be because it’s so reclusive, like Greta Garbo, shrouded in the obscuring silk scarf of my vaginal walls. All tucked up inside, under, and away, the g-spot hides behind the stony prominence of the pubic bone, like a star cowering under a paparazzi siege. The g-spot is a small thing, easy to overlook in fumbling explorations. It doesn’t stick out or pop up or do much of anything to announce its presence. Wearing latex gloves, you’d miss the slight cat-tongue roughness of the g-spot.

I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that more than its mere reclusivity, the g-spot is also like fine wine: it takes time to mature. I don’t have any hard evidence on this hypothesis, no scientific studies, no empiric substantiation, nothing more than a long and searching self-analysis, nothing but my own experience upon which to reflect and wonder how the exact and precise hell I missed this seat of pleasure for so many years.

I “knew” about my g-spot from the time I was about fifteen when, in an intensely uncomfortable conversation with my father, my dad blurted out that female sex organs had as many nerves as a male’s, but that they were spread out in “various nodes and nodules.” I remain unsure exactly what motivated my usually taciturn dad to tell me this information. Maybe he himself had just found out and needed to share his discovery. Maybe he wanted to nip in my adolescent bud any penis envy. Maybe he thought he was doing me a service. My reaction was a typically teen-age one. I think I said, “Huh,” and changed the subject.

Being the atavistic autodidact that I am, I had to search out for myself the various purposes of my nodes and nodules and I discovered in reading books the existence of this mythical spot. I “knew,” then, of its existence. I knew the g-spot wasn’t like leprechauns or unicorns: it existed. I just couldn’t actually find it on my body. Not for years. And I searched. Hard.

Eventually, after many years of spelunking in my own pussy and in that of others, I found it. It felt like the books said it would: slightly different in texture, slightly rough, slightly spongy. When I pressed on it, I needed to pee. I had found it, Eureka! I exclaimed. And then I thought, who cares? Because, frankly, I didn’t get the big. I rubbed the spot. I touched it, I played with it, and all I got for my trials was a feeling much like “meh.” Give me my clit, I thought. At least that was unquestionably pleasurable. I couldn’t parse this strange shadow sensation of my g-spot; it felt like a pleasure hiding under some other weird and unnamable feeling. I didn’t get it.

And then a change. A shift. A strange turn. And recently, sometime in the past few years, when suddenly my g-spot stopped feeling alien and faintly uncomfortable to touch, when suddenly, I craved its being caressed. When suddenly, I ached for it. When suddenly, I felt a keening need for it to be pushed, prodded, rubbed, pressed, and done repeatedly and harder and now. When, suddenly, just touching my clit could not get me off. When, suddenly, my clit seemed to work only in partner with this mysterious spot, this Greta Garbo, who used to just want to be left alone.

These days, when I masturbate, when I am fucked with fingers or toys or whatever, when I lie back and enter that hot red languor that precedes orgasm, I find myself doing weird uncontrollable dances. My hips move in new and unforeseen ways, primal and deep are these unknowable dances, choreographed by that demanding little demon spot, these strange contact improvs as I come close closer closest to coming. When my pelvis is willed from within to jump jump at the touch, the press, the flicker-fuck on that secret sweet spot, singing long and low and eerie sweet in the key of g.