Why you should care
Because if sex were easy, everyone would do it … badly.
EUGENE, SIR: What the hell is a G-spot? I’ve read that all women have one, but I’ve never been able to tell that my G-spot has any different sensation than any other part of my anatomy in that, uh … location. Is there some sort of button we are forgetting to push, or is there simply no electricity run to this part of the house? — G-Unit
Dear See Spot Run:
Are you really going to trust a German doctor — Ernst Gräfenberg, to be exact — and a man who died in 1957 (and who was sent down this research path by a 17th-century Dutch physician named Regnier de Graaf) to have any great and accurate insight into what’s happening in your vagina today by way of the spot that carries his name? The fact that he developed the IUD notwithstanding, I’d be just as likely to trust him as I would be likely to trust a female physician’s advice on how to handle my penis through the rocky shoals of penis handling. Sorry. I mean, book-learning gets you only so far. Well, book-learning and cadavers, but still you might get my point.
Which is, outside extraterrestrial life, cancer, good “reality” TV and the existence of God, anything else we’ve been puzzling our way through trying to figure out for the past 74 years, we’ve gotten pretty much squared away. And the fact that we’ve not managed to do so with the so-called G-spot, a mystical place about 2 to 3 inches up the inside front wall of the vagina that’s supposed to unlock a whole heavenly host of ecstatic, means we’re fully ready, willing and able to call bullshit on it.
Like snipe hunts, we figure the whole G-spot dodge is all about keeping women focused on the fact that there’s yet one more thing they fail at — all while conveniently diverting attention away from the reality that women who are having really super-phenomenal sex aren’t worried at all about whether or not they have a G-spot. I’d be a little less confident in this assertion if there were some medical consensus that it exists (there is not) or if even, anecdotally, I’d heard anybody in all my years expressing any other viewpoint than the one that framed your question, but I have not.
But because it’s not all about me, I’ve gone to our go-to medical guru, Dr. Steve Ballinger. “I think women have many areas that may or may not be ‘activated,’ and I have no idea what switches them on or off.” And then after a long, pensive pause. “Female sexuality is very complex. Very, very, very complex. Really, super, extra …”
You get the point.
EUGENE, SIR: I have a question about male midlife crisis. Does it really exist, or is it an excuse for being a scumbag? My husband confessed that during a period of a month, he “made out with four other women while very drunk.” He said that they did not have sex. I was able to contact two of the women to verify this. He has been faithful and a good man until this point, to my knowledge and according to him. Did he have temporary insanity due to a “midlife crisis,” or has he just been a scumbag waiting for the right moment to finally be himself? — Feeling Cheated
Dear Secretaries + Sports Cars:
Look, even if it did exist, does that make it less scumbaggish? But what noted experts call “midlife crisis” — something that may or may not be backed up by real hormonal shifts with a solid base in real biology — I’m fully comfortable calling existential panic. The same kind of hysteria that drives a man to rob a bank or wear a toupee is closely aligned with what happens when he looks across the dinner table at his wife of 20 years and considers the rather real ramifications of “til death do us part” and realizes that that period, to quote Prince, is a mighty long time.
In your instance, this is more than ably supported by the fact that during a four-week period your husband got drunk enough to mack on four separate women, causing me to think that:
1) Alcohol is his enemy;
2) Whatever job he has that lets him get as drunk as often as he does, I want; and
3) Let’s not confuse his lack of opportunity with a virtue.
But to address your query, he’s very much not going gently into this good night and so you should be prepared for a guy, who I still largely consider a “good man,” to be dealing with the fact that unless he lives until he is 104, he’s a little bit beyond middle-aged. And at this point it’s all about how he chooses to deal that makes all the difference in the world. While I’m sure your friends have roasted him, realistically speaking, given how nonverbal most men are, was there really a more likely way for him to say “I’m freaking the fuck out”?
Which is really what he did. At least he owned it when discovered. Which is not inherently scumbaggy. But there is nothing insane about this nor, unfortunately, temporary. But the ennui, anxiety and panic he’s feeling? My guess: You’ve probably been feeling it, too. The solution of which might be to find yourself a lover and proceed with the understanding that while everything ends, it’s how it ends that makes the difference. You’ll be more relaxed, your husband might be more relaxed, and in the fullness of time, if this relaxation keeps you together, it might matter not a damn how you got there.
EUGENE, SIR: After being married for 20 years and popping out four very large babies, is it like having sex with the Grand Canyon for my husband, or does it seem like nothing is different for him? — How Does It Feel?
Dear Ain’t No Mountain High Enough:
A friend of mine was once holding forth on this woman he had had sex with that we both knew. I asked how the sex was and he said, “It was OK but she was so … big.” And I laughed and put all of that general merriment to bed with: “Oh, SHE was big, eh?” Which underscored in total that the issue may not be her bigness but his smallness. He got quiet and muttered something about me being an ass but the point was made, this stuff is all relative.
In your case though after 20 years, both of you probably have a very good idea about what constitutes big and small but I’d ask this: Does it feel any different to you? If it does to you, it probably does to him too, but as a man who has slept with Moms I think I can honestly say that I have detected no discernible before/after difference over the course of time. Three months out? Yes. Three years out? No. Which might be a little TMI but, hey, where the hell do you think we are, anyway? We’re in the jungle of Sex With Eugene, baby (sorry, Axl).
And if your concern extends to believing there is a problem, I’d recommend the questionable advice of another male doctor, Arnold Kegel, who came up with the exercises that bear his name and sometimes include the use of cylindrical weights. Purportedly these exercises result in a noticeable tightening in as few as eight weeks. Though be warned: doing these exercises in public with the weights? May have you arrested. Or offered any number of possibly unsavory “jobs.” Without the weights? Squeeze away!