Photo Credit: Peter Dazeley/Photographer's Choice/Getty Images
Has there ever been a sexual mystery bigger than the G-spot? It’s the anatomical female equivalent of Big Foot, Nessie and unicorns combined. Find it, and you’ve landed in Nirvana. Admit to it, and you’re considered a freak. Deny it, and you’re a freak of nature.
For decades, science has either tried to prove or disprove the G-spot’s existence, frustrating couples everywhere. Now, the Los Angeles Times reports that a semi-retired gynecologist from Florida who earns his living performing plastic surgery on women’s genitalia -- a growing-yet-controversial practice that's been condemned by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists -- purports to have physiological evidence that the G-spot exists.
How, pray tell? In a paper published this week in the Journal of Sexual Medicine, Adam Ostrzenski, M.D., director of the Institute of Gynecology in St. Petersburg, Fla, describes an autopsy of an 83-year-old cadaver of a Polish woman, in which, for seven hours, he peeled back layer after layer of vaginal wall, until discovering a small grape-like cluster of “erectile tissue” nestled between the vaginal wall’s fifth layer. Eureka! But is doc’s discovery fool’s gold?
Before I, a lay person who's been laid, could even call BS on this, several noted sexologists have already swooped in to pooh-poohed this "discovery," including Beverly Whipple from Rutgers University, who asserted that women’s biology does not include an on-off switch, and casted doubt that the nerve tissue Ostrzenksi found is actual erectile tissue. After all, the study was performed on a dead octogenarian, whose climatic proclivity and vaginal fortitude are essentially swimming with the fishes. And since the good doctor didn’t bother to ask Babuszca about her sexual history before she kicked the bucket just 24 hours before he went diving for orgasmic Atlantis, it’s hard to put any mustard on this kielbasa.
Frankly, if I was Granny, I’d be pissed from beyond the grave. If someone is going spelunking to locate my happy button -- questionable medical credentials or not -- better to do it while I’m alive than after I’ve croaked. Because what’s the fun in that?