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The Best Sex Positions For Married Couples
7 months ago
Repent, ye sinners for—wait, what? This just in: those fearing the imminent collapse of all that is pure and good about the App Store can relax and go back to fearing the imminent collapse of our economic system. The scourge of pornography has been wiped from the App Store.
iPhone application Hottest Girls recently added pornographic content to its application in the form of photos of nude and topless women. The application had disappeared from the store by Thursday, although at the time developer Allan Leung claimed it was at his behest, since his servers, which provide the images, were being overloaded by the demand.
Nice try, developer guy. As it turns out, Apple had in fact pulled the application. As for how it made it on the store in the first place, the company says Leung snuck in the racy pictures after the application had been approved. Apple spokesperson Tom Neumayr told Macworld:
Apple will not distribute applications that contain inappropriate content. The developer of this application added inappropriate content directly from their server after the application had been approved and distributed, and after the developer had subsequently been asked to remove some offensive content. This was a direct violation of the terms of the iPhone Developer Program. The application is no longer available on the App Store.
So, Apple won’t distribute apps with pornographic content. That gibes with my earlier assessment that the company values its carefully-crafted image far more than it does the potential revenue. After all, Wal-Mart, Target, and Best Buy could make plenty of money selling porn, but you don’t see it on their shelves, do you?
Meanwhile, all of Leung’s apps seem to have been removed from the App Store, including Hottest Girls companion app Hottest Guys; EliteBrowser, a full-screen Web browser; and Send Flowers, a wallpaper image app. However, other similar non-pornographic apps are apparently still fair game.
Have you heard the news? Apple has approved an iPhone app with naked ladies! Yes, the days of a boob-free app store are long gone: now that parental controls are in place, it's open season for dirty content.
But what kind of dirty content will there be? So far, the only 17+ app is Hottest Girls, a slideshow, of, well, hot girls in various stages of undress. Nice as it is, we'd love to see something a little more hardcore hit the app store—and we've got a whole bunch of ideas for what those apps should be like. So to all you wouldbe entrepreneurs: get out your pens, and prepare to meet the idea that's gonna make you a millionaire.
Fyre TV for the iPhone. Fyre TV offers access to a constantly growing database of streaming porno movies. What if you could tap into that database with your iPhone? It'd be pretty awesome, wouldn't it.
RubMyClit 2.0. Back in the dinosaur days of the iPhone, an intrepid soul put together an iPhone-friendly web app that gave you the chance to get a girl off. It was popular then, and with a few tweaks, it could be even more popular now. Replace the illustration of a vulva with an actual, factual girl; offer different choices of girls to stimulate...and maybe some different methods of stimulation...and you could have a real winner on your hands. It's like an interactive porno, only better (hopefully).
Upcoming releases. Many studios already release iPod-friendly trailers. What if you could arrange for said trailers to automatically download to your phone—like magic? Sign up to be notified of releases from your favorite studios (or even just favorite video lines), and never be uninformed again. Even better: enable one-click purchasing, allowing you to easily buy whatever vids tickle your fancy.
Integrated XTube. YouTube is already set up on to work on the iPhone. Imagine if someone created a similar set up for XTube or [insert your favorite tube site here]? Ooh, the possibilities.
Sexy skins. An erotic theme for your iPhone desktop, complete with naked lady wallpaper, erogenous zone icons, and orgasmic sound effects. Imagine if every time someone called you, your phone moaned in ecstasy? (Okay, granted, this app would probably appeal mostly to frat boys—but frat boys are people too. People with money.)
And those are just some of our ideas. We can already feel the millions rolling in...what would you like to see on your (real or imaginary) iPhone?
An executive goes to see his doctor, complaining of feeling worn out all the time due to his long working hours. The doctor asks him a few questions about his lifestyle.
An executive goes to see his doctor, complaining of feeling worn out all the time due to his long working hours. The doctor asks him a few questions about his lifestyle.
Doc: "So, do you and your wife have an active sex-life?"
Exec: "Yes, doc, twice a day, once in the morning before I go to work and again last thing at night."
Doc: "Hmm, and any other love interests?"
Exec: "Actually, my secretary, twice a day, once at eleven o'clock when she brings my mid-morning coffee and again at four o'clock when she brings my afternoon tea."
Doc: "Hhhhmmmmm, and so you make love a total of four times a day?!"
Exec: "Actually, I also see my mistress twice a day, at lunch-time and we make love, and I pop round to see her on my way home from work and we make love then, too."
Doc: "My God, man, no wonder you're always feeling exhausted! You really must take matters in hand!"
Exec: "But I do, doc, twice a day..."
Is This Real?
Listen up, porn purveyors of the world: This is the first iPhone application to contain bare boobs. The $1.99 app for iPhone and iPod touch only showed girls in lingerie and bikinis until now, according to its developer:
We uploaded nude topless pics today. This is the first app to have nudity.
This is not just an application that downloads softcore content from the Web, bypassing Apple's censorship. There is no censorship here, as this is truly an Apple approved app "rated 17+" for "frequent/intense sexual content or nudity" and "frequent/intense mature/suggestive theme."
My fellow citizens, in case you didn't already noticed with the Debby-Approved™ iPhone vibrator app, a New Era has begun. Expect Apple application business to explode as the Hustlers, Vivids, and Playboys of this world invade the biggest smartphone application store in the planet. [iTunes App Store via Macenstein]
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As it turns out, Whipple and Perry’s tribute—the “Gräfenberg spot” (shortened by a reporter to the Gee spot and then by a publisher to the G-spot)—is a misnomer. Even Gräfenberg would have thought so, since he used the word only twice in his study, once to say it wasn’t a fixed spot but an area or zone and once to point out that women had innumerable erotically charged spots all over their body. Moreover, the G is more suitable as a tribute to Regnier de Graaf, who beat Gräfenberg to the punch by nearly three centuries, although he’s far from the first: A 12th century Indian love manual notes a sensitive spot “inside and toward the navel.” (Whipple and Perry would later clarify that Gräfenberg was the first modern researcher to describe the area.) Josephine Sevely, who in 1987 published her research in a book she called Eve’s Secrets, objects to the term G-spot. “Don’t call it that,” she says in an interview. “You could educate people if you don’t call it that.” Gary Schubach, a researcher who wrote his doctoral thesis on the source of female ejaculate, proposes the area be renamed the G-crest, since, when swollen with arousal, it feels more like a ridge than a spot. Early on, Whipple and Perry adopted De Graaf’s language, calling the area “the female prostate gland.” But Gspot proved to be an ingenious shorthand (especially, Perry notes, for a name with an umlaut), and a book Whipple, Perry and psychologist Alice Kahn Ladas published in 1982, The G Spot and Other Discoveries About Human Sexuality, has sold more than a million copies in 19 languages.
The G-spot—or the idea of it— commanded attention for the simple reason that it meant the clitoris was not the sole source of female pleasure, as Kinsey and Masters and Johnson insisted but many millions of women knew to be inaccurate. It meant there is no textbook female orgasm; some women come by clit, some by vagina but most apparently by a “blended” response involving as many as five major nerves. Some ejaculate, some don’t. Every variation on the theme is natural and normal. In a 2005 study of blood flow in the brain during climax, Whipple and a Rutgers University colleague, Barry Komisaruk, identified four distinct cognitive responses created by stimulating the clitoris, G-spot or cervix or by “thinking off” with no stimulation (a specialized skill, to be sure). They also found that women paralyzed by spinal cord injuries can reach orgasm through their cervix or vaginal walls. The reason? While the clit is connected to the brain primarily by the pudendal nerve, which travels through the spinal cord, the vagina is supplied by the pelvic nerve, which does not, and the cervix by the pelvic, hypogastic and vagus nerves. The female orgasm will not be denied.
Male scientists have been debating for some time whether women can have vaginal orgasms without the involvement of the clitoris, that amazing organ whose only apparent function is to give pleasure. Women don’t seem to care so much as long as both possibilities aren’t ignored, although many report vaginal orgasms to be more intense, especially with ejaculation. In the early 20th century Sigmund Freud hypothesized that as a woman matures, she abandons her “phallic” masturbatory focus on the clitoris (the female version of the penis, said Freud) and turns to the more feminine, penetrative pleasure. Starting in the 1920s Dr. Karen Horney relentlessly mocked this “clitoral-vaginal transfer theory” until the aggrieved Austrian finally lashed out, claiming his critic had undiagnosed penis envy. Writing in his 1949 Human Sex Anatomy: A Topographical Hand Atlas, Robert Latou Dickinson sided with Horney. “Exalting vaginal orgasm while decrying clitoris satisfaction is found to beget much frustration,” he reported. “Orgasm is orgasm, however achieved.”
John Perry believes Freud has gotten a bum rap. The psychoanalyst recognized both areas as capable of producing climax, Perry notes, but at the time “it would have been as unthinkable for a Victorian to advocate the active use of the vagina before marriage as it was to advocate the continuation of masturbation after marriage.” The clit doesn’t atrophy after a woman begins to have mature vaginal sex, Freud wrote; its function becomes to transmit “the excitation to the adjacent female sexual parts just as pine shavings can be kindled in order to set a log of harder wood on fire.”
Rather than Freud, Perry says, Alfred Kinsey is responsible for the notion of distinct innie and outie orgasms because he so adamantly dismissed the vaginal variety. He based his belief in a single sexual trigger on the fact that it exists in men, i.e., the penis. But Perry notes there is no scientific basis for that conclusion, especially since it’s clear men can also reach climax through prostate stimulation. To validate his view, Kinsey set up an experiment in which three male and two female gynecologists touched more than 800 women at 16 points, including the clit, labia, vagina and cervix, with the equivalent of a cotton swab. Triumphantly, Kinsey reported that while almost all the women felt the light touch to their clits, only 14 percent felt it inside their vaginas. He concluded that it was “impossible” for the vagina to be “a center of sensory stimulation.” Some see evidence in the way women masturbate: Kinsey found that of those he surveyed 84 percent said they manipulated their clits and labia minora, and less than 20 percent inserted a finger or an object and even then usually stimulated their clit at the same time. In other words, women may be fantasizing about intercourse, but they aren’t trying to re-create it.
Despite Kinsey’s confidence in his methods, Perry notes that a swab doesn’t feel much like a thrusting erection or a finger, and there is no evidence that light touching of any area tells you much about a person’s sexual response. In addition, Kinsey found that 91 percent of the women could feel pressure applied to the vaginal wall. So rather than proving vaginal orgasm a “biologic impossibility,” Perry says, Kinsey showed the opposite. Nevertheless, after the publication of Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, psychologists began repeating their single-locus mantra to female patients. In the 1960s Masters and Johnson declared the vagina had only two functions: to serve as a place to stimulate an erection to orgasm and as a place to deposit semen. Helen Singer Kaplan, another prominent sexologist, said, “Probably most women are not intended to have orgasm during intercourse.” Yet no one could explain why so many women, including thousands of those interviewed by Kinsey and his researchers, had such good things to say about the vagina. Kinsey concocted a few hypotheses to explain pleasure from penetration, including the “psychological satisfaction” of the act (reflected years later in a comment by sex researcher Shere Hite that clitoral orgasms are “real” while vaginal ones are “emotional”), the grinding of their partner’s pelvis when he doesn’t use his arms to support himself (promoted decades later as the “coital-alignment technique”) or indirect stimulation of the clit when it is tugged by the movement of the muscles in the vagina and pelvic floor.
There’s another factor Kinsey didn’t consider. In 1924, in a French medical journal, an amateur sexologist named Marie Bonaparte (a great-grandniece of Napoleon) reported the results of her examination of 243 women recruited through doctor friends. She interviewed each patient about her sexual response, then measured the distance from the woman’s vagina (more precisely, her urethral opening) to her clitoris. Bonaparte found that the 21 percent of her sample who had the most space—as much as two inches—reported the least frequent orgasms from intercourse. The 69 percent who had less than an inch said they nearly always came from penetration. The 10 percent who had precisely an inch, Bonaparte said, lived on the “threshold of frigidity.” Kim Wallen, a professor of behavioral neuroendocrinology at Emory University who has verified Bonaparte’s math and hopes to repeat her experiment, sums up the findings thus: “If the distance is less than the width of your thumb, you are likely to come.” If true, the maxim raises an intriguing question: Are many, most or all women who regularly climax during penetration simply those whose clits are nearest the thrusting penis? Is the G-spot a pink herring?
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The man—or perhaps woman—dressed all in black and wearing a disturbingly realistic leather horse’s head sits apparently despondent (given the mask, it’s hard to tell, but his or her body is slumped) on a bench across from the stage where three barebreasted women with candles taped to their nipples pose holding…are they dildos?
The lighting is dim, and they are obscured by naked and half-naked dancing bodies. Through a doorway in the cavernous club—Passive Arts Studios near LAX in Los Angeles—Larry, a well-known actor, can see a man dressed like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean using an Indiana Jones bullwhip on a spreadeagled naked woman. When Larry maneuvers through the crowd of perhaps 200 at the annual DomCon—Domination Convention— Fetish Ball, he glimpses your average six-and-a half-foot-tall transvestite dominatrix, as well as a bent-over young man being sodomized by a woman wielding a butt plug the size of a sawed-off Louisville Slugger. A guy in his mid-70s—clearly the oldest in the group—in full leather regalia, handcuffs at his belt, whip under his arm, rocks his walker toward the unisex bathroom.
“Bet he’s seen some things in his time,” says a woman in a leather thong with studs through her nipples.
“You mean weirder than this?” asks a man in black slacks and a blue blazer.
“You have no idea,” the woman says, grinning, and sashays away, headed into the labyrinth of rooms in the back of the club.
Two of the orgiasts who have joined Larry at the Fetish Ball come out of the bathroom. Betty, a blonde, and Veronica, a brunette, each take one of Larry’s arms. Veronica’s husband, Reggie, lags behind, scoping out a woman in a catsuit.
“Can you believe,” says Betty, “someone in the bathroom line told us we didn’t look like we belonged here?”
Both women are dressed for an evening at the Bar Marmont (casual cocktail dresses), though Veronica may pass muster at the Fetish Ball since she is wearing a long, not quite translucent white gown with nothing underneath.
But it isn’t really their scene.
"No one’s having any orgasms,” Veronica says.
Larry takes a last look around the club and heads for the door, following Betty, Veronica and Reggie, who consider themselves a sexual trio. Betty comes to L.A. most weekends to play with Veronica and Reggie.
In the past few months, Larry has been involved in orgies with both Betty and Veronica, who are part of a vast sexual underground that’s different from the erotic underground of the 1970s and 1980s, the era of Plato’s Retreat and Sandstone. It’s different in great part because of the influence of the Internet, which makes meeting easier and offers a larger pool of potential playmates.
On the way out Larry, Betty, Veronica and Reggie pass the smorgasbord, which is serving, among other dishes, meatballs in sauce.
“If there’s a smorgasbord,” a friend told Larry, “eat only prewrapped sandwiches— and avoid the mayonnaise.”
Little known fact: In sex scenes, actresses wear a patch over their naughty bits. It's to prevent that pesky penis from actually getting where it's pretending to go.
For added protection the actor wears what is known in the industry as a "cock sock." Picture those half-pantyhose your grandmother wears that bunch up around her ankles, but with a rubber band at the base of the cock. Now throw in some dry ice, crank up the slow jams, and you got yourself a bonafide Hollywood love scene. In 2004, I engaged in this most sacred and strange rite of passage on the set of a new show called Entourage.
I had plenty of preparation for the role. While living in New York, I did a stint as Kim Cattrell's body double on Sex & The City. I posed nude for French Vogue. Actually I had a shirt on, just no bottoms. Kind of like a slutty Winnie the Pooh.
Me and my epidermis were making a name for ourselves, so we packed up and moved west. Fresh upon arrival, I booked a role as a stripper on Entourage. Stripping off my clothes came somewhat naturally, and my abilities were not lost on the show's star, Adrian Grenier -- for his was a discerning eye.
"That girl's awesome," I later found out Adrian remarked to producers. "We should have her back." Translation: "I would like to have sex with her."
And they did have me back, two episodes later, for the final show of Season 1. My character was the "The Good-Bye Girl": anonymous ass number #4 in a seemingly endless parade of booty Vince must bid farewell to at summer's dawn.
I didn't find out that this was my role until I was in my trailer and the wardrobe girl handed me nothing but a palm-sized adhesive patch. "What is this, one of those things to quit smoking?" I asked.
"No, you put it over your crotch," the wardrobe girl said. "For your sex scene with Vince."
Ah, the old baptism by fire.
"Ten minutes until show time. Have your lines memorized."
My lines? On the end table next to the couch, I saw a skimpy script. The dialogue corresponded perfectly with my wardrobe.
A few moments later, I was led to the set of a bedroom. It was supposed to be my bedroom; only this version of myself was much wealthier and a lot less sloppy. Adrian awaited me, already in my bed. How presumptuous.
He was mid-discussion with the director, a tiny man with a chin beard. "No, It has to be reverse cowgirl," my co-star emphatically explained. "That's the joke. I tell E I'm just coming up for a minute, but the girl is such a sex freak, I wind up fucking her for two hours."
"Yeah, good idea," the director agreed nonchalantly, as if they weren't discussing the fate of my genitals.
At this point I was a stranger to reverse cowgirl but I knew who John Wayne was so I could make an educated guess as to its definition. I did the math: Cows+ Girls + Reverse = Close my eyes and hope for the best.
"Positions, people," the director bellowed. Hmmmm. If Adrian's the cow and I'm the girl... My mind continued to calculate as I assessed the naked man in my bed.
"Hop on," Adrian said, gesturing to his thighs.
"Is this seat taken?" I joked as I climbed aboard.
It was about at this point I realized something about 'reverse cowgirl.' One, it should not be done on a brightly lit film set. It should be done at night, with the lights very dim. Or better yet, completely off. And two, watching this with my parents is going to suck. I say this because in that position, there was only going to be one area for Vinnie Chase to focus on. Kind of a bull's eye, if you will. A bull's eye I'm generally not comfortable revealing to anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.
I didn't have time to dwell on this unfortunate fact, as a make-up girl was charging toward me with a spray bottle. "You guys have been at it along time so you have to look sweaty," she explained as she supersoaked me.
"And action."
In this case, "action" signified the start of furious fake humping. "The good-bye girl" would hump Vincent Chase for a full forty seconds before grunting the words: "I've never met anyone that could fuck this long."
To which he would earnestly reply: "I'm training for this movie."
And I would enthuse, "It's gonna be a great fuckin' movie."
That's right, folks. It was multitasking. I had to maintain the furious hump while delivering my lines. Thankfully I was trained in method acting, like Robert Deniro in Raging Bull, minus the carbo-loading.
By the third take, ol' Vince was getting into his role, and he began digging his hands into my behind, forcibly guiding my hips. By the fourth take, we were so committed to the performance my patch almost came off. The thrusting became so vigorous the faux sweat was replaced by the real thing and the moaning took on a lilt of sincerity.
"Cut," the director interrupted.
Cock block. It was a technical issue, camera focus or something like that. But Vince had some acting notes for me. "I don't want to give you a line read or anything," he began. "But maybe say it like this: 'It's gonna be a GREAT fuckin' movie.' Hit 'great' more."
Hit great more. Ok, Vince, this one's for you.
"Action!"
"It's gonna be a GREAT fuckin' movie."
Nice. Thrusting, humping, groaning, moaning, and "Checking the gate....that's a wrap!"
The actual scene took an hour to shoot. When it was over, a production assistant ran to shield me with a robe, and the director approached the bed, shook my hand and said, "I have tremendous respect for both of you."
For what, my willingness to show my junk or the startling realism with which I delivered the line "I've never met anyone that can fuck this long!"?
Whatever the case, Adrian seemed to share in this admiration, and we went out that night. I'm not gonna tell you what happened, but let's just say when you're off the patch, it makes it a whole lot easier to smoke.
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