If there's one universal truth in literature it's that anyone attempting to write an instruction manual for the vagina loses his or her mind. Here are four sexual self-help books that support that theory. Be warned: a lot of this advice is as racy as it is unhelpful.
by Yvonne K. Fulbright, PhD, $11.95
I didn't expect a woman's guide to oral sex to be 176 pages long. I figured it would say Prologue: Keep your teeth off it. Denouement: You've made quite a mess. A dong isn't very hard to figure out. If you called an instruction book on blowjobs Friction and Enthusiasm it would spoil the ending.
I'm not saying there's no difference between best oral sex and worst oral sex. But it's a small gap and only something you complain about if you're completely out of real problems. People are dying in Libya, so give the poor girl a break if poking her in the face isn't going exactly as planned.
You're probably asking, "If blowjobs are so easy, I have two questions. One, if that's true, why do unattractive women always brag about how good they are at giving head? And two: if oral sex is so simple, what the hell does this book talk about for 176 pages?" I'll answer both your questions. One: that unattractive woman is just trying to sleep with you. Don't make her beg. And two: Oh my god, this book is like a medical doctor throwing up on your balls.
This isn't a delightful sexual romp through fun positions you and your partner can try. The detailed, clinical descriptions for every fleshy bulge on a man's body will make a woman never want any part of you in her mouth again. Did you know that doctors have a real name for the area under your balls? Perineum. That sounds like something you would detect right before you evacuate an office building. And it just gets grosser. There's a chapter on ball smell. Not so much about how to prevent it-- only that it exists. There are tips to avoid choking on pubic hair, and I'll never repeat any of them. This horrible book makes me want to write a letter to every girl I ever got to third base with to apologize for everything, especially all the perineum.
One fun feature is the extensive sexual dictionary in the back for people who, after hundreds of pages, still aren't clear on the definition of things like Butt Plug or Frenulum. I appreciated that they included simple ones too, just in case:
I know what you're thinking: "Wait, that's what a penis is? You mean that whole book was about putting that in my mouth!?" I'm afraid so. I even looked it up in my superhero Super Dictionary. Unfortunately, my Super Dictionary was apparently written before "Penis" was invented. The closest word it had was "peanut."
So while I still might not be clear on what a penis is or who that soon-to-be-dead man is that keeps hitting Hawkman with peanuts, I do know how to keep both of them from suffocating me thanks to the chapter on circular breathing techniques the author borrowed from oboe players and applied to blowjobs. Although I don't think you really need to tell a person to breathe through his or her nose while there's a dick in their mouth. Phil Collins has been singing about that for decades. In your fac-oh, heavenly fuck, what the shit is this thing?
I don't have a PhD in wang science, but that is clearly a robot designed for tunneling under its victims. It is not safe to rub on a human perineum. Does your hedonism run so deep that you need to risk yanking chunks of our genitals off with a rotating wheel of "velvety tongues"? That's how the muppets died, you monster. That's how the muppets died.
by Yvonne K. Fulbright, PhD, $11.95
This book is two pages shorter than the one about going down on men, despite the fact that there are 917 parts to a vulva, and 214 of them reset a woman's sex drive when you touch them. There's the Labia Minora, the Clitoral Hood, dozens of squirting glands, the Mons Pubis... it's confusing. Especially since I think a lot of these vagina parts were named Walrus Man when I was a kid.
This book is nearly identical to the one about going down on men in that it makes oral sex sound as erotic as dissecting an earthworm. By the time you finish, you'll think that cunnilingus is a painful way to stink up your face. There's a chapter that has diet tips for giving her womanly parts a "scrumptuous" and "tangier" flavor in pursuit of "becoming a fine-dining experience." Why would you even talk like that unless you wanted someone to puke up your birth canal? I'm almost positive that Yvonne K. Fulbright, PhD is working for The Council to Convince Me That Geysers of Rats Might Pour Out of Vaginas.
by Kim Cattrall and Mark Levinson, $16.95
Satisfaction: is a very informative, extremely illustrated guide to making a vagina like you. It has about 40 charcoal drawings of couples in different forms of coitus and what I estimate to be 17 million drawings of extreme vulva closeups. If you like smudgy sketches done by Kim Cattrall's gynecologist, this book is a lot like finding a magical box of wishes.
Most sex books are a schizophrenic mess of obvious advice, dipshit puns, and gimmicky yoga positions. Not this one. This is a boning textbook. There's no confusion or irreverence-- there are clear, instructional cartoons for everything. Kim Cattrall doesn't just tell you to get behind someone and stick it in; there are line guides to tell you which directions to wiggle and poke. If she tells you to move your tongue from left to right, she'll include a picture of it:
Thanks, Kim. That's helpful. However, not all of the book's illustrations are quite as clear. The hoo-ha that modeled for most of the drawings is wildly unkempt and possibly attached to a llama. And if I'm the kind of person who needs a book to find a clitoris, I don't really need the added challenge of digging through 8 inches of grizzly bear pelt to do it. This book was written by the slut from Sex and the City. Wasn't bikini waxing like the B-plot of every single episode of that show?
The publisher must have thought the same thing as me, because before this went to print, someone went in with a red pen and highlighted the exact location of the clitoris on each scruffy vagina sketch (See a CGI recreation of this in Figure 3). I knew oral sex with Kim Cattrall was going to be terrifying, but I didn't know it would look like Bigfoot getting hit by a sniper.
The good news is that if you don't feel like randomly thumbing through medical drawings of pubic hair overgrowth, you can find information quickly with Satisfaction's helpful and extensive index. Let's take a look at the references for the letter T:
That's right, Satisfaction has everything you would want in a book about female orgasms: one page on "Thornton, Billy Bob" and four on "teeth."
by Bobbi Dempsey, $10.95
Like all books with the word "1001" in the title, the author vastly overestimates her ability to produce content. For example, about 120 of the sexcapades here are variations on "massage your partner" and about 300 are just different locations where you can fuck. What makes this book special is that you can slowly see the author, Bobbi Dempsey, rapidly lose her mind as she approaches 1001. Also, each of her stupid, stupid sex tips comes with a rating of one: "Sexy, but low-risk" to five: "It doesn't get any wilder!" Let the nonsense begin:
If a girl named my dick Captain America just so she could talk about it in front of my parents, that would ruin both sex and Captain America for me. Plus, if you picked the wrong names the "naughty name" game could get really confusing.
Look, I know you want to start things off slow, but if someone bought a book called 1001 Sexcapades to do IF YOU DARE, I think you can count on them being a step or two past third base. But for the sake of argument, imagine I am afraid of oral sex. Do I own flavored body oil? No, of course not. I'm going to think you mean Butter PAM, and I'm going to be spraying it on my crotch while I wonder if it has anything to do with all my cats going crazy.
I will never hate anyone enough to sexercise with them, even the dumbass author of this book, who is so unlikeable that the March of Dimes removed her 38 congenital disorders from their mission statement.
I hate when you're barely 10% into a book and it's already telling you to have sex with a fake butthole. It's such a narrative crutch.
What's great about ritual sex is that the disturbed spirits of the angry dead always go straight for your perineum.
Lady, remember 42 sexcapades ago you when you suggested that me and my date fuck in front of chanting druids? We're a little past missionary by this point. In fact, this girl has been held together by tub caulking and bone staples since about #250.
So your idea is, let me get this straight, for the man to prolong his orgasm before he takes a nap on the woman? If I could magically do all that, then what would my dates laugh about with their friends? It's like you don't even think about a woman's needs, Bobbi.
Wow, so I guess your husband is an idiot too. Bobbi, I hope the swarming insects in your uterus can make room for a baby, because when you and Mr. Manly Microphone reproduce, the shrieking beast you spawn will create so many jobs for scientists.
You unimaginable dingbat, you want me to get arrested for boning in public just for the opportunity to make awful cock puns with Dick Clark's name? The man had a stroke four years before you wrote this book, you insensitive punning whore. Oh, great. "Stroke." Now I'm doing it.
I think Bobbi might have meant that a cucumber is nature's homegrown dildo, but those always turn into pickles when they get within 3 yards of her crotch.
I'm starting to think Bobbi hasn't field-tested a lot of this sex advice. This is so God damn stupid. Bobbi would have never survived taking her panties off in a cop car. Everyone knows that police have orders to shoot to kill any body lice larger than a softball.
I can't tell if this lunatic is trying to be funny or if she's simply developed the world's most disgusting method for melting through hats.
Holy fucking what!? I bet every time Bobbi Dempsey flushes her toilet, five species of fish go extinct. When this nutbag throws her underwear in the laundry hamper it coughs for a month.
Three flaming hearts? It's good to know that an ovulating woman is only 60% as dangerous as condomless stranger sex. I can't tell if this nutty bitch has run out of ideas or if she just wants to get back and finish a magazine article she started in her abortion doctor's waiting room.
Bobbi Dempsey's privates are so horribly diseased that she catches her unused tampons digging escape tunnels at night. If you shake hands with her, vultures start following you.
Bobbi, the only reason I would touch your thong would be to kill a nest of termites. You are so covered in genital warts that they block your Caller-ID. You filthy tramp, I brought your book into my bathroom for one minute and all the medicine in my cabinet started boiling.
I hope she didn't do this one. I'm pretty sure that if Bobbi Dempsey exposes her body to the outside it takes 5,000,000 years off the lifespan of our sun.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.