Once upon a time, that time being 1982, there was sex. And then, suddenly, there was
sex.
The difference? A teensy half-inch ribbed nub on the upper front wall of your vagina. Scientists—and magazines (hi) and books and sex-toy companies and movies and TV shows and your roommates and your sex-ed teacher—reported that it was a universal key to The Mysterious Female Orgasm. And thus began the era when you were supposed to be able to say "it blew my mind" to your girlfriends at brunch.
Or was it three inches wide? Farther down, near your vulva? Slick instead of ribbed? Kinda springy to the touch?
Whatever, it was
it. And fuck if we all didn't work hard to find our own. Back in 1982,
Cosmo told women to get there by "squatting" so it would be easier "to stick one or two fingers inside the vagina" and make the necessary "come-hither motion." A 2020 Google search turns up thousands of road maps ("where is the G-spot?" has been searched more times than Michaels Jordan and Jackson). That cute-adjacent guy you slept with in college tried the classic pile-drive maneuver, to middling success.
But it must not matter, because the G-spot economy is booming: G-spot vibrators, G-spot condoms, G-spot lube, G-spot workshops, and, for the particularly daring and/or Goop-inspired, $1,800 G-spot shots meant to plump yours for extra pleasure.
Hell, even Merriam-Webster is in on it: The G-spot is a "highly erogenous mass of tissue" in every dictionary it prints.
So then why, when we talked to the woman who helped "discover" it, did she tell us we've all been obsessed with the wrong thing?
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