Sex
Penile ponderings
The seven deadly sins. Penile Ponderings: When a professor asks you to grope your friend's organs for extra credit, what's the right thing to do?
It all started with the penis thing. I was sitting in anatomy class, vaguely watching the professor scrawl body parts on the board, when suddenly I heard him say: “The penis can be retracted to reveal a scar, the presence of which indicates the closing of an undifferentiated vagina.” By the next morning, he continued, those of the male persuasion were supposed to go home, find a mirror and locate the aforementioned scar. The rest of us — those with differentiated vaginas — were supposed to find the scar on “a volunteer.” Then, with colored pencils, we were to trace exactly what we observed, and turn it in for a lab grade. Thirty points.
Now I’m not bragging or anything, but in my undergrad days, when push came to shove, I always managed to find “volunteers” to do things like hand out flyers for some wacko student production, auction themselves off for an excruciating date or read to bratty first-graders at the local school. Piece of cake. But was I really expected to recruit some guy so that I could lift up his penis and look for his vestigial vagina?
After class, I approached the board for clarification. “Excuse me, um, Dr.
T?” I asked. “What you want the women to do is to find a picture of the scar
in a medical text and draw that, right?”
Dr. T stared at me for what seemed like an eternity, then, finally, he spoke. “People,” he bellowed in a deep voice that always reached the very last row of the lecture hall, “are not textbook drawings. Tell me, Miss Gottlieb, what will you do as a doctor when a person, and not a textbook, walks into your
office?” I tried explaining that the person walking into my office would be
given a blue-and-white gown when told to disrobe, but my friends might react
differently to shedding their boxers and having their genitals traced with
colored pencils. That didn’t go over too well, though. Dr. T. sighed loudly,
as though mustering the patience to explain a simple concept to a mentally
impaired child. “Then please enlighten your so-called friends, Miss Gottlieb,
that they will be helping out in the name of science,” he replied before
turning his back and erasing the left anterior testis off the board.
On the way out the door, I ran through my inventory of guy friends and ex-boyfriends who might “volunteer.” I was pretty sure my guy friends would be
too embarrassed to do it (“Really, I swear, it’s usually bigger than this”),
and as for my ex-boyfriends, well, let’s just say it’s been a while, and I
didn’t trust myself around a potentially enlarged penis. By the time I got to
my car, I decided that I could do the assignment from a textbook picture and
no one would be the wiser.
I drove straight to the library, where, while waiting for my text to be pulled from the stacks, I took out a notebook containing my medical school
applications. “Please describe your greatest flaw,” said one school’s form.
Earlier I had started writing about my butt — how it used to be perky and
tight and then once I hit 30 I’ve noticed it sinking a bit — but then I
thought, wait: This is a med school application, not a Cosmo quiz. So I
searched my mind for an egregious character flaw, but I couldn’t think of
anything worse than the fact that sometimes, if I need an excuse to get off
the phone, I fake call-waiting and say I have to go. I didn’t consider using
a textbook drawing instead of a live person to be a flaw, per se. It was more
of a means to an end. Thirty points were a lot in this class.
Still waiting for my book, I moved on to the next essay: “Please discuss what you believe the role of the Honor Code in a medical school education should be.” In response to this question, I wrote a long piece about how people who violate the honor code aren’t fit to be doctors, because by cheating they are essentially saying: I don’t need to play by the rules. I’m exempt from society’s regulations. I even cited Ted Kaczynski as a case of narcissism gone awry, just to be topical. I concluded with: “If the academic setting can be viewed as a microcosm of the world at large, what will happen if people disregard the rules for their own self-interest when the stakes are higher than, say, attaining a certain GPA?”
Then it occurred to me: I am cheating, in a small way, in a way that most
students cheat, in the same way that many of us take restaurant deductions on
our tax returns for meals that weren’t strictly business. I am cheating and
rationalizing my behavior with comforting bromides like “Everyone does it”
or “It’s the system that encourages it” or “It was a stupid assignment
anyway.” Suddenly, I was deeply ashamed that, having been out in the
real world and returned to school as an adult, I was still at a place where my
own reputation — embodied in a single letter on a transcript — was more
important than the power of my own convictions.
I remembered a conversation I had recently with a friend of mine, a cardiac
surgeon. He told me that when he took the MCAT 10 years ago, he freaked out
because he realized that everything he’d worked for, his very future, would be
determined by the 10 passages staring up at him from the test booklet. “I
just panicked,” he said. “Suddenly my whole life came down to those 10
passages.” I asked him how he manages to stay calm when instead of 10 test
passages, a person’s exposed chest cavity stares up at him each day. “Well,
that’s completely different,” he replied matter-of-factly. “The MCAT was life
or death for me, but during surgery, I’m not the one on the table.”
Sitting in the library, I decided I never want to lose perspective like that.
But if I started now, with little things like claiming a drawing is actually a volunteer, I may eventually become so accustomed to doing whatever it takes to get ahead that I won’t be able to stop. When my textbook arrived, I found a clear, detailed photograph of the scar for the assignment. I knew I could get away with using this as a real penis — I could take my indigo pencil and shade in some pink and flesh tones, add a bunch of wrinkles, maybe circumcise it or draw in a mole if I were feeling creative — and say that my friend Bruce’s penis looked like this. I mean, how could anyone besides his girlfriend prove otherwise? But somehow it didn’t feel right. Instead, I took a bright red pencil, the color of blood, and printed in large block letters the name of the text from which I began tracing the tiny penile scar.
I won’t get the 30 points, that’s for sure. In fact, I may get a big fat zero. But at least now, I hope, I’ll have a slightly better shot at caring
about the guy on the table one day. Especially if I happen to be operating on his
penis.
Lori Gottlieb's new book, "Stick Figure: A Diary of My Former Self," an L.A. Times best seller, has been optioned for film by Martin Scorsese. She is a first-year medical student at Stanford. More Lori Gottlieb.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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