In recent years, measures have been introduced in Georgia, Pennsylvania, Texas, Illinois and, most recently, California to apply special taxes to strip clubs -- specifically to fund sexual assault services. Now, even if you aren't inclined to view erotic entertainment as the source of all evil, this might seem an appropriate aim -- who wants to argue against additional support for rape survivors? It would seem even more so when you consider politicians' and activists' repeated claims of solid scientific evidence showing a link between strip clubs -- specifically those that sell alcohol -- and sexual violence.

That is, until you look at the alleged proof.

The key study advocates point to is one commissioned by the Texas Legislature in 2009. But that very report states, "no study has authoritatively linked alcohol, sexually oriented business, and the perpetration of sexual violence." What's more, when I talked to Bruce Kellison, director of the Bureau of Business Research at the University of Texas at Austin, and one of the authors of the report, about the alleged link between strip clubs and sexual assault, he said, "That's not really what our study was trying to do."

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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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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.

As I was by the two other vintage vibrators that I got to try out -- the White Cross Electric Vibrator from 1917, which has a pronged aperture that makes it seem like the ancestor of Jimmyjane's Form 2, and the Beautysafe Vibrator from the 1940s, which is reminiscent in look, feel and sound to a car waxer.

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While I wouldn't assume there's a vast amount of historical and social accuracy to "Hysteria," it's a lot of fun, and could definitely provide a viable moviegoing alternative for adult women eager to move on from "Iron Man" and "Captain America." Gyllenhaal's character, the crusading feminist and social worker Charlotte Dalrymple, who becomes the comic and romantic foil to Hugh Dancy's stuffy, stammering Granville, might be described as a supporting character who takes over the movie. Charlotte effectively becomes the modern viewer's window into the world of "Hysteria," insisting as a matter of course that women indeed enjoy sexual pleasure (but are often plagued with partners who don't know how to deliver it) and espousing then-outrageous views about women's right to vote, go to college, work outside the home and so on.

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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.

I spoke with them both by phone about sex-positive parenting, where they draw the "TMI" line with each other, and their tips for making "the sex talk" less awkward.

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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.

Speaking of, breast implants are more popular than ever: It's the most common form of plastic surgery, above even nose jobs and liposuction. Even cosmetic enhancement notwithstanding, breasts are bigger than ever, and girls are getting them at increasingly younger ages. These recent dramatic changes are the heft of Williams' book, although she also covers evolutionary basics, like why we have them, what they're made of and how they work. It's an interesting and engaging read peppered with factoids the kid from "Jerry Maguire" would no doubt appreciate (e.g., "the average breast weighs just over a pound"). Occasionally, it veers into technical territory that will put some readers to sleep, but overall it's a much-needed look at why breasts matter more than we realize, even in our boob-obsessed society.

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That's the world that would be created by a recent raft of abstinence education bills in Tennessee, Utah and Wisconsin. These initiatives are frightening -- but, viewed the right way, they shine light on extreme conservatives' deepest, darkest fears about sex. They're veritable inkblot tests for right-wing sexual pathos.

This week saw the passage of a Tennessee bill that has the usual aim of abstinence initiatives -- to "exclusively and emphatically" promote abstinence until marriage. But the bill ultimately goes above and beyond the usual. It allows parents to seek damages in court if a teacher “promotes gateway sexual activity" to their child. It's unclear what exactly "gateway sexual activity” is because the measure defines it vaguely as "sexual contact encouraging an individual to engage in a non-abstinent behavior." Critics of the bill have suggested that this could include everything from hand holding to french kissing. The bill also proscribes "implicitly" promoting or "condoning" gateway sexual activity (the latter could mean simply turning a blind eye to it, hence the example above).

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That's why Klein has updated the book in a new edition published this week to detail the ways that sexual rights have actually become "increasingly tenuous" under President Obama. Sure, abstinence-only programs have been greatly defunded, but the battle over sex education still rages on -- as do assaults on reproductive rights and all manner of sex-related business, entertainment, expression and experience.

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Who understands this better than professional dominatrixes? With so many speculating this week on Roiphe's article, I decided to hand the microphone over to women with a unique perspective on the dynamics in power and play.

Several said that Roiphe is actually on to something when she talks about submission as an escape from life's stresses -- only, this reasonable point is overwritten by her wrongheaded focus on women and the impact of feminism. Roiphe wonders whether there is "something exhausting about the relentless responsibility of a contemporary woman's life ... all that strength and independence and desire and going out into the world," and suggests "that, for some, the more theatrical fantasies of sexual surrender offer a release, a vacation, an escape from the dreariness and hard work of equality." What about the exhausting, relentless responsibility of contemporary people's lives?

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“It’s more like ‘Daddy Day Care,’” I usually quip. And while that's meant to be a joke, there’s also some truth to it. I spend a good amount of my work time offering support and advice to men in their 30s and 40s who are just coming out of the closet. Surprised? I was too, at first. But then I thought, where else are these guys going to catch up on two decades of sexual and social experience? Until someone comes out with “Gay for Dummies,” the next best thing is a trained professional.

A few years ago, for example, a charming man from Vancouver hired me every night for a week while he was in Las Vegas for a conference. By the time he went home we'd checked off every item on his wish list, and he was finally comfortable lying naked with another man. It was strangely gratifying to help a guy learn the ropes.

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At least, that's the narrative playing out in the news today surrounding allegations of misconduct involving Secret Service agents and a prostitute -- possibly prostitutes, plural -- in Cartagena, Colombia, ahead of the president's visit there. The media has been whipped into a frenzy -- finally, another sex scandal! -- while officials have been quick to offer condemnation, some claiming that the incident could put national security at risk.

Now, before getting all hot and bothered, let's look at the actual evidence that's available: This happened before the president arrived in the country. The agents in question are not members of the presidential protective division. Officials have said that some of the agents under investigation "may merely have been attending a party and violating curfew," according to ABC News. Still, Republican congressmen Peter King (N.Y.) and Darrell Issa (Calif.) have claimed that the incident could leave the agents vulnerable to blackmail.

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But that hasn't stopped conservatives from claiming that the drop is a result of, you guessed it, abstinence education and, paradoxically, an increase in abortions.

Janice Crouse of Concerned Women for America expressed her outrage over the CDC analysis: "They don't even mention the fact there's been a tremendous increase in effectiveness and pervasiveness of abstinence education. They don't mention the fact that teen sexual activity, by their own admission, is down." As Think Progress noted this week, teen birth rates are actually highest in states with abstinence-only policies. Not only has it been widely documented that such programs are largely ineffective, it's also been shown that such programs may prevent contraception use.

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But Hollywood's ingrained tendency to ignore people over 50 or so -- with occasional, ultra-weepy exceptions, in the vein of "Cocoon" or "On Golden Pond" -- runs counter to various cultural and demographic realities, both absolute and relative. On one hand, the population is growing older, on average, in the United States and most other Western countries. On the other hand, accepted modes of behavior for older people are shifting. "Late Bloomers" is an entertaining diversion, mostly because Rossellini and Hurt are a pair of seasoned and graceful pros who know how to work every line and every gesture, and it's great to see them playing characters who are exactly their age. (In real life, Hurt is 62 and Rossellini 59.) But in a certain way the movie feels pretty old-fashioned: I'm not sure the social prejudices Gavras tries to mine for laughs here quite exist anymore.

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We sat together at our breakfast counter, she with a mug of Bengal spice tea, me with a glass of OJ. My mother was, and is, a very pretty woman, with bright blue eyes, skyscraper cheekbones, and an easy laugh. She sipped her tea and took a breath.

“Karen and I aren’t just friends, honey.” Her features tightened, but her eyes met mine, clear and steady. “We’re more than friends.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” I said.

“You did?”

“Of course!” I gulped. “Jessica and me aren’t just friends, either, you know.”

“I had a feeling about that.” She nodded with a faint smile.

Mine was the most amiable coming out story I knew. If only the experience of my early sex life were so breezy.

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There is part of me that wishes that I was not tied to the relationship I have so that I could continue exploring. It is not that my wife is not interested in joining me so much as it is that we are at different stages. I have a firm grasp on what I want coupled with a bit of fearlessness while she is still coming to know her wants and desires and is not entirely comfortable with where they sometimes lead. What I have been struggling with is: a) Will we ever be at the same place and b) What I am supposed to do in the meantime?

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I went to the University of Pennsylvania during the Reagan years, a time not known for sexual experimentation. I slept with a different guy every month. When a month ended, I got busy, otherwise I’d ruin my record. I would tell Janet the details, which always felt more intimate than the act itself. Janet was waiting for true love. I had been, too, but then decided -- screw it.

On the last New Year’s Eve before graduation, I went out drinking and dancing with my best friends, the girls I loved most in the world. In the cab to one of our friends' houses, where we were all spending the night, Janet leaned in to me and whispered, “What would you do if I kissed you?”

I thought, "Does she think I’m a lesbo?" But I said nothing. I couldn’t think of what to say.

“I think you’d let me,” she said.

That night, I had sex with my friend's brother.

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Peter Leone, a professor of medicine at the University of North Carolina's Center for Infectious Diseases, is one of those experts. Earlier this month, he spoke at an international health conference and underscored the importance of exploring such possibilities. Real-world social networks -- in other words, a person’s circle of friends and sexual partners -- have already proved to be strong predictors of STI risk, he says. It follows that sites like Facebook, which convene all of those real-world connections in one virtual setting, have huge potential in this arena.

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A dry, whimsical and finally sweet film that tries to turn the conventional teenage sex comedy inside out (at least in gender terms), this debut feature from writer-director Jannicke Systad Jacobsen is one of those rare movies that gets better and more complicated the more you think about it. Watching the film is a thoroughly charming experience on its own terms, and then you're left puzzling over all kinds of thorny questions that fail to yield clear answers. Is female sexual desire fundamentally different from male desire? If so, why is that true? Is a teenage girl's sexuality, as one female friend put it, mainly a question of "playing around with her newfound power over the desires of others, rather than an expression of her own desire"?

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If you’ve ever pulled over to a rest area, you’ve been near men having sex. I’m one of those men, I’ve done it a hundred times; we go into the woods or a truck with tinted windows, in a stall under cold light. It never stops, not for season or time. In the winter, men trudge through snow to be with each other, in the summer, men leave the woods with ticks clinging to their legs. Have you ever stopped at a rest area and found it completely empty? There’s always one man there, in his car, waiting to meet someone new.

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“I usually sit with my feet together and my knees splayed,” she continues tentatively, “for one final stretch before I take shavasana.” I nod her on. So far, I follow. “Leaning over to bring my head down to my feet, as my breath regulates I feel a sort of … tingling and pulsating down (ahem) there. And … the feeling isn’t entirely unwelcome.” She exhales, as if a great weight has lifted. “But I mean, that’s pretty weird, right?”

Turns out it’s actually not. Exercise-induced female sexual pleasure has been the subject of casual discussion and un-researched speculation for years. Even sexologist Alfred Kinsey mentions the phenomenon in his "Sexual Behaviors in the Human Female" (1953). But until now, the experience was mostly anecdotal. Now, a study by Indiana University researchers offers scientific evidence that confirms confessions once incredulously traded in gym class locker rooms.

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