Bernell Dorrough“Guide to Getting It On” is more or less a pomosexual Bible. Pomosexual is a new term, like metrosexual, but not nearly as popular or widely used. It signifies a post modern brand of sexuality that leans towards an accepting, everything goes definition, complete with the renunciation of categorical sexuality such as bi- or homo- or straight. We are all, after all, sexual beings, regardless of how we choose or choose not to define ourselves. And just as pomosexuality seeks to include everyone by excluding labels, this Guide seeks to educate and dealienate everyone, from know it alls to know nothings.
So. You think you know a lot about sex? I thought I knew a lot about sex. I read Danielle Steel at a young age, and I found Mom’s copies of “The Joy of Sex” and “Our Bodies Ourselves” not too long after. I took sex ed in school and have watched plenty of porn and “Sex and the City” episodes. Heck, I’ve even had sex. But Paul Joannides has me beat, and trust me, he has you and your mom and Carrie Bradshaw and the prolific Ms. Steel and your partner and your doctor beat, too. He manages to make the oldest topic in the world seem new, and he makes you laugh, which is an art few gynecologists have mastered. The accompanying illustrations by Daerrick Gross, alone worth the price of admission, compete with the best T&A anime has to offer. Seriously, no words can do justice to the drawings that accompany the “Fun with your Foreskin” chapter.
But let’s start with the crap…
Joannides, try as he might, is no Dan Savage. He tries, in chapters such as “The Zen of Finger Fucking” and “Balls, Balls, Balls,” to incorporate witty responses to letters from inquisitive sexsters. The problem is that his responses are for the most part not witty or funny, and generally lame. His tone evokes “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” far more than it should, and it’s hard to take advice seriously when it sounds like it was dictated by Spicoli. The “letters” in general detract from the book as a whole, and are too forced and fake; they come from people (characters) such as “Pam from Little Rock,” who is concerned about her son’s small testicles, and “Bill from Ball State University,” who worries he might be sterile after a case of the mumps caused his testicles to swell. The puns tickle only a time or two, and henceforth become too groan-inducing to warrant their presence.
Luckily, the meat more than makes up for the bone. The Guide is so thick, there is no real way to read it cover to cover. It is 727 pages long, 782 if you count the “Goofy Goodbye” chapter (spare yourself), the glossary, and the index. The only way to tackle it is to treat it like a book of quotes: just flip to a page and start in. Let’s take a stab at it together, shall we?
Page 147
G-Spot Orgasms
from chapter 12, “What’s Inside a Girl?”
I learn from this page that there are at least three types of orgasms that a woman, in this case me, can have. 1.) Clitoral. Check. 2.) Vaginal. Um, check? 3.) A Combination of the two. Hm. But I digress. Still on page 147: When women have clitoral orgasms, the message (re: COME!) travels to the brain by way of the pudendal nerve. Vaginal orgasms, however, are transmitted through the pelvic nerve. Then there are blended orgasms, which is what G-spot orgasms are, and they are apparently a bit of both. Ah, the “theoretical” G-Spot. What is it? Where is it? “Theoretically,” writes Joannides, “the G-spot is made up of tissue that surrounds the urethra. This places it on the roof of the vagina about a third to three-quarters of a finger deep. Some people say the G-spot is close to a small patch of vaginal tissue which might feel rough…” And he goes on and on. Some people say and do and want this, some people that. So maybe Joannides doesn’t know as much terminology and anatomical science as your doctor. Maybe he is, in some cases, just a collector of tales and advice and stories from people who have had a lot of sex. But we can at least admire his insight for describing the depth of the G-spot in terms of finger-length rather than inches or centimeters. How accessible!
Page 294
Do Men Blow Men Better Than Women Blow Men?
from chapter 22, “Oral Sex: Popsicles and Penises”
“In researching different sexual techniques,” pontificates our author, “we have reviewed many videos on sex. The absolute worst source of information is traditional straight pornography.” Amen. Joannides’s “research” is a group of his friends getting together to watch “several gay videos.” While this is questionable as far as research goes (amongst other offended parties, I can hear all the psych majors screeching about control groups), Joannides’s conclusion is, at the very least, stimulating: “Men handled each other’s bodies with a kind of skill and effectiveness that some straight women might do well to imitate. The one technical difference was that the gay men used their hands more than most women do when giving blow jobs. Viewers had the feeling that the gay males (or gay male actors, anyway) seemed to form an intense relationship with the penis itself.” Note for straight women: In an attempt to foster a sincere relationship, buy a card, flowers, and possibly bake banana bread for boyfriend’s penis.
Page 550
For First-Time Tampon Users
from chapter 42, “When the Tide Turns Red”
Let’s not delve too deeply into this one. Props for diverse subject matter suffice.
Page 589
Syphilis-The Great Pox
from chapter 46, “Gnarly Sex Germs”
“Before 1492, there had been no recorded cases of syphilis in Europe. But syphilis did exist in parts of Europe where Columbus and his crew landed. During its first fifty years in Europe, from about 1493 until 1550, syphilis was a savage killer. Smallpox got its name because the lesions it caused were small compared to those of the Great Pox syphilis. It seems that the Spanish army sent syphilitic prostitutes to infect the Italian army, which is one of the first recorded instances of biological warfare.” Wow, who knew? Who knew that for 400 years, until 1940, almost half of all hospital beds in the world were occupied by patients with syphilis? Alarming and amazing. Joannides is a stickler for crazy facts, the kinds of things you can only imagine bringing up four martinis into happy hour. And did you know that in the 1920s, a doctor received the Nobel prize for infecting his syphilis patients with malaria? The resulting fever helped “burn out” the syphilis, but-oops-there was no cure for the cure. “Some scientists speculate,” continues Joannides, “that more people died from the attempts to cure syphilis than from syphilis itself.”
Whew. Fifty-eight chapters later…
“Guide to Getting It On” is of course not the kind of book you want to have by your nightstand, for fear that visitors will associate the presence of the Guide with some sort of lack of prowess on your part. But it’s a pretty handy book to have around nonetheless. It falls into that odd category of literature suitable for only two places-the bathroom and the coffee table. Since it can turn trips to the potty into twenty-going-on-thirty minute sojourns, it is far safer, especially given the open collegiate atmosphere, to display the guide prominently on your coffee table. My experiments with this particular placement were fruitful; guests at gatherings and parties who picked up the Guide were often found still soberly absorbed by its contents an hour later.
Its sheer length and diversity of subject matter-although every kind of sex imaginable seems to be covered, the topics supersede the mere act of intercourse and range from internet dating to the history of bras to sex tips for the disabled-makes the Guide worth the $20 asking price. From illustrations with titles such as “a large glob of lubricant between the finger and clitoris” to detailed chapters about not-so-funny topics such as STDs, birth control, virginity, and sex during pregnancy, the “Guide to Getting It On” is sure to informatively entertain. It need not be your first lesson or the last word, but it has its place in the modern canon of sex lit.