Cardiologist by day, Mafia doctor by night

It’s the night of December 4, 1980. The temperature during the day barely edges above freezing; right now, the thermometer hovers around 15 degrees, a harbinger of the bitter cold that will grip the state for the next two months. The waning crescent moon has already set, and the darkness is palpable.
I’m hurtling through the backwoods of northwest Rhode Island in a late model Ford driven by a young associate of my friend, the notorious “mob lawyer” Jack Cicilline. We’re on our way to check on his even more notorious client, Raymond L. S. Patriarca, the longtime head of the New England Mafia. We race by crumbling dry-stone walls, stone-ender homes built in the style of the seventeenth century, and deer munching on frozen grass.
Raymond had been arrested at his home in Johnston, Rhode Island, while eating dinner that evening. A diabetic for many years, he was too distraught to finish the meal despite having already taken his insulin. His son, Raymond Patriarca Junior, and his wife, Rita O’Toole Patriarca, are afraid he’ll react badly to the excess insulin, or that he’ll have an angina attack (he’s also neglected to take his nitroglycerine with him). He’s being taken to the Rhode Island State Police Barracks in Scituate. Settled in 1710 by families from Massachusetts, the town’s name was derived from an Indian word meaning cold river.
I’m thirty-six years old but look younger. I have dark brown hair reaching my shoulders, dark brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I am slim, five feet four inches tall, and I weigh in at a whopping 107 pounds. I’m the first female adult cardiologist to practice in Rhode Island, having arrived here in 1977, three years earlier. Prior to Raymond’s arrest, I had agreed to consult on the ailing crime boss’s health at the request of his son—but I had not yet met the man who was to be my patient in person. Now his need for medical attention has become urgent.

The charges he is facing, based on an informant’s testimony, include accessory and conspiracy to murder. These are just the latest in a string of legal entanglements Raymond has dealt with since he was a teenager. They will not be the last.

After getting lost a few times, we pulled up at the State Police headquarters. The reception area was packed with people, but Jack Cicilline was the only one I recognized. I’d expected the scene to resemble a wake — long, funereal faces and hushed conversations — but it was more like a tailgate party at a rowdy college Homecoming Weekend. Jack seemed in great good humor and introduced me to several of the lawmen: “This is Raymond’s cardiologist. I want her to check on him. He’s only recently out of the hospital.” This was, in fact, truly the case. Raymond had developed a gangrenous toe — a common complication in diabetes — which had been amputated at Fatima Hospital, where his vascular surgeon, Dr. Robert Indeglia, had admitting privileges.
Raymond himself was nowhere to be seen, and there was no opportunity to talk to Jack privately. I said as little as possible, trying to pick up some cue from Jack as to how he wanted me to act and what he wanted me to do. After a few minutes, he told me to wait in the reception area while he went back to talk to Raymond, who, he told me, was being held in Major Lionel Benjamin’s office. Benjamin was second in command to Colonel Walter Stone, the superintendent of the Rhode Island State Police. (My son Archie would play on the same high school football team with Benjamin’s sons a few years later.)
When Jack returned, he motioned me to follow him into Benjamin’s office, then left and closed the door behind us, leaving me alone with Raymond and Colonel Benjamin.
My image of a Mafia don, like that of so many other Americans at that time, was Marlon Brando’s raspy-voiced Vito Corleone from "The Godfather," with his hooded gaze and menacing presence. What confronted me that night was something radically different. Raymond looked more like a wizened Italian cobbler than an all-powerful mafioso. My first thought on seeing him in the flesh was, “My God, he’s so tiny.” The second was, “Holy shit, he looks like he’s going to have a cardiac arrest any second, and I’ll never be able to resuscitate him here.”
The man I beheld was a short, shriveled seventy-two-year-old with a greasy sheen of perspiration coating his brow, an alarmingly cyanotic complexion, and the generalized muscle wasting of the chronically ill. I approached him, but he took no notice of me. I later learned he thought at first that I was a reporter.
“Mr. Patriarca,” I said, “I’m Doctor Roberts. Your son wanted me to check on you.” At this, he made eye contact with me but still didn’t speak. His breathing was labored, and I asked him if he was having any chest discomfort. “Yes,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly. He added that he had left his nitroglycerine at home. Major Benjamin piped up, “Hey, Doc, do you want me to give him one of mine?” I declined, not knowing if they were the same dose as Raymond’s.
Raymond agreed to let me take his pulse and listen to his heart and lungs. Doing so only increased my alarm. His pulse was extremely erratic, which can be a warning sign of sudden cardiac arrest. His chest pain had lasted for over two hours. Quite aside from any legal considerations, I was now convinced that the only place he belonged was in the cardiac care unit of a hospital. His own nitroglycerine pills were brought from his home, and I gave him one. This eased his pain over the next fifteen minutes, but he continued to look ashen and to have an irregular pulse.
I told Major Benjamin that Mr. Patriarca needed to be admitted to the hospital immediately, arrest or no arrest. “No way,” he said. “You’re going to have to talk to Colonel Stone.”

Although I did not know it at the time, there was a long-standing public antipathy between Raymond and Colonel Stone, but Jack would later tell me that his own impression from private conversations with both men was that they had more respect for each other than might be expected, given their respective occupations. Whatever the truth of their relationship, that night, it seemed to me that Colonel Stone wanted Raymond’s arrest and subsequent conviction to cap his long and distinguished career in law enforcement.

After introducing myself to him over the phone, I informed the colonel, “Mr. Patriarca is suffering from angina and an unstable heart rhythm. It is my professional opinion that he needs to be hospitalized immediately.” He was not all happy with this recommendation and insisted that I speak to the police surgeon. I telephoned the police surgeon and reported my findings to him. He promptly agreed with me that hospitalization was indicated. I then called Colonel Stone back, and he agreed, albeit reluctantly, to allow Raymond to be transferred to the hospital.
Over the next several weeks, Raymond is treated for unstable angina and osteomyelitis. His arrest and subsequent hospitalization are front page news in the Providence Journal, with several law officers and prosecutors expressing skepticism about the true extent of his illness.
* * *
I was gradually coming to identify very strongly with Raymond as an “underdog.” This sounds bizarre, given his power, past, and reputation, but by the time I first laid eyes on him, he was very frail, very sick, and very frightened. He knew instinctively that a trial and jail term were tantamount to a sentence of death, even though he had kept secret the true extent of how disabled he really was. He was between a rock and a hard place. His pride and acculturation prodded him to deny the severity of his illness, but for me to succeed in keeping him from going to trial, he had to expose his fragility to public scrutiny. This he was deeply unwilling to do, at least initially. He also knew that I would pay a price for going to bat for him, and he made his gratitude clear, telling me more than once, “I know I owe you my life. I couldn’t love you more if you were my own daughter.”
How could I abandon him? I came to care passionately about his well-being. I would keep him from being put on trial; I would keep him out of jail. It had become a contest between me and the legal system, one I was determined to win.
Less than a year after becoming Raymond’s physician, I meet and become romantically involved with another alleged organized crime figure, Louis Manocchio.
* * *
On a Friday in mid-September, 1981, I performed a heart catheterization on an elderly patient who’d been referred by Bob Indeglia for consideration for aortic valve replacement. On the first injection of dye into the left coronary artery, we noted a very tight proximal blockage, one we called “the widowmaker,” — and immediately thereafter, the patient went into cardiac arrest. For close to an hour, we tried to resuscitate him, but to no avail.
I was devastated. To have a patient die from an intervention you are performing is harrowing. I left the catheterization laboratory to inform his family in a fog of misery. As is usually the case, they were kind and understanding, which paradoxically increased my distress. When I’d finished talking to them, it was lunchtime, and I called Jack Cicilline. I related what had just happened and he said, “I was about to go out for lunch. Come up the Hill and have lunch with me.”
We drove a short distance down Atwells Avenue, stopping at DePasquale Square. Decades before, it was lined with push-carts selling fruits, vegetables, and in winter, roasted chestnuts, but it was now host to small grocery stores, a poultry vendor, a pharmacy, and a restaurant called the Forum, which was one I hadn’t been to before. A large fountain topped with a sculpture of a pinecone graced the courtyard in front of the Forum, plumes of water performing a glissando into progressively larger pools. A few people sat relaxing on the marble rim of the lowest pool, soaking up the residue of warmth that lingered like a friendly ghost in the plaza. Inside, the hand of a talented interior designer was evident. Warm, exposed beams set off the original brick walls; the tables held Italian tile insets, and a shelf on the back wall displayed an assortment of colorful Italian ceramic vases and urns. Under this shelf was a long banquette, upholstered in a rich maroon paisley material. To the right of the dining room was a small bar with a mirrored backstop and rows of crystal wine goblets hanging overhead.

A succulent aroma, redolent of garlic and olive oil, tomatoes and spices, permeated the air. A man I took to be the manager came over to greet us as soon as we were inside the door. He was of medium height and carried himself with an effortless but steely dignity. He was bald on the top of his head, with short-cropped gray hair, a tanned face, and a very slight but unplaceable accent. I guessed his age as somewhere in his fifties. There was an indefinable aura about him that I found compelling. Somehow the air around him had a different density; it refracted light at a sharper angle. “Jack!” he said, shaking Jack’s hand and giving me a look of polite inquiry. “Welcome to the Forum.”

“Hi, Louis,” Jack replied. “Meet my friend, Dr. Barbara Roberts. Barbara, meet Louis Manocchio.”
The name set off instant alarm bells in my mind. Was this, I wondered, THE Louis Manocchio, the one who had been “on the lam” for ten years and had only recently returned to Rhode Island? I wracked my brain for other details about him but could come up with nothing more. I had long since stopped buying the Providence Journal and read it only rarely.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Louis said, extending his hand to shake mine, then leading us to a table by a window that fronted the square. I can’t remember what we ate for lunch that day, and in truth, I had little appetite after the events of the morning. Louis was kept busy seeing to the normal bustle of a restaurant at lunchtime but visited our table frequently. I had the distinct impression that he knew who I was. He emanated a subtle authority that made his attentiveness seductive and flattering. When we had finished eating, he asked Jack if he could give me a tour of the restaurant, and Jack waved us off. He showed me the upstairs dining room and the kitchen. I had already visited the ladies’ room with its walls of rich, burnt umber tiles, every eighth tile containing the delicate tracery of a flower. He introduced me to the waitstaff and urged me to open an account there, saying that he hoped I would return often.
My impression was that Louis was in some subtle but definite way both courting me and paying me homage. I could feel the tachycardic thrumming of my heart as he took my hand and made a slight bow over it as we left. Out in the square, I turned to Jack: “Is he the one they call ‘Baby Shanks’?” I asked. “He’s the one,” Jack replied, “and I think you made a big impression.” I gave an uncertain laugh, not at all sure this was something I should be pleased about, but I was intrigued. I felt a sexual attraction to Louis, which surprised me no end because I’d never before been attracted to a man so much older than I. Since my breakup with George that summer, I’d been celibate — but with hormones coursing through my veins like a chemical Charge of the Light Brigade, I yearned for sex, for the oblivion and surcease of orgasm. I longed to be stoppered and shaken, to lie under a man, pelvis to pelvis in the slow, grinding dance of lust. My taste in men was clearly atrocious, but over the ensuing days, I could not expunge Louis from my thoughts. Like a ditty half heard on the radio that replays incessantly in the darkened theater of the mind, the opening lines of an Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnet repeated themselves endlessly in my head:
I too beneath your moon, almighty Sex,
Go forth at nightfall crying like a cat...
I knew it would be insanity to become involved with Louis, despite what I had to admit to myself was an intense and probably mutual attraction. The credibility of my testimony on Raymond’s health would be severely impaired, if not destroyed, if I became intimate with Louis and the relationship became known.
# # #
Adapted from "The Doctor Broad: A Mafia Love Story" by Barbara H. Roberts, M.D., publish date August 2019. (c) 2019, Heliotrope Books.

How being human got reduced to management

When I was 27, just as I was settling into my first full-time office job, I began to notice that much of my life outside of work had begun to resemble my life at work. At the time I worked in the communications department of a local theatre company, and my day-to-day tasks resembled most office jobs: I would look at spreadsheets, observe institutional problems, then purchase something to (hopefully) fix them. White-collar office jobs are, in some ways, similar to factory jobs: just as a machine operator might study their readouts to ensure that the needles stay in a normal range, we were doing the same with our employer — making sure that the company's metaphorical needles hewed to the normal range, like a horizontal line on a graph, never veering or stalling.
Oddly, the way that I thought about my body, and its needs, was similar to the office job. I was a meter with a normal range, like a tachometer, and I had to avoid straying too far into the red. But did analogizing my body to a car make sense? A car collects quantitative data — the engine temperature or the number of revolutions of the cylinders — then displays it in its dashboard readouts. Recently, human bodies, too, became capable of comparable feats of data collection, even if much of this data is collected without our opt-in consent.

Incidentally, while I was working at the theater company, I bought my first iPhone, an iPhone 5s. This iPhone model counted my steps throughout the day, whether I wanted it to or not; this data supposedly revealed if I were getting enough exercise. As I was regularly saving money for the first time, my bank account number, viewable with a quick tap on my phone, felt like a gauge for another quantitative aspect of existence.
And just as at work, it seemed that for every bodily problem there was a consumable solution: if I was feeling too tired, I would assign myself a latte. If I was not tired enough, a cup of chamomile, or an ice water. If I were stressed, I could invite a friend out for a beer, or plan a weekend trip to get away. If I were restless, I would assign myself a jog around the neighborhood. Just as my work life — where I was fixing problems and hiring out solutions — I was doing the same for my body, in a way that alarmed me.
This makes it sound as though I didn’t have an interior life beyond the bodily, which isn’t quite true. I did — it was just that I was so mentally exhausted at the end of every day that I was incapable of addressing my interior life. I had written a book I was desperate to publish and re-edit, but every day that I worked, I would feel so mentally taxed that editing it felt impossible. Meanwhile, I had once loved writing and performing music, but with a full-time job, it felt like a chore on par with work.

Yet at the end of the work day, even if I had no energy to pursue my actual passions, I had money — which was, after all, the point of working — and I could use that money as a salve, to buy goods and services that promised to temporarily lessen misery.
In short, it began to seem as though I was the manager of a body, just as I was a manager at work. Like the company for whom I worked, I could assign tasks to my body, or tell it to consume goods — much as a machine operator might oil and maintain a lathe. The goal was always optimization.
I was reminded of a brief period as a child when my family had a pet fish. We were instructed by the pet shop clerk to observe the way the fish looked — its size, color, demeanor, and so on — in order to diagnose how and when to feed it, clean its tank, or prescribe it medicine. It lived in a barren glass bowl with a single piece of fake kelp, which looked depressing to me; but I was assured that it needed nothing more than that, as it was an animal, and lacked the same depth of soul and mind that we had. It would be fine, I was told, as long as we tended to its needs by making observations and adjusting our management of it.

Despite our attempts, the fish died after a month.
* * *
The omnipresence of this kind of rationalist dehumanization made me feel gloomy about my own lot. Was this all that I could hope for or expect from life — a series of inhuman managerial decisions, both at work and home, in service of attaining some optimal mood state? The more I thought about it, the more that I realized that some ideology had crept unbidden into my life. The tendency to think of one’s body as a managed machine, whose function is to operate at peak efficiency, is not innate; this is a concept that has trickled over from capitalist work culture and into the West.

Silicon Valley offers perhaps the most brutal realization of this kind of managerial-business approach to being alive. The simultaneous rise of “wearables” and “Big Data” has merged into this Excel spreadsheet–approach to existence. The Apple Watch I find most horrifying: a miniature monitoring device replete with mini-apps that turn your exercise routine into a visualized graph, along with your heartbeat and the number of steps you take. As with the iPhone, these functions operate by default, which suggests that becoming a human spreadsheet is now an opt-out, rather than an opt-in, state of affairs.
We see the same in social media. Counting likes and hearts is a means of quantifying friendship and status, something that the social media companies revel in; if you have a Facebook account, you might have gotten one of their annual messages celebrating how many likes you’ve gained, which, as AdWeek documented, read:
(User), your friends have liked your posts (total) times!
We’re glad you’re sharing your life with the people you care about on Facebook. Here’s a look at some photos your friends have recently liked.
The message here seems to be there is verisimilitude between Facebook “likes” and your friends’ real-world feelings towards you. Which, of course, there isn't.

Last year, I interviewed Professor David Golumbia of Virginia Commonwealth University, who is an expert in what is sometimes called computationalism — the ideology that that everything is a computer, or can be reduced to it. Golumbia told me that this ideology was once confined to a small group of programmers and techies. But since that same group of individuals now have dominance over our social lives, their beliefs have spread to all of us.
“There is a small group of people who become obsessed with quantification,” Golumbia told me at the time. “Not just about exercise, but like, about intimate details of their life — how much time spent with one’s kids, how many orgasms you have — most people aren’t like that; they do counting for a while [and] then they get tired of counting. The counting part seems oppressive.”
The computationalist worldview trickles into society and politics in other ways, too: the preponderance of people, many of whom work in tech, who believe that our minds are so analogous to computers that we could upload our consciousness; or, alternatively, who believe that the universe is a simulation; or those who believe that AI is some form of god we should worship.

Those who hold these beliefs may be unaware that historically, every generation has adopted quasi-religions of some form based on the technological epoch in which they live. Imagine how momentous electrification seemed to those who lived during the beginning of it: the ability of invisible electrons traveling through thin wires to make things move was so astounding that the physical potential to produce electricity was deemed the “electromotive force.” In the late nineteenth century, many people actually believed that electricity would make us immortal; after all, it could make seemingly lifeless things move. Could it not be applied to the human body? The idea sounds absurd today; though I suspect in one hundred years, humans will look back at those who thought computers would make us immortal and think the same thing.
* * *
This mindset, the computationalist way of thinking, is a side-effect of an overall cultural trend towards what I call STEM Supremacy — a condition in which those who have STEM skills are upheld as socially and politically superior to the rest of us, and their way of thinking exalted compared to other forms of analysis.
Yet the managerial state of being, I think, goes beyond mere STEM Supremacism. For it is not merely that we are counting our steps, calories, dates and friendships, putting them into metaphorical or literal spreadsheets. We are also treating our lives like management problems, reducing our selves to robots. And this is an ideology that predates both STEM Supremacy and computationalism.

If you were to trace the history of the redefining of our bodies as machines, you might start with the Restoration period in England in the late 17th century. Peter Stallybrass and the late Allon White, both professors and literary critics, published perhaps the foremost account of how the rise of capitalism in the 17th and early 18th century was correlated with a new conception of the body. The rigidities of the daily grind, of burgeoning factory and service labor, required new rules of etiquette for workers.
As with any cultural shift, these new rules were propagandized, often by writers like John Dryden, the first Poet Laureate of England. Stallybrass and White call Dryden “a crucial figure in the ‘cleansing’ process, polemically engaging in attempting to do for the theatre pit and boxes what the coffee-house was doing for the tavern.” They note how his 1692 drama, “Cleomenes”, achieves this by “coax[ing] and sham[ing] the unruly audience of aristocratic Beaux and vulgar groundlings into keeping still and keeping quiet.”
And speaking of the coffee-house, it will surprise few that the emergence of coffee in Europe and the birth of capitalism are correlated. Beer was previously the drink of choice for serfs and peasants, even during the "work" day — though as work and life were synonymous under feudalism (for the underclasses at least), there was little difference, and the idea of a "work" day less meaningful than it is now.
Yet one’s movements under the influence of alcohol are unsteady, and one’s thoughts and feelings unregulated. It is not a drink to operate machinery while consuming. Whereas, under the influence of coffee, one’s control over body and mind are honed. And the kinds of places where coffee was consumed were thus quite different than where ale was consumed. “It is no exaggeration,” wrote Stallybrass and White, “to say that the development of the bourgeois public sphere was consonant with the growth of the coffee-house…. The importance of the coffee-house was that it provided a radically new kind of social space, [free] from the grotesque bodies of the alehouse.”

The entire idea of “manners,” the two authors note, are connected to one’s internal conception of self. The “psychical and the social” are intrinsically linked; our external behavior and internal monologue are connected, inseparable.
Though it seems innate to us, the evolution towards a bodily state of self-regulation — of exhibiting such self-control over oneself in public and at work — only happened over the past four hundred years or so. The rigid, drone-like treadmill runners who stare at you from the other side of the window at the gym are a new phenomenon, historically speaking. We control ourselves in a radically different way than humans did in other points in history.
As the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries whiled away, more and more human labor became wrapped up in factories, where repetitive, mechanistic tasks would be repeated again and again, hour after hour. As if this kind of labor weren’t dehumanizing enough, experts began to emerge who would study how to reduce humans to their maximally efficient parts. The founder of scientific management theory was Frederick Winslow Taylor, and thus scientific management is sometimes also known as “Taylorism.” Taylor studied optimization of the factory floor, and took great pride in measuring the precise amount of time that a worker should take to pick up a widget or hammer a widget in order to maximize profit, and then encouraged them to do so.
Salon readers, who are astute when it comes to labor and political history, may be familiar with the idea of Taylorism already. As Robyn Metcalfe, a food historian and researcher at University of Texas at Austin, wrote in Salon earlier this year:

During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the newly developed idea of scientific management led to practices that optimized workflow by carefully measuring and maximizing the use of time, labor, and standardized parts and practices while eliminating waste. Frederick Winslow Taylor, an early twentieth-century mechanical engineer, led the movement, and “Taylorism,” as his theory was called, led to further improvements in the production and transportation of products from factory to consumer. . . . The idea of optimization became quantifiable[.]
So much of what we observe as innate aspects of modern Western civilization — wellness culture, social media, fitness culture, and health apps — can be explicated by Metcalfe’s last sentence, the idea of optimization becoming quantifiable. Being able to quantify (and thus optimize) ideas that weren’t previously quantifiable has proven to be our folly, and greatly diminished our interior lives. The incredible thing about consciousness, and about being human, is how unquantifiable and unknowable the subjective experience of being alive really is; the day-to-day, minute-to-minute joy of living, eating, breathing, laughing or finding success, are not numbers in a spreadsheet, nor binary ticks in the solid state drive of an Apple Watch.
So why do so many wish to make life into that — an endless series of optimized moments? The answer, darkly, is that by applying scientific management to our livelihoods — by making scientific management into a culture — we are more readily controllable, atomized. It speaks to an obsession with self that capitalists love because it prevents systemic thinking or systemic change. It masks the fact that your misery might not be because you took the wrong supplement, missed your step count, or lack enough friends on Twitter; your misery might be because you’re being exploited or oppressed, often by the same vast, systemic forces that compel you to spend your days counting steps instead. Perhaps it’s time to stop counting.

So You Say You've Found The G Spot, Huh, Scientists?

A study found the elusive G spot in the vagina of the cadaver of an 83-year-old woman.
I've been hearing about this elusive G spot in a woman's vagina long before I had even experienced penetration myself. I've had straight female friends who swear the only way they can orgasm is if their G spot is stimulated by a penis; lesbian friends who have been more than willing not to only show me where it is, but how with ample pressure it can induce the even more elusive "female ejaculation"; and of course, sexual partners who've claimed they can "totally feel your G spot now from this angle, baby." That's great. I'm so happy for all these people, but I've always been a bit skeptical.

Now a study, published yesterday in the Journal of S
exual Medicine — on a dead woman, of all people — proves that why, yes, the G spot does exist after all. Not only does it exist, but it's also exactly where everyone claimed it would be: along the inside of the vaginal wall and about one to two inches up. Gynecologist Adam Ostrzenski, who aided in finding the G spot in the cadaver of the 83-year-old woman (I'm never giving my body to science after reading this), described the G spot as "a 'well-delineated sac,' stretching from 8.1 to 33 millimeters." Some sex experts, like Dr. Debby Herbenick, though, say this study doesn't really prove anything new about the G spot or female sexuality. It's a case study on a single subject — and who knows whether this dead woman even derived pleasure from her "G spot."

So before we all starting throwing a G spot parade, there are so many concerns about female sexuality that need to be addressed. Not only do some women still not know how to benefit from the G spot when it comes to sex, many women have trouble achieving orgasm period. As Dr. Michael Krychman, director of the Southern California Center for Sexual Health, points out: "Close to 50 percent of women complain of sexual concerns and not always being in the mood." That right there stands in the way of women taking the time and effort to find their own pleasure, whether G-spot-derived or not. Krychman says that women often have trouble speaking with their doctors, or even with their friends, about troubles getting sexually aroused. So ladies, now that we're 100 percent sure the G spot exists, let's not only find our own, but find the ultimate sexual pleasure we deserve.
Have you found your G spot? Do you know the difference between a G spot and a clitoral orgasm? Have you experienced both, one, or neither? (If not, you must check out this from The Stir: The Secret To Having The Most Magical Kind Of Orgasm)

3 Things You Didn't Know About Americans' Sexual Satisfaction

Sexual satisfaction and time: Do we last too long, or not long enough?
When it comes to sexual satisfaction, Americans could use a boost in bedroom confidence (and, apparently, in duration of intercourse).
It's a bold statement, but according to the findings from the latest Durex condoms survey, it's true. The condom brand polled Americans, asking pressing questions about just how happy everyone feels at the end of a sexual escapade.

Unfortunately, the results are a bit depressing. That's not to say nobody is sexually satisfied — plenty of people are reaching climax regularly — but those who aren't are a confused bunch. Not only do these sexually unfulfilled people feel deprived, but they also don't seem to know exactly what they want. Should sex last longer? Should he just get it over with already? That's what Durex set out to discover, and here's what they found.

Some think sex lasts too long. Fourteen percent of people admitted that they think sex lasts too long. Come on, people, beggars can't be choosers here. There are people in the world not having sex, though they badly want to, yet you're complaining that it lasts too long? It must depend on who you are and who you're doing it with; however, if you're finding sex to be long and unpleasant, chances are you have some issues with your partner.
Some think sex doesn't last long enough. Meanwhile, 37 percent of people think sex ends too quickly. This seems more in line with what sexual complaints should be. Missy Elliot didn't want no one-minute man, and neither do you. Nicely done, America. Want Your Guy To Last Longer During Sex?

Some are being proactive. Luckily, our great nation of sexually active adults isn't just a country of complainers — many are trying to do something about it. Seventy-five percent of men and 66 percent of women have made (or will make) an effort to change the pace during intercourse in an effort to achieve mutual climax that is neither too fast nor to slow. That's more like it, people! Previous Durex-funded research also found that people are willing to use lubricants, adult toys and rings to help heighten the pleasure of a climax. Well done.

Ben Wa Balls Demystified

One of my recent blogs sparked a lively conversation on Facebook about ben wa balls.  For those of you who may only have a vague idea what they are, ben wa balls are small, marble-sized balls usually made of metal with a small weight inside them.  The pair I have, however, are made of jade.  As my friend Oceana says, “Jade is a mineral whose inherent properties are abundance, prosperity, and good health.  Wearing jade in your first and second chakra areas will enhance your ability to bring these good vibrations into your life.”  She sells them on her website www.goddessoceana.com in case you’re interested.
Ben wa balls are used to strengthen the muscles in the vagina and the pelvic floor.  Stronger vaginal muscles not only help increase sexual pleasure, but they also help with mild incontinence caused by childbirth.  Used in this way, they act much like Kegel exercises.

Tantrikas use ben wa balls to help build chi, or life force energy, in the body.  The balls offer a subtle pleasure rather than an intense orgasm; walking around with them in the vagina for an hour can build the chi to a point that when you do have sex, it’s more of a full body experience than one centrally located in the genitals.  The balls can be left in during intercourse, although some women experience pain if the man’s penis causes the balls to press against her cervix.

Ben wa balls are not to be confused with their larger cousins, Duotone balls.  These are plastic balls about the size of a golf ball, connected by a plastic tube, with smaller balls or weights inside them.  These larger balls typically have a string attached so they can be removed easily, while ben wa balls are usually independent and must be removed either by relaxation or proper pressure from the vaginal wall muscles.  Duotone balls are an independent sex toy; they’re large enough that you wouldn’t be able to fit more than the head of a penis in at the same time, and you’d have to navigate around the string.  There’s also a variation on ben wa balls that links 4-5 of them together and does have a string for easy removal; this variation is often referred to as anal beads, although they can also be used in the vagina. 

Then there are those decorative Chinese “relaxation balls.”  These have been sold in Chinatowns across the country for decades.  They come in a fancy box and they’re decorated with enamel paint and gold filigree.  They have a weight and a chime in each one, and their intended use is to massage your hands.  They make a noise and have an interesting vibrating sensation when you jiggle them.  Despite their seeming potential for erotic pleasure, I would strongly recommend NOT inserting these into your vagina.  Unless you are adept at these kinds of things, you could have great difficulty removing them once inserted.  Some of my friends can attest to this fact, and the anxiety that sets in when something’s hard to remove from your vagina will make it that much more difficult.  While I have a sneaking suspicion that whoever began importing them saw the erotic possibilities, we say there are easier ways to have just as much fun.  And, they do make great hand massagers.

How to Find the Elusive Orgasm

I am hoping that what I learned will help you to reach orgasm every time you have sex too.
I decided to write this blog for all my sisters who have yet to find the elusive orgasm. I can say that I used to be among you ladies… I would orgasm maybe once a year but I never knew why or what was done to cause it. It wasn’t until I met a man that cared about pleasing me, that I experimented with different positions, talked about what felt good and what didn’t, before I finally learned to orgasm through intercourse. Although, I had found my orgasm it was still not an easy task and I often didn’t try to orgasm because it was too much work…. Over time I found a way to orgasm every time I have sex, not just once but several times. I am hoping that what I learned will help you to reach orgasm every time you have sex too.

What prevents a woman from reaching orgasm?
We as women hold the entire world on our shoulders. We often work jobs we can’t stand with people that get on our nerves. We often carry the sole responsibility of providing for our families financially. We take care of our children and have to deal with their stresses, failures, and issues. We sometimes have the burden of caring for our parents if they are ill. My goodness, it is amazing we have the energy to have sex at all.
Now we add to this the stress of trying to orgasm when we have had difficulty in the past. We worry if we are doing it right/performance anxiety. We have poor body image perception. We are dealing with past negative baggage from bad relationships and lets not forget that 1 in every 5 women have been sexually abused, molested or raped. We have so much to overcome.
So what do we do?

First, we have to relax and rid ourselves of all negative thoughts regarding intimacy. Quiet your mind, focus totally on feeling sexy and aroused… focus on your man, enjoying his smell, the way his skin feels, his voice, and the little things he says. Accept that our female figures are beautiful and sexually attractive. Yes damn it, you are beautiful, sexy, and attractive and guess what… your man finds you irresistible! No self-rejection allowed here. J
Second, you must allow yourself to imagine how excited you will feel. When you and your man begin touching each other, allow yourself to get as sexually excited as possible. Be so excited you can barely stand it. Starting intercourse before you are fully aroused could kill the chances of reaching orgasm.

I Took An Unbelievable Orgasm Class, And It Changed EVERYTHING

Forget everything you THOUGHT you knew about orgasms.
The women all around me were exploding into orgasmic bliss, but I was sure they were faking it. How could anyone achieve an orgasm without being touched, or touching themselves?
Lying on the floor fully clothed, this room full of women reminded me of an exercise class. Certainly I saw nothing sexual about it except for their moans and groans of ecstasy.
As our teacher moved about the darkened room, I saw woman after woman lift her hips into the air and then lower her hips to the floor, each repetition of this movement synchronized with the breath according to the instructions given at the beginning of the class.
It could have been a birthing class or a yoga class, but it wasn't—it was an orgasm class.

I had signed up for the Firebreath Orgasm class out of curiosity, but once in the midst of all the sexual noise, I found my interest quickly turning into cynicism. I thought it obvious that what I was witnessing was some kind of mass hysteria.

But I am a good student even when I am cynical, so while I plotted my escape from this ridiculous scene, I continued to perform the movements and breathing as the instructor said to do.
And while my brain tried to locate my jacket and handbag so I could make as unobtrusive an exit as possible, my body chose to do something else.
Without warning a hot sensation like a ball of fire shot up my spine and out the top of my head. The physical sensations never stopped to say hello to my genitals.
There was nothing at all genitally focused about this experience, and yet, it felt very much like an orgasm, but much more intense than any orgasm I had ever had at that time in my life.

For a few seconds, time stood still and I felt like I had left my body.
Okay. Had I, too, become a participant in this mass hysteria? How could I be? After all, I had been mentally looking around the room for my belongings so I could get out of there.
I hadn't been engaging in wishful thinking—quite the contrary. I had decided the whole thing was nonsense and wanted no part of it.
But now as some aspect of myself had seemingly soared out of the room and up into the heavens, I got a glimpse of something which scared me a lot more than a room full of moaning women.
This was something I had not been coached into expecting. In fact there had been no mention of what I was feeling.

What was I feeling? It's hard to put into words, but I'll try. I felt like I had made love with God.

What the hell does that even mean? Good question.
Have you ever experienced something you can't find adequate words to describe? Well, this was like that.
All I can tell you is that I felt unworthy of the whole thing and never took another firebreath orgasm class again.
What's more, I shied away from all forms of energy play to some extent after that for quite a number of years.
I now had firsthand experience of this truly transformative and amazing state of being which could be accessed through muscular contractions and conscious breathing techniques, but I ran from it like it was a dangerous disease.

People are truly strange creatures. It seems we will do without all sorts of positive outcomes just to avoid challenging our beliefs, but what belief was I protecting?
Well, for one thing, I grew up believing that sex and God were not on particularly cozy speaking terms, and for another, I couldn't fathom a universe where sex is so easily available.
If we don't need genitals in order to have orgasms, then how do we define inappropriate sexual behavior? After all, we set boundaries by insisting that people wear clothes and keep their hands to themselves.
We have laws against masturbating in public. But if orgasms are freely available without touching someone else or yourself and if all it takes is the right breathing technique to elicit an orgasm, then how do we enforce standards about when and how people can have sex?

Looking back now, I see that was something of an inane question, but it did trouble me. Maybe that provides a clue to why many of us might have trouble identifying the true nature of sex.
What I discovered that evening over twenty years ago, and what I resisted for some years afterwards despite experiencing it, was that there is much more to the erotic journey than genital stimulation or pair bonding or procreation.
There is a spiritual dimension to sex which is barely hinted at in our popular movies and music, and that spiritual dimension to sex can even be obscured behind our limited definitions of romance and love.
The spiritual dimension of sex extends a seemingly contradictory invitation to transcend the confines of our bodies by going deeper into our body—physically, emotionally and energetically.

But it would be many years before I would accept that invitation and once again peak through that Doorway to the Divine.
I flirted around the edges, I learned to activate chakras, those energy centers which Eastern medicine so often refers to, and I followed the breath to more connection when making love.
But my fear of playing with bigger energies persisted for a long time. I clung to the safety of my existing belief system rather than open to a greater possibility.
Can you relate?
Want to learn how to do your own firebreath orgasm?  Email me for your own private telephone session! Veronica@TheShameFreeZone.com

The Different Types Of Female Orgasms

Discover the different types of female orgasms and if you are having the right ones.
An orgasm is a term used for psychological and emotional pleasure caused by sexual stimulation. Most women have two types of orgasms. These are known as clitoral and vaginal. Clitoral orgasms are most common in women. However, many women are unable to have a vaginal orgasm.
In fact, there are many women who don't have a female orgasm at all. At times, you may also have heard about women faking it. As strange as it may sound, it is true that many women fake an orgasm.
According to many studies and researches, there are times when women aren't even sure about having an orgasm. Some women think they have an orgasm from time to time, but aren't really sure about it. A female orgasm combining both clitoral and vaginal is known as a blended orgasm. Blended orgasms are very rare. They don't happen often.

Basic Difference Between Both Orgasms
A clitoral orgasm occurs when the clitoris is well lubricated and massaged slowly. On the other hand, a vaginal orgasm is caused when some extra pressure is applied on the G-spot. Usually, this happens when the tip of a guy's penis presses against the vagina. The G-spot is about two inches from the opening of the vagina. It is present on the anterior wall of a woman's vagina.
Clitoral and vaginal orgasms feel completely different to a woman. The main reason is that the major nerve connected to the G-spot is completely different from the one connected to the clitoris.
How Do Orgasms Occur
The basic reason for orgasms is similar in both men and women. Orgasms involve contractions of pelvic floor muscles. These muscles run between the legs in the form of a figure-eight shape around the anus and genitals. Due to erotic arousal, these muscles tend to experience continuous rapid, wavelike contractions.

Usually, there are four to ten muscle contractions. There is a gap of less than one second between each. A set of continuous contractions is called an orgasm. Most orgasms are accompanied with involuntary movement of chest, hips, limbs or head.

In most women, muscle contractions during orgasms are visible in the form of contractions of vaginal opening and anal sphincter. Some women also release a certain fluid during an orgasm. This is known as a female ejaculation. The fluid is released from the glands which surround the urethra. Although most women release around a teaspoon of fluid, it may be more in some cases. You should understand that the fluid ejaculated during an orgasm is not urine. It is similar to prostatic fluid in men.
Most of the women only have one orgasm per interlude. However, some women may have multiple orgasms per interlude. But it is not clear how many women can have more than one rapid orgasms per interlude.
How to have an Orgasm

Almost every woman is capable of having an orgasm. Some can even have multiple orgasms. A woman is only unable to have an orgasm because of a medical problem. Many women don't know their bodies properly. As a result, they are unable to completely enjoy intercourse and have an orgasm.
It is very important for a woman to understand her body. It is important to understand how your body reacts to intercourse. Many factors come into play if a woman wants to have an orgasm.
If you want to completely enjoy your sexual encounter, it is extremely important to free your mind from any sort of stress. If you have any stuff on your mind during sex, you will be unable to give your complete attention to pleasure. Thus, having an orgasm will be difficult.
According to most studies, if you have sex again within a period of two days, you are more emotionally and physically involved in your sexual encounter. The main reason is that your body stays warmed up physically and emotionally.

You should spend some time in learning more about your body. You should know what your body likes and what it does not like. In every sexual encounter, you should be completely comfortable. Some women are more self conscious. Thus, it tends to put a lot of strain on their pleasure. It is important to understand that a woman's body is completely different from a man's body. Thus, a woman needs some extra time to get aroused and have an orgasm.

We Asked 10 New Yorkers To Give Us Their Best Orgasm Face And...

We've all got an "O" face. These brave strangers weren't afraid to show us what they look like when they climax.

Part of what makes the orgasm face particularly special is the fact that only the people who help us achieve said orgasm get to see it. Not to mention that, unless you're deliberately facing a mirror and forcing your eyes open while you're climaxing, you probably don't really know exactly what your own "O" face even looks like.

To put a little context behind the mystery of the "O" face, we asked a few brave New Yorkers to show us what they think their mug looks like while they're having their big moment.

These are bravest "O" faces that New York City has to offer. You'll probably never look at strangers on the street the same way again.

Show us your good side.

"Wait, get me from this angle." —Judah

This Amazing New Sex Toy Will LITERALLY Shock You (Yes, Really)

Two words: Electric. Sex.
Electricity and sex ... isn't that dangerous?
Do they even go together?
Actually, they do. For many people, electrostimulation is just another way to experiment in the bedroom.
Electro-What?
Electrical impulses are constantly running through our body. The body uses those electrical impulses all the time to exchange information between nerve endings and the brain. And those same electrical impulses help us feel touch and, more importantly, pleasure.
And where are the most nerve endings that love pleasure? Down THERE! That's why you're so sensitive in that area. With the right stimulator, you can tingle each of these nerves for ultimate pleasure. When done correctly, electrostimulation is very erotic.

E-stim (short for electrostimulation) has become more and more popular the past couple of years. Why? Because it doesn't hurt — it feels good. Really!
Let's not forget that the medical field has used electrostimulation for many years to treat chronic pain or rebuild muscle strength. It doesn't hurt, and it can help you! Along the way, someone decided to experiment with stimulating other body parts.
Who's Into Erotic Electrostimulation?
Electro-sex isn't just for people into BDSM. It's for anyone who enjoys pleasure and is willing to try something new and different. Whether alone or with a partner, you can try electro-sex. Although, we admit that it's more fun with a partner!
What Does It Feel Like?
You can feel anything from a gentle tickle to a strong stimulation.
Electro Sex For Beginners

The easiest way to try electro-sex is with an electro-sex sex toy. You can use these toys for solo or couple play. No matter what situation you like, there's a whole world of things you can do and try that can get you to reach a fast, intense orgasm or steadily maintain a slowly spreading tingling sensation that will keep you happy for hours.
To get started, you'll need:

An e-stim toy that transfers electrical impulses to your skin
A good understanding of what is safe and what is not
With this kind of toy, it's best to try it out first and experiment on your hand instead of your genitals. Make sure to communicate and set ground rules before you begin. Also, make sure that you or your partner are not wearing rings or metal bracelets.
Turn the toy on, slowly going through all of the modes. When you're done experimenting, it's time to turn the e-stim toy off. Remember, always turn off the electrical current before you let go of the toy.

When you're ready to use the toy on your genitals, make sure to use a generous amount of water-based lubricant.
Some e-stim toys to try are the Mystim e-stim Vibrator and the JimmyJane Hello Touch X. Both use vibration and electrical stimulation for unbelievable pleasure.
The Mystim has a conductive surface that runs the entire length of the shaft with 5 electrical stimulation programs and 10 speeds. Combine that with 2 powerful and silent motors at the tip and shaft that have 8 vibration patterns and speeds — WOW!
The Hello Touch X puts vibration or electrostimuation right at your finger tips for exciting and electric play. Double WOW!