Hi there, I’m a G-spot. I live inside of a person, like most G-spots do. I’ve heard my person talk about me a lot, and I love stroking my ego, so I decided to ask her a few questions about myself. She thinks I’m just trying to understand the buzz surrounding me, but I already know how awesome I am. Oh, you’re wondering how I can communicate? Sorry, I’m asking the questions here.

G-spot: When did you first hear about me?
Person: I remember the moment vividly. I was at a summer camp after my junior year of high school. I went caving with a bunch of the other people (mostly guys) and a few of the counselors. In one of the cave areas, someone had spray painted a big G with a circle around it. One of the counselors said, “Here it is! The G-spot! Now everyone should touch it as you go by, because that’ll probably be the only time you’ll find it.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but I went ahead and touched that spray painted rock.

G-spot: That had nothing to do with me. When did you first really learn about me?
Person: I think I learned about the G-spot sometime in high school or college, during a self-conscious internet search fest.

G-spot: How did you find me?
Person: With my fingers, after reading 1) where you were located and 2) if I pushed on you, I’d feel like I had to pee.

G-spot: I’m pretty awesome, aren’t I?
Person: Yep, although you take a little while to wake up. I know where you are, and you make me feel good, but sometimes I feel like you’re a little overrated.

G-spot: How dare you! Why would you say something like that?
Person: Because I’ve tried to give myself G-spot orgasms and the only things I got out of the experience were sore hands and wrists. I push and push for so long, and it feels great, but without any release, it’s tough not to resort to clit stimulation to finish.

G-spot: Weakling! You think you can just conquer the G-spot whenever you wish?
Person: Well, yeah. I’d like to be able to have G-spot orgasms and squirt, but so far, no luck on those fronts.

G-spot: Well, have you tried building a shrine dedicated to my awesomeness? I think a G-spot altar might help you in your quest.
Person: I think I’ll stick with my Pure Wand.

Preface: My partner and I wrote this article to raise awareness about a condition. We appreciate words of support and encouragement, but are not specifically seeking advice or suggestions on how to deal with this condition. We do encourage others who have experienced this type of behavior to share their stories. Thank you for reading.

I’ve been sharing an apartment and a bed with my partner for 16 months. During this time, our relationship has grown stronger, and we’ve had many wonderful experiences together.

The first time it happened, I hadn’t quite fallen asleep yet. I was somewhat aware that he moved closer to me in bed, but wasn’t bothered by the motion until I felt his hand on my butt (I sleep naked). His hand moved down my butt and I became agitated when he tried to finger my ass. We don’t do surprise-butt-play around here; we always ask permission before proceeding. I jolted and moved away from him, but his hand was insistent. I thought he was just playing and couldn’t take a hint. As he moved toward me again, I said, firmly, “No.” This stopped him temporarily, but it took a more forceful “No!” to get him to stop completely. At this point I still thought he was just being a jerk, and that we were going to have a talk in the morning about personal boundaries.

Well, we did have a talk, but it was quite different than what I planned. See, he didn’t remember any of what had happened the night before. He was startled by my account of what had transpired, and apologized for scaring me, reassuring me that he wouldn’t do that kind of thing without asking first. We usually openly communicate our desires to fool around, so I was somewhat relieved that he was unaware that anything disturbing had occurred.

I felt bad about the incident because sometimes we cuddle up close at night, or we fool around during the night, so I was afraid I’d done something to excite him. I remembered I’d sometimes slide up next to him and feel him get aroused, but usually nothing would come of it. Was I causing his nocturnal sexual expression? I hoped not.

During another night, we started having sex, and I didn’t even realize he wasn’t conscious for the first part of it until we talked about it the next day and he couldn’t remember how we started. “I just remember waking up having sex with you,” he said. On other occasions, there was more general fondling, and other actions that were halted when I removed his hands from my body and told him “No!” One time that was somewhat more frightening than the rest, we were both actually half-sitting up in bed and he grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me, awkwardly, for several seconds. I pulled away, and that was all that happened, but having someone suddenly grab my head was scary.

Through all of this, we talked. I’d tell him everything that happened, he would listen, and we would try to think of ways to make it stop happening or at least happen less often. I didn’t blame him for what went on when he was asleep, and he didn’t get defensive or accuse me of making up these strange episodes. I’m quite grateful that talking about the occurrences didn’t cause more problems than the occurrences themselves.

After many months of the sleep episodes, I decided to ask the EdenFantasys community about the issues we’d been having. You can see my original forum post called “Sleeping Affection,” here. While many people were supportive, I didn’t get much useful advice until one contributor offered up the terms “sleep sex” and “sexsomnia” and said she knew exactly what I’d been going through. This was quite a relief to both my partner and me. Just knowing that this type of behavior had its own Wikipedia article helped us feel a lot less isolated.

While I’m the one experiencing the episodes first hand, my partner is the one actually going through the motions, even though he’s not aware of them. He presents some of his personal history and thoughts on the condition here:

If you think about waking up and being in the middle of doing something, it sounds odd, especially if that something is having sex. This has happened to me a couple of times that I can recall. When it happened, I didn’t wake suddenly or ask what was going on. Instead, I just continued like I knew I’d been having sex all along. I wasn’t surprised or confused at all. This is part of why I didn’t realize my unconscious sexual expression initially. I’m a deep sleeper, and sometimes when I experience a stimulus, such as my alarm clock, I don’t always wake up. Sometimes I dream about the noise, or feeling, or sensation. If it persists, such as my alarm clock does, I’ll eventually wake up. Each time my alarm goes off, I become somewhat more conscious. The transition is continuous. This is why I’m not startled in the moment of some sleepsex event. I slowly become conscious of the event, the feelings, the sensations.

Also, in a previous relationship my partner and I had a rule that either one of us could initiate sexual activities with the other person while one was asleep. I am certain that I exhibited my sleepsex behaviors in this relationship, and it’s not difficult to see why it wasn’t an issue. If I were to unconsciously start some activity, she could either wake up to it and continue it, or stop me, and I would ‘fall back asleep’ after either scenario. By the same reasoning, if she were to start something with me, I would either wake up immediately (like a normal person) or I would engage her unconsciously, and neither one of us would realize I was asleep.

When I learned about my unconscious behavior, I was scared because it just didn’t sound like me. It was bizarre to wake up and have my partner tell me that I frightened her with sexually aggressive behaviors. I felt surprised, confused, and out of control. Of these, feeling out of control is the worst. Knowing that I could do it again, whenever, and without warning is a multiplier effect to my uneasiness. Talking about it helps tremendously. I’m grateful and surprised that I wasn’t blamed for my behavior. On first glance, blame makes to most sense. Open communication is the best way to work through an issue like this because it can be confusing when it is first identified.

The episodes are somewhat less frequent now, but whether that’s due to something we’re doing differently or just blind luck, I can’t really say. I hope none of you ever experience this condition, but if you do, try to remain calm during an episode, and remember to talk about what happened at a later time. Try to explain what happened without placing blame on your partner or yourself. It’s hard enough talking about something as strange as sleep sex; don’t complicate the situation with guilt or blame, since it’s most likely no one’s fault. Be there for each other and focus on the mutual goal of stopping or decreasing the episodes. Consult your physician if you need support.

The currently-slang term “yo” has many uses in slang English. It is used by itself as an attention-getter: “Yo!” It is used as part of a greeting, as a sort of undefined pet name: “Sup, yo?” It is used as a shortened form of the word “your,” such as: “Yo mama!” I’ve even heard it in “fro-yo,” slang for “frozen yogurt.”

I recently learned about a discovery made almost two years ago by Dr. Elaine Stotko, who works in the School of Education at Johns Hopkins University, and her student, Margaret Troyer (main article here). In a master’s class taught by Stotko, they discovered that many Baltimore area middle- and high-school English teachers had noticed students using “yo” as a gender neutral singular pronoun (GNSP). They verified that the students were using “yo” as a subject (“Yo wearin’ a new coat”) and object pronoun (“I saw yo at school”). Stotko and Troyer also reported that students were using the word “yo” as a GNSP even when they knew, for example, that the person mentioned was a boy. The article by Grammar Girl is quite interesting and I encourage you to read it.

Now, while “yo” sounds like a slang word, I still really like it as a potential GNSP. I’ve heard of other GNSPs before, such as “ze,” “zim,” “hir,” “hym,” and “mer,” and more can be found here. But when I look at those pronouns I just listed, I can’t help but think that they don’t look and/or sound like the usual words we use in English. Some of them work in written word, but get confusing when spoken. Could you hear the difference between “hir” from “her”? If I said “ze,” might you think I said “she” and simply didn’t enunciate properly?

Differing from the norm isn’t a disqualifying trait by any means. But with language, isn’t it easier to learn a new word if it looks similar to one you already know? “Yo” is just one letter away from “you.” I don’t think it’s a bad idea to have a pronoun that looks like other pronouns commonly used. “Yo” has a completely distinct sound from all other common personal pronouns, yet wouldn’t stick out in a list or chart. This led me to muse, what would the possessive form be? “Yo’s”? I’d pronounce it “yOHs,” to rhyme with “rose.” It’s a little awkward, but I think with practice, it’d become just as natural as “hers” or “theirs.” (I think “theirs” is a little hard to say, anyway) And as strange as it sounds (both in theory and when I’ve used “yo” in speech), I like the idea of having the same word for the subject and object pronoun forms. It’s simpler, and since we aren’t too familiar (in English speaking culture) with using a personal GNSP, introducing one new word should be easier than introducing two.

I think we’re ready for a personal GNSP. I’m tired of hearing “one,” “they,” or “he” used improperly. I’m tired of implying gender when gender isn’t known or even relevant to a statement. Can we remain personal while being gender neutral? I hope we can. So, what about “yo”? Do you like it? Do you like something else better? Do you use other GNSPs in common speech?

I can’t stand tea. Hot tea, iced tea, “sweet tea,” unsweetened tea, bubble tea, milk tea, black, green, white, oolong…I just don’t like tea.

Growing up in the southeastern United States, commonly known as “the South,” I saw tea all the time. I heard about it in commercials. I was offered tea at gatherings, at school, and at my friends’ houses. Usually I saw “sweet tea,” sweetened iced tea, but at home my parents liked both sweet tea and hot tea. They put milk and sugar in their hot tea, turning it into a lovely creamy brown color. Now that I live in the far west side of the US, I’ve been exposed to a wider variety of teas. I see a lot of Earl Grey and those fancy pop-the-straw-through-the-plastic bubble tea drinks all the cool college kids sip. Everyone seems to have a favorite style of tea, whether it’s herbal or fruity or flavoring their ginger ale.

Am I put off? Yes, a little. See, while I’ve known about tea all my life, it’s been weird to admire the related elements of it without actually enjoying the beverage itself. Having leaves in a drink looks so fresh and appealing. All of the colors of tea from golden yellow to reddish brown to dark chestnut look so tasty. And teapots and kettles? Could they get any cuter?

*sigh* And that’s just the aesthetic side of the appeal of tea. I also know tea can be healthy, with its wonderful antioxidants that can help prevent cancer and heart disease. I’d love to have a coffee alternative, especially when I’m sick (like right now, actually). It’d be wonderful to have a soothing hot drink without all the sugar of hot chocolate or the acidity of coffee. You’d think if I put enough honey, milk, sugar, syrup, or lemon, something, some combination would mask that tea taste I can’t stand, but so far I’ve yet to succeed. No gummy tapioca balls or peachy flavor or creamy addition has made tea enjoyable. I mean, I can swallow it, but I still don’t like it. Tea insists on tasting like tea, no matter what I do.

Why can’t tea at least look less appealing if it tastes bad? Such a tease.

__________________

What helped me get out of the Dark Tunnel of Doom? ‘Fessing up. Talking about my small boobs. Looking at them. Making my small boobs a reality. Instead of being something I was ashamed of, something that owned me, I slowly began thinking about that part of myself as a neutral characteristic instead of a negative one. I didn’t have a small-breasted clique of women, but I did have a few close friends who let me talk openly about sexuality, body image issues, and relationships. I felt like I gained more out of a conversation if I just went into it for the sake of conversing with someone instead of looking for feedback, advice, or a confidence boost. As I shared myself, even if it were initially scary, I felt less anxious overall, including how my boobs made me feel less than adequate.

In retrospect, the majority of my issues with having small boobs faded along with a new feeling of self-love. Enter: Naked Alone Time with a Mirror. The first time I started spending some Naked Alone Time with a Mirror was when I got my own room in a suite in college. I set up my mirror on the wall. I slept naked, so I was naked a good bit anyway, but I didn’t realize how seeing myself reflected each day helped out my boobs issue. I got familiar with my boobs. I’d grab them and see how they looked when I had my hands over them. I’d cover just my nipples with my fingers, and pretend I was a blurred-out naked person on television. Sometimes I’d critique myself, but other times I’d stare at myself and make funny faces until I giggled out loud. That person in the mirror? That naked girl? She was cute. She wanted the whole world to know how awesome she was. And she would be damned if her small boobs were going to hold her back. Sometimes the flaws in the mirror are obvious, but what I’ve found happens more often is that it’s so much more difficult to deny the beautiful parts when they’re right there in front of you. Sometimes, when we hide away from ourselves, we forget our own beauty.

Realistically, I couldn’t do much about the size of my breasts. Surgery was too drastic and expensive; heavily padded bras made me feel like a fraud; exercises didn’t change my pair’s appearance. I remembered an article I’d read about body image a while ago. It was written by a heterosexual man and geared toward heterosexual women who were struggling with body insecurities. One line in particular stayed with me, “If you love your thunder thighs, we’ll love them, too!” The main points he made were that women who thought of themselves as beautiful would be perceived as beautiful, and that confidence was a big part of beauty. I thought about it a lot, and kept asking myself how I could expect someone else to love my body if I didn’t love myself first. It didn’t seem right. Someone else shouldn’t convince me that I’m beautiful. I didn’t want beauty to be dependent on a partner’s praise. More specifically, I didn’t want to hunt for men who had a small-boob fetish. I didn’t want that type of reinforcement. I wanted to be set in my own beautiful ways before a potential partner came along.

So I got naked. I reflected. I became more comfortable. “Yep, those are my boobs” instead of “I wish my boobs were bigger.” More naked. More reflection. More comfort and ease and familiarity with curves and freckles. Occasional bursts of positivity. I started liking how my nipples looked, just in general. Liking how my boobs looked in certain shirts. Laughing gleefully as I danced to hip-hop music (yep, still naked) after a long day of classes. That girl in the mirror started inspiring me. I know it sounds impossible since she’s been me all along, but it’s easier being the person you want to be when you’re alone. No one’s watching, judging, or questioning. No one’s challenging the bits of confidence you’ve pulled together to get naked in front of a mirror.

Smiling at my naked reflection at the start and end of each day became routine. Of course I’d want to work on this part or that part, but overall, I’d feel good about who I was and how I looked. I stopped demanding to have something unrealistic. I stopped demanding to have a different genetic makeup. I stopped demanding to be someone besides myself.

That’s how I attained pride. Small-breasted Pride. My name is Rockin’ and I have small boobs. And you should love them. I certainly do.

A little recap: I was quite disappointed with my A-cups when I got them. In middle school, I was certainly in the Dark Tunnel of Small-breasted Doom. Despite my efforts to focus on other things besides my chest, I still felt inadequate…

Once I started high school, I wasn’t as concerned with my boobs in particular as I was with simply getting a boyfriend. With a little luck at the end of freshman year, I began my first relationship. We took the physical things slowly since neither of us had really dated anyone else. Don’t get me wrong, parts of me (I bet you can guess which parts) wanted to be all over him, but the rest of me was pretty terrified of all the new territory. In our ten-month relationship, we never ventured past second base. We simply agreed not to go any further. It was above-the-waist lovin’, all the time, and I just loved it. My boobs? My little boobs? They got ATTENTION. And it felt GREAT.

I think I went a little nuts because of it. I don’t remember much about that relationship, but I remember being super-duper happy about being felt up. You might’ve even called me “giddy,” at least after my initial ‘should-we-be-doing-this?’ hesitation. The guy and I had chemistry, but not much else. He dumped me; life went on. I still dreamed of C cups, but my Dark Tunnel of Small-breasted Doom had been lit up a bit by that first relationship. A guy had liked me, for a while, and my boobs didn’t have that much to do with how I got the guy or why we ended. That gave me a little more perspective. Maybe I was making too big of a deal about my little boobs.

In college, my perceptions and opinions of breasts came of age with me. I wondered if the super-curvy, super-conservative, proper women I met would ever want to (or get to) experience a “breastjob.” I certainly wanted to have that option, but I had too much valley and not enough hills for it to be practical. After I finally saw some porn, I became almost mesmerized at how breasts could swing and jostle during sex. It looked like it would feel great, and one day I figured out how to get that feeling. When I got off, I’d literally jostle myself with my hand as I lay on my back. It sounds weird, but it made me feel like my boobs were bigger. All that motion, that tugging feeling, sensations I didn’t normally have, were really hot. I could close my eyes and imagine myself as a beautiful, busty goddess.

My roommates unconsciously affected my boob self-image as well. One girl told me she wished her boobs were like mine, which she called “perky.” “Mine point down and to the sides,” she said with a sigh. Another situation made me realize that my flatter chest was somewhat practical. A friend asked where she could keep her ID card when she went for a run. I told her to just put it in her bra. “Well,” she said, looking at me, then at her (lovely, curvy) chest, “I think that’s easier for you.” I guess when a sports bra makes me flat, a flat ID card isn’t really noticeable. Score?

By then, much of the framework of the pathway to pride had been laid. I’d seen that my boobs didn’t hold me back from dating, and even found some positive aspects of my A-cups. But there was still some part of that Dark Tunnel left. What would help me through it? What would guide me to the beautiful land of Small-breasted Pride? Find out next week.

by Rockin’

As a young girl, I would shake a couple Tic-Tacs out of their pack and hold them in my palm. “These are magic pills,” I’d think to myself. “They’ll make me grow large breasts.” Then I’d eat them. I was probably around eight at the time. Not long after, I remember pretending one of my stuffed animals had magic powers and if it touched my chest, my breasts would grow large and round. Even with all that magical help, I ended up with a pair of small boobs. What size are they? It depends on the day, but the bras that fit me best are 34As right now. I’m just not a “blessed” woman. As a friend in high school used to tell me, “God must not like you very much.” (She was kidding, but it still rang true.)

Don’t get me wrong, I know my boobs aren’t the smallest in the land. I couldn’t win any Flattest Chest awards; and I’m certainly grateful for the boobs I have (at least, I’m grateful now). I do have fairly small boobs, though, and from a young age I was setting myself up for disappointment.

I really should have seen it coming. My mother isn’t “blessed,” either. In fact, compared to me, God must like her even less. But as I was growing up, I didn’t realize that. My mom had boobs, and I always thought that was really cool (I’m speaking like a kid, here). I didn’t think about it in a sexual way at all. I just thought boobs, in general, were pretty. I liked the way shirts curved over them. They made women look…womanly. And growing up as a girl, I wanted to be like that, obviously, considering I gave my best efforts to overcome my genes through Tic-Tacs and stuffed animal magic.

I don’t remember the sizes of my first real bras, but they were certainly smaller than what I wear now, since I was 20-25 pounds lighter back then. Even so, I think I liked having to wear a bra at first, because at least it validated that I did, indeed, have breasts that needed support. More realistically, I had nipples that needed not to show through shirts when cold. At some point in seventh grade, I remember going through a completely slutty phase in how I dressed. Looking back on it, I’m sure I looked more pathetic than anything. There I was, with my super-tight, low-cut top that showed off my valley between my little boobies. The top also didn’t come down far enough to cover my panties that were inevitably showing above my low-riding jeans. Yup, I was a smokin’ hot 12-year-old nerd.

I did it to attract guys, but it was futile; I was an outcast back then anyway. The girls who had boyfriends were so much prettier than I was, and of course, they were stacked (at least, compared to me). Why couldn’t I just have boobs? I knew that would do the trick. It couldn’t have anything to do with my unkempt hair. It couldn’t be that I wasn’t emotionally ready for dating. Nope, it had to be boobs. And I just didn’t have them.

Despite my desire for a nice rack, I never succumbed to stuffing the bras I wore to school (I only did that at home, when I wanted to feel supremely womanly in private). Instead, as my slutty phase came to a close, I basically did a 180, and opted to wear sports bras almost exclusively. They’re so comfortable! So easy to put on and take off! So much more support! I know I don’t jiggle like many larger breasted ladies, but I still feel the jostle when I hustle, especially going down staircases. The sports bra became my best friend in my Journey with Small Boobs, because even if they weren’t flattering, they were flattening, which was the next best thing for me. Sports bras helped me focus less on my boobs, since their comfort eventually became more important than their public appearance.

I’m happy that I got over the initial disappointment of not being a “blessed” teenager, even if it took a while. That said, there’s a big difference between not being disappointed with my body and loving it, and I certainly wasn’t loving it yet.