A note to my readers: This story is based on fact. If you doubt that, Google ‘G-Spot’ and read the results of actual studies—not the many fluff sites. The results of the combined studies will blow your mind. The conclusion of those studies is that the ‘G-Spot’ is a myth and doesn’t exist. Surprised? Yeah, so was I, since I know better.

As a senior at The University of Texas, my major was Psychology, more specifically, The Psychology of Human Sexuality. It may sound weird, but even though I grew up with a schizophrenic mother and big sister, I wasn’t the least bit interested in ‘abnormal psychology’. I simply had no interest in the study of sick people.

I even convinced the Dean of the Psychology department to allow me to forego many of the prerequisites dealing with Abnormal Psychology in favor of classes such as The Psychology of Women, and The Psychology of Human Sexual Behavior. Those were both new additions to the curriculum, and they were having trouble filling those classes, so he readily agreed.

After all, I was a ‘behaviorist’ by nature. I cared much less about what caused us to act in a certain manner, than what it takes to change our behavior, eliminating bad behavior, and creating new patterns of behavior. Needless to say, I was a HUGE fan of B.F. Skinner and Pavlov, Classical Conditioning and Behavior Modification.

It wasn’t until my senior year that my focus evolved in a totally different direction. During one of my classes in Female Sexuality, my professor totally dismissed the possibility of females having a ‘G-Spot’. He cited study after study denouncing the existence of a G-Spot, some of them involving MRI exams and other methods of detecting deviances in the physiology of the female vagina. I knew from personal experience they were wrong. Little did I know, proving it would become my life’s work.

When writing my thesis, I knew going in the major problem with it. It was based on purely anecdotal evidence. I knew I had a G-Spot. One of my most productive masturbation techniques involved inserting two fingers into my vagina and massaging my G-Spot. It was easy to find, pronounced, and it had a very unique texture when compared to the smooth, slick texture of the other parts of my vagina.

So, why couldn’t scientist find it, especially when some of them had examined thousands of women?

It took a very long time for me to develop my hypothesis. I tested it on myself. I knew that finding my G-Spot was easy during masturbation, and how wonderful it felt to massage it. What I didn’t know was if it was so pronounced all the time, or only during heightened sexual arousal.

That’s the thing none of the studies controlled for, so that’s what I needed to find out.

At first, I knew I’d be my own best subject, even though anything I uncovered would be purely anecdotal. I didn’t care. I had to start somewhere.

I had to wait until I was not even close to being turned on. With plenty of lube at the ready, I worked first one and then another finger inside my vagina.

I worked quickly to feel the inside of my vagina, especially the upper front wall, which was where I’d always found my G-Spot. Sure enough, either it wasn’t there, or I couldn’t find it.

Conversely, after masturbating myself to full arousal, I could not only find it, but massaging it brought me to orgasm quickly.

After just over thirty days of conducting the experiment during every stage of ovulation, including menstruation, my findings were consistent. When I was sufficiently aroused, I found my G-Spot easily. When I wasn’t aroused first, I couldn’t find it at all. I was convinced.

When I presented my seven page report to Dr. Cannon, the Dean of the Psychology Department, I sat across his desk holding my breath while he read it.

Finally, he lowered his chin, looking at me over his reading glasses. “You know, young lady, this doesn’t prove anything. It’s a study of one—totally anecdotal, and therefore unreliable. You’re refuting the findings of some of the most famous and notable Sexologists and Gynecologists in the world.”

I lowered my eyes, “Yes, Sir. I understand.”

“Still” he continued, “It’s not totally without merit ... not as a conclusion, but merely as an interesting hypothesis.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Finally, he said, “I’ll tell you what: I’m going to take this to our Board of Directors and see what they think. If they don’t laugh me out of their office, you’d better be prepared to sit in front of them and further explain your findings. Do you understand?”

I stood up, “Yes, Sir. I won’t let you down, Sir. I really appreciate—

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I was sitting in a wooden chair several feet in front of a long table. On the other side, sitting in padded, and I assumed comfortable, office chairs was the university Board of Directors, three females, and two males.

“So, Miss Grady, you have our attention. Please tell us more.”

I was shaking like a leaf. I cleared my throat and then spoke, thankful that sound actually came out of my mouth. “Well, the preponderance of the conclusions of the many studies suggests the possibility that the clitoris is much more ... involved than previously believed. It’s thought that it’s the tentacles of the clitoris extending around the flesh of the labia that causes it to be so sensitive during stimulation. Further, many believe the clitoris has more tentacles with highly sensitive nerve endings that extend inward toward the inside front wall of the vagina. It makes sense that, like the external tentacles, the internal tentacles would be more pronounced and sensitive during sexual arousal. I believe it’s those internal tentacles which can be felt and stimulated during arousal ... the G-Spot. Further, I believe the mistake most of the researchers made was examining females who weren’t in a sexually aroused state.”

The female board member on the far left took off her glasses and stared at me hard, “That’s a fascinating hypothesis, but how do you propose to support it with facts?”

“I ... I’m not sure ... yet.”

One of the male board members spoke up, “I’m not convinced, but I am intrigued. If you can validate your hypothesis with empirical evidence, you can single handedly rewrite the medical journals.”

Another of the female panelist piped in, “That’s a tall order for an undergrad. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Not on my own.” I admitted, “I’ll need help.”

Dr. Devon, the president of the board spoke up, “Thank you Miss Grady. Please excuse us while we discuss the matter. You can wait outside until we call for you.”

Holy Shit! They were actually going to consider helping me with a formal study. When I got out of the meeting room, I headed straight for the bathroom. I was going to either pee or throw up or both. I wasn’t sure.

It was almost thirty minutes before they called me back in. Dr. Devon was the only one to speak, “Miss Grady, in the interest of full disclosure, we’re divided in our conclusion. Fortunately for you, the majority of us wish to see you explore your hypothesis. We’re prepared to give you a small grant.”

“Thank you, Ma’am—all of you.”

“Now” she continued, “You’re too close to Dr. Cannon, so we’re going to appoint a third party—a friend of the University. He’s a physiologist and we’re sure you’ll get along famously with him. It will be up to him to approve every expenditure, and he’ll report to us weekly. I feel the need to warn you; he’s a traditionalist. He will be difficult for you to convince. So, if you manage to convince him, you’ll be well on your way to convincing us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am ... all of you, thank you.”

It was two days later when I met Dr. V. Geote. We were sitting in the small office the Psychology Department had made available to us. He wasn’t a bad looking guy—or at least he had the potential to be rather handsome. The problem was; he was in full ‘professor’ mode, long hair, pony tail, scruffy mustache and beard, and dreary clothes, shirt and pants that had never met an iron, and a tie that showed the remnants of his last meal—at least I hoped it was his LAST meal.

“Miss Grady-”

“Gina, please.”

He showed me a smile, “Gina it is then. Now, you need to know going in that I don’t believe one word of your report, and therefore, I totally denounce your hypothesis. However, I am a scientist, and as such, I must often ignore my own biases and deal with a particular subject objectively. I will give this project no less than my best effort and be open-minded enough to allow the facts and results to dictate how we proceed and our final conclusions. One last thing: When I say I don’t believe one word of your report, I don’t mean to imply that you are lying. I believe you are simply mistaken.”

Wow! When Mrs. Devon said he was a ‘traditionalist’, that was a huge understatement.

“That’s all I can ask. The Board warned me that you’d be a tough sell, but they also told me that, if I manage to convince you, they will defer to your judgment. Now, may I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course you can ask. I’ll decide whether to answer it after I hear the question.”

I chuckled, “Fair enough. My question is this: On how many females have you searched for a G-Spot?”

He stared at me hard, “Miss Gra—Gina, why the hell would I search for something I firmly believe doesn’t exist?”

I felt like I needed to appeal to his scientific side, and I only knew one way to do that. “I understand. What if you kept the open mind you spoke of earlier enough to not only search for an abnormality inside a vagina, but upon finding it, would concede that it is at least possible that it is indeed what is referred to as a G-Spot?”

“Are you suggesting ... what I think you are?”

Letting a giggle slip out probably wasn’t wise of me, but it just slipped out, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I just happen to know where one is. You are a doctor, after all, so I don’t see the big deal, and it’s the best way I know to show you why I’m going to all this trouble.”

He considered my proposal for several moments, “I would insist on another doctor being present, preferably a gynecologist.”

“That’s even better. I can prove my point to a physiologist and a gynecologist at the same time.”

Three days later, Dr. Geote met me at the office of Dr. Karen Posner, a gynecologist. My examination was awkward from the start. When I removed my skirt and panties and put my feet into the stirrups on her examination table, Dr. Posner insisted on covering my lower body with a towel.

I rolled my eyes at the whole thing and shook my head. They were both so concerned about ‘appearances’ and ‘protocol’, they were sucking all the life out of the room. No wonder previous experiments had failed to find anything! How could anyone get aroused in such a sterile environment? Still, I knew bitching at them about it would be futile. I needed to choose my words carefully AND professionally.

It didn’t stop there. Both Dr. Posner and Dr. Geote immediately began pulling on latex gloves. “This isn’t going to work.” I told them. “In the first place, I need access to my genitals in order to sexually stimulate myself. That is the point of all this. And secondly, you can’t wear gloves. I need you to be able to feel the texture inside my vagina, and gloves will hinder that.”

The two doctors looked at each other for some time. And then Dr. Geote shrugged, “She’s right. If we don’t do it her way, she’ll be able to claim that we didn’t find anything because we did it all wrong.” And he began pulling off his latex gloves. Dr. Posner followed suit, and both of them turned to the sink and began washing their hands with sterilizing soap.

I used that time to toss the towel aside and begin stimulating myself. When they were ready, I wasn’t. I was just starting to rub my clitoris, inserting two fingers inside myself now and then to see if my G-Spot was starting to swell. But I knew it would take me at least a few more minutes to achieve sufficient stimulation.

To their credit, they just leaned against the counter and observed what I was doing. I closed my eyes and called up one of my favorite fantasies, being the only waitress at an all male party—naked, of course.

When I opened my eyes at one point, I almost laughed. Both Dr. Geote and Dr. Posner were still leaning against the sink, but they looked as uncomfortable as a first year law student about to argue a case before the Supreme Court.

I guess I couldn’t really blame them. After all, they were professionals. They were accustomed to being in charge, and beyond that, they were used to keeping things ‘clinical’. But now, they found themselves standing idly by while a young college girl was masturbating openly in front of them.

Just to tease Dr. Geote, I looked over at him and showed him a smile and a wink. That seemed to make him even more uncomfortable. He cleared his throat in a way that showed his disapproval.

When I was ready, I kept rubbing my clit while telling them in a somewhat raspy voice, “Okay, it’s time. Just remember, crook your fingers and feel along the upper portion of the front wall.

Dr. Posner went first, easing two fingers inside me. It only took her a couple of seconds to locate my G-Spot and briefly stimulate it with her fingers. When she withdrew her fingers, she didn’t say anything or show any sign of her findings.

Dr. Geote took her place and duplicated her actions; however, unlike Dr. Posner who was obviously used to having her fingers inside another woman’s vagina, he seemed totally detached. He was looking away and reaching into me like he was sticking his fingers into a sink drain and searching for a lost ring.

He too found my G-Spot quickly, and like Dr. Posner, he massaged it for a few seconds before withdrawing and stepping away.

While both doctors were washing up again, I got dressed and waited on their findings. And then Dr. Posner asked me to step out of the room. “Don’t go far. We’ll call you back in after we’ve had a minute to confer.”

They only left me standing in the hallway for a couple of minutes. Back inside the exam room, Dr. Geote spoke, “Well, Gina, you’ve made your point. We both felt something, and it was just as you described it. However, we’re not prepared to say it was indeed a ‘G-Spot’, or other type of erogenous structure.”

That made me giggle, “I guess you’ll just have to trust your subject on whether it’s an ‘erogenous structure’. And then I looked at Dr. Posner, “I suspect by tomorrow, you’ll be able to confirm that it’s very much an ‘erogenous structure’, if, that is, you’re going to take my advice and reconstruct this experiment on yourself.”

She got huffy, “That, young lady, is not and will never be any of your business.”

It was Wednesday of the following week when I got to meet with Dr. Geote again. This was to be a discussion about the nuts and bolts of setting up an experiment. Neither of us felt the need to argue that it needed to be a double blind experiment. That was a given.

I told him, “On the subject’s side, I don’t see any problem. We’ll simply tell them it’s a study of female masturbation—which isn’t a total lie.”

“Why can’t we do the same with those we recruit as lab assistants?”

I thought about it for several moments, “We can, if we disguise the focus by having them report on several aspects of the changes in appearance and feel of all aspects of the genitalia.”

“Then that part is settled.” He said, turning to a fresh page on his notepad.

I went on to the next topic. “Now, I think we should put our assistants in white lab coats and insist they all dress the same; beige or tan slacks, white blouses, hair up, and we should hang stethoscopes around their necks.”

Dr. Geote chuckled, “Careful, you’re starting to sound a lot like Stanley Milgram.”

Of course, he was referring to the infamous nineteen sixty-one psychological study at Yale University that went terribly wrong, resulting in long term psychological damage to the subjects, several even committing suicide. Milgram had gone out of his way to make his assistants appear to be professionals and ‘authority figures’ to intimidate his subjects to some degree.

I let his comment slide by. “One last thing: I think it’s going to be important to give the subjects as much privacy as possible during the masturbation stage.”

Dr. Geote nodded, “They can summon the lab assistant in with a buzzer when they feel they are sufficiently stimulated.”

I agreed, “Perfect.”

In the interest of ‘critical thinking’, the objective being ‘controlling’ for as many variables as possible, more topics needed to be addressed.

We’d already controlled for the appearance of the lab assistants, so we moved on to other things. First up was controlling for variances in the menstrual cycle of the subjects. We finally agreed on the second week following the end of menstruation. Actually, WHEN was not as important as making sure all of the subjects were at approximately the same stage in their cycle.

We decided on written rather than verbal instructions to the lab assistants, and written rather than verbal questionnaires for the potential subjects to complete.

We also agreed that we’d prefer to deal with only subjects who’d been at least somewhat sexually active prior to the experiment. We felt those would be better able to relax and would be less intimidated by the whole thing.

I suggested we purchase a good supply of sheets and pillow cases for the rented gynecological exam table. Lying on cold paper was something that had been difficult for even me to overcome in Dr. Posner’s exam room. Of course, that meant we’d need access to laundry facilities.

Dr. Geote suggested we pay our assistants twenty dollars per hour, and our chosen subjects fifty dollars for their participation. Wow! After adding that up in my head, I realized we were talking about major money, especially if we wanted a large pool of subjects, which we most certainly did.

“Let me worry about that.” Dr. Geote assured me.

His response made me believe my little demonstration in Dr. Posner’s office had intrigued him more than he’d let on.

Lastly, we needed to state our expectations for what percentage would constitute ‘significant’ results. I believed anything above thirty percent positive would be significant, “After all, we are talking about college girls here, not married women. I assume the percentages would be higher if we were sampling married women who are more comfortable with sex.”

Dr. Geote was less difficult, “In my opinion, twenty percent would be significant enough to at least require further study, if the sample is large enough.”

I had to chuckle, “Doctor, if it’s only twenty percent positive, I’ll be greatly disappointed. I believe in my heart of hearts that it will be over fifty percent.”

He took of his glasses and placed them on the desk, and then he showed me a stern look, “Gina, you’re a believer, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. However, as a scientist, I must caution you against setting yourself up for disappointment. Let’s just see how it goes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

After two months, hiring 3 lab assistants, and performing the experiment on ninety-two subjects—mostly dorm dwellers, we were ready to prepare our final report to the Board of Directors.

We had fifty-four positive outcomes, just over fifty-eight percent. Dr. Geote was flabbergasted.

The Board was presented with copies of our final report, and two weeks later, Dr. Geote and myself were summoned to report to the Board.

They had some questions, the most notable of which was, “Are there any major changes you’d make, if you had it to do over again?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” I told her, “First, I would want all of the subjects to be married women. And secondly, I’d include in the instructions to the lab assistants that, if they didn’t feel a noticeable structure, they should press more firmly into the vaginal wall, as I believe the G-Spot in some women is farther beneath the wall of the vagina and therefore more difficult to find.”

Dr. Devon congratulated both of us, and specifically me. It was, after all, my project. “Miss Grady, I hope you will consider furthering your education at our university. If so, we’re prepared to offer you a full ride scholarship, and furthermore, we’re prepared to fund another study—this one, off campus and concentrating on married subjects. Right off the top of your head, do you have a gut feeling about how that study might vary from this one?”

Dr. Geote, looked at me. He already knew my answer, “Yes, Ma’am. I believe the percentage of positive results will go up substantially.”

“Oh?” Dr. Devon raised her eyebrows, “And why is that?”

“In my opinion, the physiology won’t differ at all, but I believe the subject’s level of comfort with sexual situations will result in their being more relaxed, and therefore achieving higher levels of sexual arousal. Therefore, I believe a higher number of them will exhibit discernable results.”

Back in our office, Dr. Geote told me in a sincere voice, “Congratulations, Gina. I never would have believed it; but you’ve made me a believer.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot, coming from you. Now, I think a celebration is in order.”

He chuckled, “Sorry, I didn’t think to have a bottle of Champagne at the ready.”

“Well, you could always take me out to dinner.”

“I uh ... I don’t think that would be appropriate. I’m your ... and you’re my ... we should keep our relationship professional.”

“I understand.” I told him as I got up and began meandering mindlessly around the office. When I was behind him, I said, “In the first place, we no longer have a professional relationship. That ended when our study did.” And then I leaned over and purred into his ear, “And in the second place, it would just be dinner. I wasn’t inviting you to search for my G-Spot AGAIN!” And then I walked back around the desk, “And besides, it’s obvious you don’t have a wife or girlfriend, so I’m guessing you don’t have any big plans for dinner tonight.”

When we met at the restaurant, I was dressed rather conservatively—not unlike how I dressed for school. He looked the same, except that his tie showed no signs of being previously used as a napkin.

Once we were seated and enjoying a glass of wine, he asked me, “How did you know ... that I don’t have a girlfriend, I mean?”

I showed him a scolding look, “No wife or girlfriend would let you out of the house dressed like that.”

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

“Doctor ... oh hell, what is your first name anyway?”

He sighed heavily, “Vincent”.

I slid out of the booth and offered him my hand. When he was standing, I said, “C’mon, Vinny.” And I began leading him toward the back of the restaurant.

“I huh, I don’t really like ... I’m not fond of ... never mind.”

I was afraid if I led him into the Ladies room, someone might call the manager—or worse, the police. So I pushed my way into the Men’s room and pulled him in behind me. Fortunately, the Men’s room was unoccupied.

And then I stood ‘Vinny’ in front of the large mirror above the sinks and slid up behind him and slightly to one side, “Tell me what you see. Describe your appearance to me.”

When he hesitated I said, “Vinny, you’re a scientist. You’re trained to observe and report, so forget that it’s you you’re looking at. Just observe and report.”

“Okay, okay, I’m a slob. I admit it. It’s just that my job ... it doesn’t ... oh hell, why do you care anyway?”

“Vinny, I don’t go out with slobs. I do have my standards.”

His whole body stiffened, “Go out? But I’m a ... you’re a ... oh hell, Gina, are you trying to seduce me?”

That made me laugh out loud, “Seduce you? I don’t think so. I might though, after we get you cleaned up and looking presentable. After all, it’s not like we’re strangers. We’ve been working together for months ... and you’ve already had your fingers inside my pussy.”

The instant I said THAT word, the blood drained from his face. And then a few seconds later, it was replaced with ten times as much blood. His face and neck turned a precious shade of red.

“Vincent!” I said in a scolding voice, “We’re not in the office or the lab. We don’t have to keep things so ‘clinical’. I have a pussy, and you’ve had your fingers inside it.”

He acted exasperated, “That was ... oh, never mind.”

All of a sudden, the door opened. The teenage boy stopped in his tracks when he saw me.

I giggled, “Sorry, we were just leaving.” And I urged Vinny toward the door.

When we got back to our table, I told Vinny, “You look like you could use something a little stronger than wine.” And I waved over our waiter. Before our waiter got to us, I ask Vinny, “Any preferences?”

He just shook his head, so I told the waiter when he got to our table, “Two double Scotch on the rocks please.”

Vinny protested, “We’re both driving.”

I rolled my eyes, “We haven’t even ordered our food yet. We’ll be fine by the time we’re ready to leave. And besides, you’re going to need it for the rest of our conversation.”

He glanced up at the ceiling and then back to me, “What conversation do we need to have?”

I giggled, “It can wait until we’ve had our drinks.”

Dr. Geote and I didn’t talk at all until after our Scotch had been delivered and we’d consumed about half of them. And then I looked right at him and said, “There’s nothing more I can do on my project until next semester, so I need a new project to keep me busy.”

He looked somewhat relieved, obviously thinking I was referring to something school related. “Oh? What kind of project are you considering?”

I giggled and showed him a devilish grin, “I’m way past the ‘considering’ stage. I’ve already decided on one.”

“Well?”

Staring him right in the eyes, I said, “My new project is YOU!”

Before responding, he picked up his glass and gulped down the rest of his Scotch. I could almost see his brain whirling. “Aren’t you taking a lot for granted?”

I showed him another grin, “Nope”.

On Saturday, I found that Vin, which I learned was a lot less irritating to Vincent than Vinny, had a very nice apartment. It was generally clean, but cluttered. He’d turned the second bedroom into his office, and that’s where he stayed while I straightened up some.

I gathered up his dirty shirts, slacks and ties, and put them in a pile by the front door. Those would go to the dry cleaners. The rest of his dirty clothes, socks, boxers and such went straight to the laundry room, as did his sheets and pillow cases.

The only time I saw Vin was when he came out of his office to get another bottle of seltzer water from the kitchen or go to the bathroom. It was obvious he was avoiding me.

When it was time for me to leave, I stuck my head into his office, “I’m heading out. I’ll be back at one tomorrow to give you a haircut.” And then I closed the door quickly before he had a chance to protest.

No one ever paid for a haircut in the Grady home. Mom had been a beautician in a previous life, and she taught me the tricks of the trade. I didn’t bring my hair cutting stuff with me to college, so I had to buy a new cape, spray bottle, scissors, and straight razor.

The following day, Sunday, Vin practically begged me, “Please don’t chop off my pony tail.” He was sitting on his balcony, covered with the cape, and I was dampening his hair with water from the spray bottle.

I assured him I was only going to even up the ends a little, and then I went to work. Forty-five minutes later, Vin stepped in front of the mirror in his bathroom and evaluated my handiwork. Not only was his hair much neater, but I’d also trimmed his beard and mustache.

“Look at that handsome devil.” I teased him.

He took a deep breath and seemed to relax, “Actually, I do like it.”

I giggled, “I told you I knew what I was doing. Now, when I get your clothes out of the dry cleaners tomorrow, I’ll allow you to ask me out ... and I’ll even consider saying ‘yes’. Oh, and I’ll bring you the receipt from the dry cleaners. I expect to be reimbursed.”

It was Sunday evening and I didn’t have any early classes on Monday, so I made the ten block walk from my dorm to Chili’s. That was a popular hang out for students whose dorms were on that side of campus. The sidewalk was well lit, and the campus police and Austin police kept a close eye on it after dark.

I got there just after six p.m., early enough to get a booth, which would have been almost impossible later in the evening. The waiter had just delivered my Southwestern Egg Rolls when two girls slid into the booth behind me.

I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but they were talking so loud, it would have been impossible for me not to hear, even over the music. At first, they were just engaging in normal chitchat: Which professors they thought were dreamy, and which were assholes and bitches and loaded them down with homework. However, a few minutes after getting their food, their conversation got much more interesting to me.