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Welcome to VenusBlogs.com

Despite the enormous progress made in women's health and well-being over the last 30 years, we still live in a time when saying the word "vagina" can cause an uproar in congress. We hope you'll find our frank discussion of women's intimate health concerns helpful, important, and sometimes very entertaining. We all have them, ladies. Let's talk.

Confessions of a Cougar

MENOPAUSE, SEX
Dori Hartley | VenusBlogs Managing Editor

I‘m not what you’d call an incredibly sexual person. Not anymore, anyway. I’m still interested, mind you. I just have very specific preferences when it comes to sex. I’m in my fifties now (and hopefully wiser for the wear), so I no longer have the frisky energy of a younger woman. When I was young and hungry for sex, the world was my playground. I was out to conquer and be conquered. Age puts perspective on things.

In fact, it’s that very lack of desperation that’s freed me, sexually speaking. Having come to terms with the mature woman that I’ve become, I’m finally in touch with what I want. And what I want is younger men.

Fortunately, younger men seem to gravitate toward me, and I often find myself on the receiving end of some very flattering sexual attention. When I first noticed this phenomenon, I thought, Nah, what could these young dudes be seeing in me? I must be reading into it. Recently, a lovely man of about 23 approached me. He could hardly catch his breath while telling me how beautiful he thought I was. I laughed in his face. In my mind I looked more like an exhumed corpse than an object of lust on that bright (very bright) afternoon.

As he reached out to touch my bare arm in what became a seductively overt caress, I realized this guy was serious. And I must admit, it was an incredible turn on. He asked for my number and I gave it to him, still laughing. Did I really want to pursue this, or was this just a perfect moment unto itself? Either way, his attention thrilled me.

To read the rest: Confessions Of A Cougar: Why I’ll Only Date Men Half My Age as seen on YourTango.com.

Female Lust: A Memoir

SEX, WELL-BEING
Gabrielle Vaughn | VenusBlogs Editor at Large

Katherine Angel bares all in a strikingly honest book about women’s desire, and her own sexuality. Report by Salon’s TRACY CLARK-FLORY

When as a teenager Katherine Angel felt herself suddenly overflowing with lust, she began to wonder: Where are the similarly hungry women? In “Unmastered: A Book on Desire, Most Difficult to Tell,” she says of her burgeoning erotic wanting, “The words I would have put this into, had I felt the urge — the words I still put this into — are these: I feel like a man.”

This is a book for every woman who has ever felt like a man for being sexual.

It is largely a sexual autobiography, but also self-conscious proof-positive that women are capable of being just as desirous as men. She writes poetically about having her partner ejaculate on her: “I love this. The sudden wet coolness on me. The smell: summer rain on cement. Fresh, open windows.” Of her lover’s swollen member, she says, “It is beautiful. It unnerves me, in its gorgeous attentiveness.” It would be a daringly personal work for any woman to write, but perhaps especially so for Angel, a Cambridge-educated academic and feminist who has researched female sexual dysfunction.

Read the article in full:
A memoir of female lust

The White Stuff of Nightmares

HEALTH & WELL BEING
Tameka Mullins | VenusBlogs Contributor
Photo: A Scenery of Loss
Originally published here on VenusBlogs March 8, 2013

“I wasn’t born, I was adopted.”

Those six words won me a Smith Magazine Facebook contest in 2011. Because I had breathed life into those few words, some saw it as poetry. My prize was to take the stage at the 92Y Tribeca in the “I Am Turning Into My Mother” six-word story slam show and recite my poem along with a five minute back-story. As I was preparing for the show, another group of words sat in the corner of my mind, facing the wall. “I wasn’t raped, I was molested.” Another set of six. Just sitting. Waiting to be unleashed in public. I chose the safe and sexy six though.

Whenever I mention the fact that I’m adopted people’s eyes get really wide. It’s so mysterious not knowing who your parents are. Everyone wants to ask questions and suggest you contact Oprah so she can miraculously find your mom and bring you two together in talk-show bliss. No one wants to talk about being molested. But it happens. It happened to me in one of the foster homes I lived in. I was five-years-old.

The day had been long. I was really tired and as I was falling asleep about to dream about lollipops and puppy dogs, I felt a presence in my room. Moments later I felt a touch. Fingers were trying to enter a place they had no business. Then before I could protest the fingers were replaced by something more fierce. It was foreign and didn’t belong near a five-year old. It was rude, this thing. It tried to invade an innocent space. I knew something was wrong. I felt dirty. Violated. I was a little girl though and couldn’t articulate those feelings. I began to cry. The rude thing never gained occupancy, but it had fun trying. Its insistence ended in a white liquid silhouette that clouded my mind for years. Read more

Michael Douglas’ Oral Sex Problem

HEALTH, SEX
Gabrielle Vaughn | VenusBlogs Editor at Large
Photo of Catherine Zeta-Jones

Michael Douglas has opened up about his past diagnosis, revealing that oral sex, not smoking or drinking, caused his type of throat cancer. Now he’s backing out of that statement, being that after he said it he came across as one of the biggest idiots on the planet. Retract away, Mr. Douglas, it’s just too late for you. Your comments have already been signed, sealed and delivered into the low class attention-whore Hall of Fame.

One would think that surviving cancer might make a person less inclined to embarrass and single out the people who loved, supported and cared for them during their time of crisis, but ah, Michael…you thought it a wonderful thing to share with the world, didn’t you? I guess you never imagined that the first thing we would picture was a disease ridden Catherine Zeta-Jones, spread legged, in a bed, with your face between her legs. Oh such a class act you are.

And now, you retract your statements. And why? For the reasons that all public idiots retract everything they say — because people didn’t approve of your sublevel respect for your beautiful wife. That’s why.

Ya lost me, man. Liberace or not. Ya lost me.

To read more: Michael Douglas’ Throat Cancer Caused By Oral Sex Virus, Not Smoking Or Drinking

No Fan of Menopause

MENOPAUSE
Gabrielle Vaughn | VenusBlogs Editor at Large

There is no beating menopause. When she wants her way, she gets it. You might try to tame her into submission with black cohosh and other herbal supplements, but she will only allow you moments of reprieve. The truth is, no matter what you do in your attempts to conquer her, La Menopause will best you each time.

I am new to this game. I am fresh on this menopausal battle field, but let me tell you, I have not come unequipped. I have my weapons with me at all times, and even though this hormonal upheaval tests me daily, I am not without my own defensive strategies.

Not one to fancy hormone replacement, I’ve decided to tackle this scoundrel in my own natural way. Noticing that she is relentless in her abundant delivery of hot flashes and night sweats, I no longer wait until it’s too late and I’m drenched in perspiration. Now, thanks to clever planning, I meet those devils with what I like to call…

Many Little Electric Fans.

Yes, all over my house, I have mini-fans plugged in. Even as I write, there is an electric fan poised above my head, ready to be clicked on, ready to push cool breezes my way should the overwhelming waves of scorching inner temperature suddenly rise — as these waves are known to do.

Ah…here comes a wave now. Down, down, you little monster! I shall not sweat for you this morning! Sweet, silent airflow, how effective you are. Somewhere in this wind tunnel is a sweaty, middle aged woman who laughs at your efforts — you shall not take me alive! The flashes — I hardly notice them.

It’s the same at night. Fans, precariously placed, ready to blow. I find myself snuggled deeply under thick, warm blankets — and then, at any moments notice, I am suddenly unflung of my coverlet and ready to rip my own flesh off just to catch a moment of cool. Alas, I no longer need to be so dramatic because my friends are there. My fans. My fans love me.

And I love my fans. And my freezing glasses of iced tea or grapefruit juice.

Now, if only I could leave the house. If I can just make it to the store without melting into a puddle of menopausal moisture…if I can just get my clammy hands on one of those handheld battery operated fans — If I can be both menopausal AND chilly — and I know I can — then you will hear me cry, in my best Stuey Griffin: Victory is mine!

The Ever Clever Vagenda

HEALTH & WELL-BEING, SEX, V TALK
Gabrielle Vaughn | VenusBlogs Editor at Large

One of my favorite blogs out there is The Vagenda, an British-based online rag dedicated to matters of the vagina and the women who own and work with them. Every so often (like everyday) I come across a blog that I feel is either important — or hilarious, and most times both. Have a go at this one, which is called, “Period Sex: Putting the Men Back Into Menstruation” by the Vagenda Team.

It is Wednesday night. All is silent. I am watching but not really paying attention to Tess of the D’Urbervilles. My flatmate has bought me a badge from a sex shop in Soho that says ‘fancy a tit wank?’ and I am internally debating how I feel about it, watching Eddie Redmayne’s head bobbing across the screen like a tetchy, full-lipped cobra. The man I’m currently seeing texts me: Friday?

We have a good time. Nice chat, usually in a pub. It’s very easy, very comfortable. A part of me feels that this Friday would be just dandy, considering the SHAME of last week when my sister and I got very drunk, had a heated debate about the pros and cons of the Candy Crush ‘Saga’ and ended up necking an entire bottle of Caesar salad dressing. So it’s all systems go. But then I got to thinking, as the vapid Carrie Bradshaw so often professes to, with a slight tilt of the head and a confused sigh, about My Period.

Now, much like its owner my period is a moody, unreliable little bugger. I even, feeling smug, installed the app on my phone – Period Diary, Journal des Règles, Menstruatie Agenda – call it what you will. It’s dead handy, if a bit screechy. YOUR PERIOD IS FIVE DAYS LATE, it panics every month. It’s like the NHS website that tells you to call an ambulance if you say your throat’s a bit tickly. Sometimes the poor thing gets so worked up it tips itself over into the following month, breezily informing me I’m back in my ‘fertile window’. I know it is lying, it knows it is lying, but it’s thrown floral arms into the air with a despairing WHEVS! I CANNOT, WILL NOT COPE WITH YOUR SHIT ANY MORE! The mendacious app can’t take the stress of waiting any longer, and I don’t know how to tame it. But hey, whatever it tells me, there’s a handy GUM clinic opposite my flat which will provide all the answers should I need them, and so usually I ignore it. [I should add here at the risk of sounding blasé that I do have a copper IUD – which is AWESOME - so as far as pregnancy goes at least, I’m pretty covered. I got junk in mah trunk.]

To read more (and you know you want to read more) click HERE.

Mastectomy: A Lesson in Vulnerability

BEAUTY, HEALTH & WELL-BEING, SURGERY
Dori Hartley | VenusBlogs Managing Editor

New, on YourTango.com, an article I wrote that may open some eyes on the subject of mastectomy, reconstruction and what the world thinks these things really are.

“The good news is, you’ll have a brand new pair of breasts!” Well, not exactly.
Ever wonder why we’re all so crazy about breasts? Because they’re so damned desirable, that’s why. This is a reality that every woman who’s undergone a mastectomy deals with each day. Society’s love affair with boobs is a daily reminder that our quest for self-confidence is going to be a bit more circuitous than other women’s.

If you’ve never seen a mastectomy site, you might picture a smooth plane of skin and scar tissue molded masterfully into a flawless breast by virtue of a miracle procedure called reconstruction: all parts beautiful, intact and ready for their closeup. When Angelina Jolie famously wrote a New York Times piece about her decision to have a preventive double mastectomy and reconstruction of her breasts, I noticed that the reactions among my friends and acquaintances — aside from admiration — were along the lines of, “Hey, she’s Angelina Jolie. It’ll be easy for her. Give her a couple of days and she’ll be back on the red carpet with the greatest boob job ever.”

To read the article in full: What No One Ever Tells You About Mastectomies & Intimacy by Dori Hartley