Maybe you find communal ecstasy, or what author Barbara Ehrenreich calls “collective joy,” through praying in a packed church, cheering your team at a sporting event or dancing in your seat at a rock concert. Or maybe you prefer to find it the good old-fashioned way: joining in a friendly neighborhood orgy. That’s how we do it here every once in a while at the Speakeasy, and we do it to the max in this Erotique TV anniversary fornication fest, exploring and celebrating group sex in the digital age. With a dozen erotically intertwined, practically naked, male and female bodies sucking, screwing and squirting on and around my broadcast bed, this show ranks as the biggest single orgy in the Womb Room yet (Eros Days have had more people having sex but they were spread out all over the Speakeasy). Factor in the thousands of listeners and viewers worldwide participating digitally, and I believe we can honestly call it an orgy of Olympian proportions. And it’s the Bonobo Way–at feeding time (cake, Agwa, squirt and semen). The fact that our Erotique Sex Party falls on the eve of the 10th anniversary of 9/11 just renders the whole damn orgy even more sacred and profound, as we are celebrating ethical hedonism in the face of terror, communal love instead of mindless killing, and “double vag” over double-crossing the public. Amen and Awomen.

Sexy professors and clever porn stars, eloquent poets and erotic rock stars, friends, lovers, veteran guests and Speakeasy virgins gather together in the Womb Room to celebrate the day I made my grand exit from my mama’s womb room. With all due respect to the Virgin Mother, no real mother is a virgin. No father either. We are all Children of Sex with a capital X. Amen & Awomen. Birthdays make me feel silly. People congratulate you for nothing but being alive. Though at my age, I suppose that’s an accomplishment. And I can’t deny it felt great to ride the airwaves with birthday erotica, multiple spankings, Pocket Rocket orgasms, a male-on-female lapdance and, of course, spanks on the house—counted out loud with me by my spank-happy in-studio audience–with post-spanking butt treatment from my decadent, very politically incorrect, new chinchilla mitt (a bday gift from a sex therapy client with a fur fetish) to ease the burn of those hot cheeks, surfing right into topless birthday candle blowing (with a fabulous, elaborate, gigantic-boobed birthday cake, a gift from Exotic Cakes), followed by more sexy spankings, a live post-show Fogelfoot concert, dancing and romancing with Mister9 spinning all birthday night long.

Maybe you find communal ecstasy, or what author Barbara Ehrenreich calls “collective joy,” through praying in a packed church, cheering your team at a sporting event or dancing in your seat at a rock concert. Or maybe you prefer to find it the good old-fashioned way: joining in a friendly neighborhood orgy. That’s how we do it here every once in a while at the Speakeasy, and we do it to the max in this Erotique TV anniversary fornication fest, exploring and celebrating group sex in the digital age. With a dozen erotically intertwined, practically naked, male and female bodies sucking, screwing and squirting on and around my broadcast bed, this show ranks as the biggest single orgy in the Womb Room yet (Eros Days have had more people having sex but they were spread out all over the Speakeasy). Factor in the thousands of listeners and viewers worldwide participating digitally, and I believe we can honestly call it an orgy of Olympian proportions. And it’s the Bonobo Way–at feeding time (cake, Agwa, squirt and semen). The fact that our Erotique Sex Party falls on the eve of the 10th anniversary of 9/11 just renders the whole damn orgy even more sacred and profound, as we are celebrating ethical hedonism in the face of terror, communal love instead of mindless killing, and “double vag” over double-crossing the public. Amen and Awomen.

Sexy professors and clever porn stars, eloquent poets and erotic rock stars, friends, lovers, veteran guests and Speakeasy virgins gather together in the Womb Room to celebrate the day I made my grand exit from my mama’s womb room. With all due respect to the Virgin Mother, no real mother is a virgin. No father either. We are all Children of Sex with a capital X. Amen & Awomen. Birthdays make me feel silly. People congratulate you for nothing but being alive. Though at my age, I suppose that’s an accomplishment. And I can’t deny it felt great to ride the airwaves with birthday erotica, multiple spankings, Pocket Rocket orgasms, a male-on-female lapdance and, of course, spanks on the house—counted out loud with me by my spank-happy in-studio audience–with post-spanking butt treatment from my decadent, very politically incorrect, new chinchilla mitt (a bday gift from a sex therapy client with a fur fetish) to ease the burn of those hot cheeks, surfing right into topless birthday candle blowing (with a fabulous, elaborate, gigantic-boobed birthday cake, a gift from Exotic Cakes), followed by more sexy spankings, a live post-show Fogelfoot concert, dancing and romancing with Mister9 spinning all birthday night long.

“If God had intended us not to masturbate, He–or perhaps She–would have made our arms shorter.” So sayeth the late great George Carlin and, as a former Sunday school teacher turned Saturday night sex talk show host, it makes ecclesiastical sense to me. So smack in the middle of the merry Masturbation Month of May, rubbing a luminous Screaming O over and under my Yale panties, I invite a stellar cast of professors, porn stars, teachers, preachers, erotica artists and wild wanking nymphs to teach, testify, explore, analyze and very explicitly demonstrate the art and science of self-love. Masturbation is, of course, the ultimate self-help activity, in that if you can help yourself to the greatest sexual pleasure, you really don’t need to kow-tow to the demands of an unreasonable husband, or wife, or religion, or government. No wonder self-love is still considered so taboo. Well, this show just sits right down on the face of that taboo and galvanizes those perfectly sized arms of ours.

“If God had intended us not to masturbate, He–or perhaps She–would have made our arms shorter.” So sayeth the late great George Carlin and, as a former Sunday school teacher turned Saturday night sex talk show host, it makes ecclesiastical sense to me. So smack in the middle of the merry Masturbation Month of May, rubbing a luminous Screaming O over and under my Yale panties, I invite a stellar cast of professors, porn stars, teachers, preachers, erotica artists and wild wanking nymphs to teach, testify, explore, analyze and very explicitly demonstrate the art and science of self-love. Masturbation is, of course, the ultimate self-help activity, in that if you can help yourself to the greatest sexual pleasure, you really don’t need to kow-tow to the demands of an unreasonable husband, or wife, or religion, or government. No wonder self-love is still considered so taboo. Well, this show just sits right down on the face of that taboo and galvanizes those perfectly sized arms of ours.