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.

The ritual is the match, the orgy the flame.  Within just a couple hours of opening up the Institute’s brand new Womb Room, our 12th annual Eros Day had ignited into a stellar display of sensual, naked and winged bodies and souls soaring, flailing and thrusting into one another on and around the Olympic-sized bed surrounded by burning cock candles, buzzing pocket rockets, pulsing bongo beats, majestic erotic art and anatomically correct blow-up angels flying through the rafters above. It was a Commedia Erotica Heaven on Earth worthy of a Botticelli or Bronzino, or at least a Fellini movie, and one of our best Eros Day orgies ever, with some very tasty hors d’oeuvres.