The “sexy schoolgirl” look is one of the world’s most ubiquitous and beloved clothing-oriented fetishes. Oh, those little plaid skirts, crisp white blouses, flirty sailor bloomers, restrictive ties, childlike knee socks and other school uniform accoutrements! How they stir feelings of arousal, nostalgia, innocence, sweet frustration (aka “tease and denial”) and titillating naughtiness in the uniform wearer (who could be female, male or transgender) and the partner (who might “play” a teacher, dominant disciplinarian or other school authority), as well as the schoolgirl uniform-loving voyeur. Our dear friend Master D, prominent dominant in LA’s BDSM scene and grandson of Australia’s late legendary nightclub king, Abe “Mr. Sin” Saffron, has been a passionate fan of the schoolgirl look since he himself was a schoolboy. So on the occasion of his 40th birthday, I dressed up as a sexy “head mistress” schoolteacher (complete with short houndstooth plaid skirt, professorial sweater, Sex Week at Yale hat and thong) and transformed the Womb Room into a College of Carnal Knowledge filled with a dizzying array of short plaid skirts, Spongebob shirts, raging hormones, various corporal punishments and lessons in love. Tonight’s standardized test: LAPDANCING. Pay attention or get spanking detention! Note: Though there are indeed actual “schoolgirls” in attendance for the festivities, they are all college or post-graduate students over the age of 18. By putting on this schoolgirl-themed show and party, we are in no way trying to encourage or “play into” society’s eroticization of underage girls. We are just responding to it—since we can’t help but be affected by it—by outfitting grown women (and men) in the titillating garb that so many twisted cultures around the world encourage us to desire but forbid us to touch.

Date: 07/28/2012 The “sexy schoolgirl” look is one of the world’s most ubiquitous and beloved clothing-oriented fetishes. Oh, those little plaid skirts, crisp white blouses, flirty sailor bloomers, restrictive ties, childlike knee socks and other school uniform accoutrements! How they stir feelings of arousal, nostalgia, innocence, sweet frustration (aka “tease and denial”) and titillating naughtiness in the uniform wearer (who could be female, male or transgender) and the partner (who might “play” a teacher, dominant disciplinarian or other school authority), as well as the schoolgirl uniform-loving voyeur. Our dear friend Master D, prominent dominant in LA’s BDSM scene and grandson of Australia’s late legendary nightclub king, Abe “Mr. Sin” Saffron, has been a passionate fan of the schoolgirl look since he himself was a schoolboy. So on the occasion of his 40th birthday, I dressed up as a sexy “head mistress” schoolteacher (complete with short houndstooth plaid skirt, professorial sweater, Sex Week at Yale hat and thong) and transformed the Womb Room into a College of Carnal Knowledge filled with a dizzying array of short plaid skirts, Spongebob shirts, raging hormones, various corporal punishments and lessons in love. Tonight’s standardized test: LAPDANCING. Pay attention or get spanking detention! Note: Though there are indeed actual “schoolgirls” in attendance for the festivities, they are all college or post-graduate students over the age of 18. By putting on this schoolgirl-themed show and party, we are in no way trying to encourage or “play into” society’s eroticization of underage girls. We are just responding to it—since we can’t help but be affected by it—by outfitting grown women (and men) in the titillating garb that so many twisted cultures around the world encourage us to desire but forbid us to touch.

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.

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.

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.

High on the horniness of HOPE that exploded with the Inaugural Balls of America’s first African-American President, Dr. Susan Block presents Eros Day X: The “Orgy for Obama” Inaugural Ball. Black and white, beige and pink, professors and porn stars, singers and swingers, masters and slaves, celebrities and the couples-next-door all come together within the warm velvet walls of Dr. Suzy’s world-famous Speakeasy at the climax of a week of big balls in Washington and around the world. We eat, drink, dance, play, suck, fuck, flirt and squirt, celebrating the long-hoped for CHANGE in American politics, as well as honoring Eros, the primeval god of love, lust and life itself, and the holiday of Eros Day — now in it’s 10th year – when the planetoid 433-EROS spins closest to Earth.