https://drsusanblock.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/13/20220603_Yale_edit_15.mp4

by Dr. Susan Block.

No doubt, I’m not your typical Yale alumna. I’m not a propertied billionaire or even millionaire—legacy or self-made—nor a tenured academic, scientist, CEO, lawyer, stockbroker or journalist embedded with the MSM, like many of my distinguished classmates.

Nor did I get my MRS degree to marry one. However, I did marry a Prince—with no principality, fortune nor (truth be told) pot to pee in—and we’ve stayed married for over 30 years.

My profession—and passion—is that of “sexologist,” the only one in my class… at least the only one that’s out of the closet about it.

Welcomed Back to Mother Yale.

I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and my sexual freedom across my chest. I also tend to cover my Ivy-edumacated brain with a hat, preferably a big one.

As such, I forego the buttoned-up suits, preppy crew neck sweaters and boat neck blouses typical of the Ivy League for lingerie and latex. Not that I ever wore suits or boating attire much, even while an undergrad, being more the hippie tie-dye type… when not in costume for a play or streaking naked through Old Campus “for peace.”

Read “Yale Reunion: Bulldogs Go Bonobos” in Counterpunch

Nevertheless, I am a proud magna cum laude graduate of Yale University, Class of ’77.

I haven’t always been so proud. Maybe it has to do with not being “typical,” but for over a decade, I’d tell people I went to college in “New Haven.” Actually, for various reasons, a lot of Yalies do this. Not that it conceals our Yale bonafides, since nobody thinks we mean Quinnipiac College. We just say it to be cool and/or because we cringe at coming off as “elitist.”

I confess, I have a longstanding inclination to critique the “elites,” and ivy-adorned Yale University—envisioned by the theocratic Reverend John Davenport, co-founded in 1701 by prominent witch-hunting Puritan Cotton Mather and Christened after its biggest benefactor, wealthy British colonialist Elihu Yale (later indicted for corruption)—is nothing if not elite.

Maybe now we should just digitize privilege in the Metaverse, call it “e-lite” and sell bits of it like bitcoin.

With some of my distinguished classmates.

We Yalies were marked the “best and brightest,” which was something of a Mark of Cain, as graduating from Yale was and is no guarantee of intelligence, but more of an indication that you do well on tests. Or that your Dad did well on tests, well enough for you to get in too. Or, more likely, your Dad or your Dad’s Dad contributed a lot of money, big bones for the Bulldog.

Here’s looking at you, Mr. Skull-and-Bonehead George Mission-Accomplished-Dubya Bush (Class of ’68).

Honestly, seeing Yale’s most notorious “C student” attempt to denounce the “wholly unjustified and brutal invasion of Iraq—I mean, Ukraine…hehe… Iraq too! Anyway…” was enough to make any Eli—elite or on the street—want to hide our diplomas.

It was my husband Max who helped me see my Yale degree a little differently.

Boola-Boola’ing it up with My Yale Husband Max, aka Pr. Maximillian Rudolf Leblovic di Lobkowicz di Filangieri.

For every George W. Bush, there was a Samuel Morse—inventor of the Morse Code. For every awful Brett Kavanaugh (Yale Class of ’87) who makes me want to hang my Bulldog face in shame, there’s an awesome Lupita Nyong’o (Yale Drama MFA 2012) who fills me with ivy pride. It all evens out, more or less, and— Magna Cum Laude or just me-coming-loudly—Yale’s a part of my life. So, thanks to Max, I gradually started to show off my Yale degree… with a twist.

I’m not the first Eli to hang a Bulldog pennant on the wall behind her bed, but it happens that said bed is also where I broadcast my weekly talk shows. Like a chef hosts a cooking show from the kitchen surrounded by pots and pans, I host a sexuality show from bed surrounded by sex toys… and a pennant emblazoned with “For God, For Country And For Yale.”

It was never expressly stated, but I’ve always felt that bit of boola-boola helped seal the deal for my HBO specials, executive-produced by proud fellow Yalie Sheila Nevins (Yale Drama MFA 1963).

After watching one of these HBO specials, Sex Week at Yale (SWAY) founder Eric Rubenstein, Class of ‘2004, invited me to speak at the first SWAY in 2002 and every SWAY thereafter through 2012.

A Toast in Fond Memory of Sex Week at Yale (2002 – 2012).

Good times! Indeed, those special winter weeks around Valentine’s Day, the High Holidays of Love, were sex educational, mind-body-and-soul-expanding times for the students, faculty and special guests who were lucky and brave enough to participate. As for me, I felt welcomed back into the bountiful bosom of Mother Yale every other year. That is, until former Yale President Richard Levin stopped SWAY from swaying.

And what a shame that was. Under pressure from corporate interests, Yale-in-Singapore, an entrenched over-privileged fraternity system, and well-funded, ruthless anti-sex-education, Christofascist media, including Focus on the Family, Master Dick forced SWAY to bow to his haughty, erotophobic and demeaning demands. Then he crushed it anyway under his elite J. Press tassel calfskin loafer.

Incidentally, Yale college supervisors are—or were—called “Masters,” so “Master Dick” is actually not as outrageous a nickname for former President Richard Levin as it sounds. In fact, as the head of Yale, he could—I’m taking a leap here—be called “Master Dick, Head (of Yale).”

Silly puns aside, Dick Levin is gone, replaced by a kinder, gentler Yale President, Peter Salovey, whose groundbreaking work in Emotional Intelligence I appreciated enough to quote in The Bonobo Way. I’d like to believe Pete would not have crushed Sex Week at Yale like Dick did.

With Yale President Peter Salovey and Max.

People ask if I’ll ever “bring it back,” but that not up to me. Maybe Yale students will resurrect Sex Week at Yale, or put on their own version for the 2020’s—or 2030’s (assuming the Megamachine lets human civilization last that long). Hey, a sexologist can dream…

Besides being the quintessential e-lite academic institution (that other school in Cambridge notwithstanding), Yale has a tradition of elite-critiquing—from Nathan Hale spying on King George III to Chaplain William Sloane Coffin leading protests against the War in Vietnam to socialist economist Richard D. Wolff condemning capitalism in our times—and I am proud to be a part of that tradition, in my fashion.

Rightwing Coup Anon’ers portray Yale as a hotbed of “woke,” decadent Marxism. So, “elite critiquing” doesn’t only come from the Left, though it tends to be accompanied by a large side order of garbage when delivered by the Right. Actually, seeing neo-Puritan Senator Tom Cotton get pilloried in social media for vainly trying to denigrate brave Yale student protesters against Christofascist speakers as “fragile… Leftwing children” made me proud of my school.

So, when I received an invitation to my 45th Yale College Reunion, and was reassured that it would be Covid-safe (or relatively) with testing upon arrival, I was pleased to say yes for two.

To kick off this special boola-boola weekend, I put a small Yale pennant on my big blue hat with Y-A-L-E emblazoned across my chest, accompanied by an assortment of other Eli-positive accessories, including a “Y” pendant hand-woven by Twin Towers in-house designers with the blue and white threads of inmate uniforms. The opposite of elite and light as a flower, it occasionally flips around and upside down, turning the “Y” in the circle into a peace sign, which I take as a good omen.

Don’t get your Yale panties in a twist over mine.

One accessory that was seen only by Max and my selfie stick (until now) was my Yale University thong—or thongs in white on black, white on red and blue on white—received as gifts and purchased over the years at the Boola Boola shop on Broadway.

These thongs were just good wholesome collegiate underwear, until one otherwise fine day in 2006. I had just produced a wondrous Whim ‘n Rhythm concert (having connected with these mellifluous ladies of at SWAY ’06) at my “Speakeasy” in which Yale thongs were flashed. Word of this got some very elite Yale corporate lawyers’ panties in a twist, and they insisted that the Boola Boola shop stop selling those thongs (hence they gifted me with their entire unsaleable inventory). Then they told me to stop showing off my Yale panties all over the Internet… or else!

The shop stopped, but I did not. In fact, I told Yale’s killjoy counselors to go ahead and sue me. They said they most certainly would, but never did. Sometimes you’ve just got to call the bluffs of these blustering elites—and not let them scare the panties off of you.

We passed our home Covid tests and took meticulous photos of our negative results before leaving Bonoboville, expecting we’d have to take another test when we reached New Haven. After all, the plane was packed with heavy breathers, most of whom were gleefully maskless.

Can you figure out what school I went to?

It was our first flight since our carefree, pre-Coronapocalypse, Mile High Club days, and we were both recovering from our wild Bonoboville Reunion and a whirlwind DomCon 2022, with a bout of pneumonia in between.

So, packed between mask-free yappers, coughers and even a few sneezers, we kept our masks on, like muzzled monks in a flying chamber of demonic droplets, only taking them off to eat, drink and kiss.

The kissing helped, but overall, the new post-Coronapocalyptic flying experience—once a nomadic pleasure, brimming with delightful possibilities of connecting with old and new friends and lovers—is a paranoid, overcrowded chore.

Speaking of the good old days, why don’t we take a tip from the “smoking sections” of yore and seat the maskless in the back of the plane? Never mind, I can already see the fists flying before the plane even takes off.

The best part of our new air travel experience was Max’s wheelchair. Having let Delta know in advance that my Yale Husband, due to his various ailments, would need assistance, a charming attendant whisked him along through the fast lane as I jogged to keep up. The adrenaline rush, along with the edibles I took before leaving Bonoboville, helped beam me up above the Delta dystopia that threatened to swallow me in swarming madness.

Thank Goddess, the snoring, maskless individual next to me spent most of the flight burrowed into the window. I burrowed into Max and checked out the video fare, passing on “King Richard”—the film that won an Oscar for the dude who’d just punched a comedian at the Oscars—and picking films about three of my lifelong “sheroes,” Dr. Jane Goodall, Erin Brockovich and Frida Kahlo.

My Choices

Maybe it was the edibles, but I felt the passions of these amazing women intersecting with my own like a Venn diagram—Erin for the environment, Jane for the apes, and Frida for erotic art.

Frida Kahlo, who spent even more quality time in bed than me, has long been a great vibrant inspiration. I’ve admired Erin Brockovich even longer, and not just because Salon snarkily compared my push-up bra’ed efforts to save the bonobos to the activist’s own cleavage-enhanced environmentalism. My Jane Goodall love goes back even further. What a great primatologist and advocate for chimps and all the apes—including me. I was honored when Tom Quinn tongue-in-cheek dubbed me “Jane Goodall After Dark,” and deeply touched when Jane’s assistant emailed me to say she “loved” the Bonobo Way.

Goodall, Kahlo and Brockovich all worked with and against elites to further their causes. Perhaps I’d been doing the same—at least trying to—with the Bonobo Way… or did I flatter myself with such grand comparisons?

I may not be in that Big 3, but at least, I didn’t punch a comedian at the Oscars—let alone bomb anybody at all, like some of my aforementioned fellow Eli alumni.

Before we could say “go bonobos,” we’d arrived in New York, two very sleepy seniors, one plastered with Yale logos and the other in an “I Love Dr. Susan Block” cap, ripe for being exploited in the sleazy transportation tangle of fast-talking hustlers and exhaust-belching vehicles surrounding JFK.

Me and Max’s Wheelchair arrive in NYC.

I could almost hear the predators salivating all around us, though that was probably as much in my imagination as the great “crime wave” is in the Republican narrative.

Because soon enough, Vinnie from the Bronx (seriously), by way of the Dominican Republic, found us, convinced us he wasn’t a predator—or a liberal mirage—and transported us to New Haven for a reasonable fee, as he chatted with us about life, love and how unfair the U.S. embargo was on his cousins in Cuba.

Saved from airport predators by Vinnie from the Dominican Republic (Free Cuba from U.S. Embargo!) by way of the Bronx.

Then he ate bagels with us when we reached the Yale registration office two hours early, and would have stayed over with us if we’d booked another bed in the dorm.

Yes, we booked dorm rooms for this reunion, since all the hotels were either full or at prices too elite for us. What the dorms lacked in comfort, they made up for in thrift and convenience.

Oh, and did I mention we two geriatric jetsetters were on the fourth floor of this charming neo-colonial building with elegant bannisters and no elevator? Thank Goddess for Alejandro Campillo (Class of 2022) graciously dragging our bags all the way up those winding stairs.

With Alejandro Campillo and friends, Yale Class of 2022.

Not being able to sleep together really sucked. There we were in two single, extremely narrow dorm room beds anchored to separate walls in adjoining rooms. So, we did it like students, snuggling up for sex in one cot, then splitting up for sleeping, studying or stepping out for pizza (sorry New York—and Rome, but New Haven Wooster Street pizza is numero uno). Ah, the pleasures and pains of boarding school sex! Even seniors can enjoy it… and suffer from it—although those kinds of pains are kind of nice.

But before all that erotic intimacy and joint pain, we had to register. Yale Class of ‘77 was assigned the remotely located, neo-colonial college of Timothy Dwight, so far from Commons, I’d never ventured inside of it as a student, at least not while sober.

We were surprised the reunion desk administrators didn’t check out those carefully-snapped photos of our Covid-negative tests—even when we proudly presented them—let alone administer fresh tests right there (as we did at our Bonoboville Reunion). We weren’t the only alumni who were a little disturbed by this. We Yalies like to protect our elite immunocompromised asses.

Or maybe just some of us do. Masks appeared and disappeared throughout the weekend—including my own… especially after a drink, I must confess. I’m trying not to “virtue-signal” here, and I’m about as woke as a hibernating bear, but I’d just hope Mother Yale might be more solicitous of her offspring.

I imagined a fully masked reunion like Eyes Wide Shut without the orgies, but the real thing was far more mundane, with masks half-on and off, though mostly off, as we vainly tried to maintain distance, knocking elbows and nodding at familiar and not so familiar faces.

Mostly not familiar to me, since my three and a half years at Yale coincided with the three and a half years of my life most colored, so to speak, by LSD aka acid, psychedelic mushrooms and week-long peyote trips through The Stacks of Sterling Library, beautiful Beinecke Hall (where I took an independent study course in ancient Tibetan art with Professor Wesley Needham, one of the original New Deal architects of Yale whose face is carved into the entryway to Trumbull College), the tomblike outside of Skull & Bones (never the inside), the ultra-elite “secret society” of the Bushes and other frighteningly powerful Yalies, and the actual tombs of Grove Street Cemetery.

And yes, despite or perhaps because of my hallucinogenic extra-curricular activities, it took me just three and a half years to graduate (the standard was four), though, believe it or not, not that I did it to show off or because I was smart.

The sad truth was that my dear Dad (not a Yale grad) was developing Parkinson’s disease, and my parents were running out of money to pay that elite college tuition, so my best bet to avoid a Mount Vesuvius of student debt was to overload my schedule with easy courses (no challenge for a Theater Studies major) and graduate six months early.

Bonobo Female Empowerment at Yale with Winne Stopps, Weili Chang (with mask neatly tied to lanyard) and Ellen Ryan, Class of ’77.

Maybe if I’d been able to give my undergraduate education its full four years like my elite, student-loan-free peers, I’d be smarter about things, like when and how to wear the damn mask. It’s hard to say. Somehow, I felt okay taking maskless selfies because we were all facing forward, though I suspected I was flirting with disaster.

Good thing “disaster” was only flirting—no serious dating—because both Max and I emerged from our 45th Yale Reunion Covid-free.

Nevertheless, the specter of the spiky little virus seemed to hang in the air or lurk behind the bar, dividing, not uniting—or at least, not helping. Though first-night cocktails under the Timothy Dwight tent were very nice, it just didn’t feel as intimate and exhilarating as the first night of, say, our 2017 Reunion when we shared a cup at Mory’s Temple Bar.

Mory’s is historically elitist-to-the-drunken-core, but that “sharing” tradition—passing around the big, inscribed, silver loving cup filled with a mystical concoction of liquors, juices, ice, unknown aphrodisiacs and your drinking companions’ saliva, as everyone takes a good swallow without letting the urn touch the table (or it goes over your head)—reminds me of bonobos sharing food (and sex) along with silly pranks, and it’s a big reason it was so much fun.

Nowadays, Mory’s isn’t so elitist; anyone can get in. However, “sharing a cup” in 2022—at Mory’s or Denny’s—sounded as appealing as slurping up a puddle of bacteria infested sputum in the alley outside Toad’s Place.

With that in mind, we safely sipped our separate drinks under Timo’s tent.

After making merry (or as merry as we could) and then coming together in the dorm room, Max and I rolled onto our single beds and fell into the fitful sleep of the jetlagged.

Friday morning, bright and early (for us nightowls), we rose to a New England spring shower. That meant donning my clear plastic raincoat over the day’s set of Yale regalia in black, white and red to match the vintage Sex Week at Yale insignia (a collectors’ item) atop my hat. It also meant my hair exploded into a giant frizz bomb, just like in my college days, reminding me of one of the reasons I left damp and drizzling New England for the hair-dryer level heat of LA.

Breakfast found Max and me sitting across from my classmate John Robinson Block and his lovely fiancé Mary. Despite sharing a last name, John and I are not related. We barely even spoke as students, John being a conservative traditionalist favoring bowties and ascots—“elite” to the point of caricature—and me being a left-of-liberal feminist hippie favoring jeans or nothing at all (we called it “streaking” back in the day). I guess I was (and still am) a “sexy lefty”… to the point of caricature.

Max and Me with John Block (no relation!) and Mary.

So, there we sat, two Yale caricatures at our 45th reunion.

We had previously stumbled upon each other at our 40th, when life didn’t seem as polarized, and we shared a laugh over our same last names and sartorial flamboyance. Little did I know that the old Block surname (via John’s family) would come to haunt me the day after January 6th 2021, the infamous Insurrection, aka the “Rape of the Capitol,” aka Coup Anon. What a crazy day that was for everyone on all sides of the MAGAt mess, and for me, it revolved, rather ridiculously, around my last name.

Thus, on January 7th, 2021, I found myself explaining to various concerned friends, foes and media outlets that no, I was NOT Susan Allan Block, the wealthy, Insurrection-cheering Ohio Arts Council Board of Directors member (think Ginni Thomas with a taste for Renoir), making headlines by posting particularly ardent fangirl support for the Orange One and his attempted coup, but simply Susan Marilyn Block, bonobo-loving, Trump-loathing sexologist.

Susan ALLAN Block’s artistic expression on Facebook read as follows (caps hers): “NO PEACE, NO UNITY, NO CONCESSION.” The way my name-twin called President-elect Joe Biden “ILLIGITIMATE” [sic] and Veep-elect Kamala Harris a “WHORE” made my sex-worker-supportive, spellcheck-abiding head spin.

Making matters even weirder, I discovered that day that Susan Allan Block is married to Allan Block, twin brother of John Block, the gentleman in the ascot smiling across from me at breakfast on the first morning of our Yale reunion.

This particular Block clan (there are a few) runs Block Communications which publishes the rather conservative Toledo Blade and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette (whose workers, as I write this, are on strike). Just as this Block has been cheering for Trumpty Dumpty’s impeachment, imprisonment and—most important—disappearance from my news feed, these other Blocks appear to have been rooting for the MAGAt mob… from a safe, elite distance, of course.

All of this flashed through my mind as we made small talk, shared recipes and memories of Italy, took selfies and, in true elite form, said nothing of our extreme political differences. John and Max seemed to genuinely bond over their passion for pasta primavera. I marveled at how we friendly primates—no matter how elite or extremely different we think we are—can always find ways to connect when motivated.

I personally was not so motivated, partly because I’m still smarting over John’s MAGAt-cheering sister-in-law sharing my name, and partly because I was vainly trying to prepare for my leadership role at the “Roundtable” that would take place any minute at this very table.

At least the topic was one I could talk about in my sleep: “Peace, Love and Bonobos.”  I’d just done a similarly themed talk, “Make Kink Not War: Be Bonobo,” albeit for a very different audience, the kinky latex-clad “elites” of DomCon 2022. I’d just done a similarly themed talk, “Make Kink Not War: Be Bonobo,” but for a very different audience, the kinky latex-clad “elites” of DomCon 2022.

Needless to say, John and Mary politely left our breakfast table before it turned into a Leftish “Roundtable” talk, and a group of more politically sympatico Yalies soon filled the empty seats.

I liked the idea of a Roundtable, conjuring fairy tales of King Arthur and those sexy Knights in their kinky armor, trying to be bonobo, or as bonoboësque as you can be when you’re doing all that jousting and crusading (not very).

A roundtable also sounded so much more equalizing and peace-loving than the table that was dominating the news at the time: that endlessly long war table of Vladimir Putin’s that you could just imagine him calmly sitting at as he bombed his “brothers” in Ukraine.

At that point (if not before), NATO sat itself down at the other end of Putin’s ridiculously long imperial dining table, with no efforts to make it round—or make peace—as the two ends started lobbing dishes (bombs) at each other. Months later as I write this, they are still at it, with neocons, neoliberals and even some so-called “progressives” all joining the fight that only profits the dish makers (the war profiteers). Will they keep it up until all the dishes shatter, the middle collapses and both ends fall into the breech, i.e., nuclear war?

Back to the “roundtable” which implies that there are no elites, no “heads” or masters. All are equal, in the round—at least in terms of the table.

Taking a selfie break at the side of my Roundtable.

Of course, equal doesn’t necessarily mean anarchy, and even in King Arthur’s circular countertop of chivalry, everybody didn’t talk at once. Somebody had to lead the discussion, and today, that somebody was me.

I chose “peace” as a theme because here we were (and still are) at war (again). Even prior to my time at Yale, I protested war and the military megamachine for which Yale and so many other elite universities are think tanks. I am still protesting war, every single war that America has started—or instigated—in my lifetime, and I’m still researching the tricky process of peace.

Celebrating 30 years of peace, love and bonobos (and marriage).

I chose “love” because this year, Max and I have been celebrating our 30th anniversary of lawfully married love. Interestingly and rather romantically, we fell in love, at least in part, due to our aversion to war. The year was 1991, and we were both opposed to a very popular war, Desert Storm, a.k.a. the *First* Gulf War, under the command of U.S. President George H. W. Bush, Sr. (Yale Class of 1948).

Desert Storm would reverse the rather healthy and sane “Vietnam Syndrome” (American citizens’ natural aversion to war), much to the detriment of our nation and the world. Yet all bad things in life have some good, and one of the First Gulf War’s inadvertent consequences was bringing Max and me, two peaceniks in a sea of war cheerleaders, together… forever!

I also chose “love” because I didn’t think it would be polite to write “sex” on the Yale Roundtable card, and “love” is a pretty good euphemism for sex. I had addressed the topic of “Sexuality and Aging” on our 30th reunion panel, and now here we all were, a decade and a half older. Yikes! For many of us, good old-fashioned penis-in-vagina (PIV) sexual intercourse is proving more challenging—mostly due to our advancing age, but also thanks to various environmental and social factors that seem to “conspire” against good PIV sex these days. Therefore, we might want to explore different types of outercourse over intercourse as a primary erotic activity, perhaps getting into kink and/or going deeper into intimacy, and anyway, it’s all about love, or it should be.

Incognito Bonobo

I chose “bonobos,” because I love bonobos, the “Make Love Not War” chimpanzees who swing through the trees as well as with each other. They also happen to be humanity’s closest Great Ape cousins, and perhaps that tells us something about our own randy desires.

But here’s the kicker: Not only do bonobos engage in a LOT of sex in a Bonobo Sutra of positions and relationships, but they have never been seen killing each other in the wild or captivity. They make peace through pleasure.

Bonobos empower the females more than any other ape, but they also nurture the males. There are no incels in Bonoboville. Not every bonobo has sex for procreation, but all engage in sex for recreation. Perhaps most critical, bonobos see the “sharing” of food, sex, resources, love and all good things—even with strangers—as a virtue and a pleasure.

I may be an old peacenik, but I’m not the only one who yearns for peace in these times of Perma War. Most call the constant churn of military destruction “Forever War,” but I think that sounds too romantic. I call it Perma War because it’s like Perma Press, except instead of pants that won’t crease, it’s wars that won’t end.

But are human beings even capable of peace?  And who will show us the way? Elite think tanks? Lost tribes? Angels? Aliens? Pundits?

Or how about our closest living cousins who exhibit this remarkable ability to make peace through sharing pleasures? “How about bonobos?” I not-so-humbly suggested to my in-the-round table of equal elites.  To seal the deal, I brought up the Yale connection.

Back in 1925—four years before bonobos were officially identified in 1929—the original Yerkes Primate Center on Hillhouse Avenue at Yale housed a remarkably good-natured chimp named Prince Chim. Later, primatologists determined that Prince Chim was a bonobo, probably the very first to live in America.

Prince Chim taught Dr. Yerkes, about the nature of what primatologist Frans de Waal calls “hedonic kindness.”  The megamachine teaches us the opposite, that greed is good—at least for the “elites”—but is it? Bonobos show us that sharing is good, that helping others is pleasurable as well as meaningful, that being good feels good. Recognizing that “truth” can lead to releasing our inner bonobo individually and even socially. In any case, it is inherent to our primate nature.

So, there’s hope for us.

But there’s not a lot of time. We human apes need to learn as much as we can from bonobos before they go extinct—in fact, we need to ensure their very uncertain survival (thanks, to a great extent, to elite and brutal Western colonialization of their native habitat of the Congolese rainforest), and in turn, they might just return the favor by showing us a better way, a bonobo way.

I channeled my best Brockovich/Kahlo/Goodall spirit to soft-sell *pitch* the Bonobo Way to the Elihu elites gathered around my Roundtable, and maybe motivate them to help save the bonobos.

Responding to Roundtable demand, I told the true tale of Sex Week at Yale.

Sex Week at Yale was muzzled and then crushed.

Perhaps one day, the MSM will make a totally inaccurate docudrama about SWAY like they do about everything else. In the meantime, I’ll continue to tell it as I saw it: Sex Week at Yale was a joyous yet serious, playful yet responsible, diversified and meaningful, student-conceived and operated, biannual week of higher sex education that was crippled and then crushed by cowardly former Yale President Richard Levin as a scapegoat for the bad behavior of Yale’s wealthiest, most elite fraternities, including Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE), of which G.W. Bush happens to be a former president.

The DKE boys led the infamous march through the streets of New Haven yelling “No Means Yes! Yes Means Anal!” Sex Week at Yale had nothing to do with that or DKE’s other campus crimes. But SWAY was squashed and DKE marches on.

From swinging bonobos to SWAY and politics, I could have chatted with the charming knights and brave ladies of my roundtable all day. However, the tirelessly genial catering crew was clearing all the roundtables of everything—including people—to prepare for the next round…

As for what we did next… I honestly don’t remember. I think Max and I went back to our dorm room which, being on the elite fourth floor, was quite the climb.

Draped in my “Lux et Veritas,” chilling with water policy expert Celeste Cantú

Then… maybe we had sex. Maybe we collapsed after our hike up Mount Timothy. We were still pretty jet-lagged. I do remember changing clothes. I didn’t think it appropriate to be Ms. Sex Week at Yale all day.

So, I went from black, red and white to classic Yale blue, adorned with a logo-laden Lux et Veritas scarf given to me by Saybrook Master (yes, Master!) Mary Miller upon delivering my second SWAY Master’s Tea in 2008. Draping myself in silky shields and esoteric symbols, , I fantasized I was an elite Lady cosplaying  in drag as a Roundtable Knight conspiring to overturn the Medieval Megamachine, roll back the Crusades and return all the stolen, ravaged land to the native peoples and non-human animals before it was too late.

Speaking of nonhuman animals, one of my favorite encounters of Reunion Weekend involved the legendary Romeo of Elihu, Handsome Dan.

Handsome Dan and Me. Photo: Kassandra Haro ’18

Good thing for Max, Handsome Dan is not a man. He is 14th in a distinguished line of English bulldogs serving as Yale mascots going back to 1890. Our encounter on a bucolic bench in the Timothy Dwight Courtyard, snapped by Dan’s talented human caretaker, Kassandra Haro ’18 (aka Kassie), was so photogenic, it won—well, tied for—first place in the Yale Alumni Photo Contest. Whoop! Whoop! Pretty elite.

What is it about that big, wrinkled dog face that’s so damn cute? Um… I was talking about Handsome Dan XIX (to be precise), not myself.

Our rapport reminded me of my “Survival of the Friendliest” interview with dog and bonobo experts Dr. Brian Hare and Vanessa Woods. Both dogs and bonobos can teach humans a lot about friendliness and how to make peace through sharing different kinds of pleasures.

Much as Dan and I enjoyed the pleasure of each other’s company, Caretaker Kassie held Yale’s canine ambassador to his busy Alumni Weekend schedule.

That left me with my fellow humans, whose company proved to be as sparkling as ever, helping to make it another lovely evening among the elites-next-door.

The excellent entertainment featured Yale Class of ‘77’s quick-fingered banjo maestro Oscar Hills and quick-witted author M.G. Lord, who told several merry and mirthful tales, including one about her mother warning her of the dangers of hotel bedspreads because “people had sex there.”

With MVP Classmate M.G. Lord at the “Bans Off Our Bodies” Rally.

That warning didn’t stop M.G. from staying in hotels—or, I would hope, having great sex in hotels—though she might silently calculate Mother Lord’s Rule, “the sperm count should be lower than the thread count.”

For Max and me, forgoing the hotel for the dorm this year was less about sperm count or thread count and more about about bank account. The rich get richer, and the poor pay more.

But M.G.’s joke did remind me that Yalies don’t mind sex talk, as long as there’s a hefty dose of erotophobia thrown in for balance.

#GoBonobos for M.G. Lord, a credit to our class, with the eloquence to help us to laugh at ourselves.

Endtimes.

After the entertainment, I took a few more selfies with my elite classmates.

“This isn’t going on some site is it?” asked one.

“Oh yes,” I replied. “PornTube!”

“It’s the end of all of us,” said another, as we all laughed for different reasons.

Saturday morning’s Y-A-L-E tank top was a cheerful shade of turquoise that absolutely nothing else in my suitcase matched. Current fashionistas say, “matching is for old people,” so I decided not to give a damn, and anyway, I matched Max, which is all I care about these days.

Under the TD Tent, whom did we run into first but John Block in his Saturday ascot and straw hat (even bigger than mine). Was this a conspiracy? The Coup Anon Block meets the Communist Block?

Right and Left Wing Blocks with Consorts.

Was “Right to Riot”-supporting Oath Keepers Commander Stewart “Yale-to-Jail” Rhodes (Yale Law, 2009) lurking nearby in full body armor? Honestly, Stew is more sex-obsessed than me, inserting details of his alleged lawyer romance into his testimony, which didn’t exactly endear the jury who found him guilty of the rare charge of “seditious conspiracy.” Didn’t Stewart Rhodes’ Yale Law education teach him how to defend aiding and abetting a regime change? Oh, maybe that’s just for foreign countries…

Might a more successful Insurrection-defending Yale grad, like Ron DeSantis (Yale, 2001), make an appearance to *ensure* we’re being tortured legally like he did as a CIA lawyer in Guantanamo? Then I remembered NeoCon Ron was too busy turning the state of Florida into a Fascism-Lite launching pad for his more imperial ambitions to bother interrupting our little college reunion.

After an exchange of recipes and pleasantries with John and Mary, Max and I took the shuttle from TD-Siberia to York and Chapel for the Yale Dramat Open House where we were greeted by one masked Dramat student and a couple of lost alumni. Not that I was expecting paparazzi, but it was a bit sad, especially the lone Mory’s cup on a coffee table, not to be sipped from, but just gazed upon like a relic in a museum of ancient bacchanalian rites.

Toooooaaaaaad’s!

We strolled down York to Wall Street, past the Yale Law School where Max had addressed the assemblage about sex and the law at a SWAY event, as the old bells of Harkness Tower chimed new tunes. Toad’s Place brought back memories of performances there with my post-Yale theater troupe, New England Commedia, opening for local bad-boy-made-good, George Thorogood, plus several Sex Week at Yale after-parties, not including the Pimps ‘n Ho’s soirée thrown by G.W. Bush Jr’s daughter, Barbara Pierce Bush (Yale, 2004).

Yes indeed, as Barb’s Dad was bombing Iraqis, Barb was getting bombed on Kamikazes in big red plastic cups, safe in the bosom of Mother Yale. Like her namesake, perhaps the younger Barbara Bush just didn’t want to “waste her beautiful mind on… body bags and death.”

Who would have thought that the dark side of “Lux et Veritas” is a cozy little dorm room bed for monstrous murderous lies?

Into the light!

I was eager to join my fellow freedom-fighting and fun-loving feminists at the pro-abortion rights rally being held at the Women’s Table sculpture designed by Maya Lin in front of Sterling Memorial Library, and this old protester was not disappointed.

No Forced Breeding!

It was a decent-sized, friendly but fuming crowd. Even though the Supreme Injustices hadn’t yet officially ruled on Dobbs, there was a feeling of dread in the late spring air… and from it sprung comradery. Several of my classmates, including M.G. Lord and Ellen Ryan, and many other alumni and students from all Yale classes, were there to be counted.

At first, I basked in the nostalgia of shouting slogans and standing up for women’s rights at Yale—just like the old days of “feminist consciousness raising”—but that was soon overtaken by supreme disgust that we have to do this all over again.

The rally was organized by members of the Class of 1987, Brett Kavanaugh’s own classmates. I suppose they know better than most what an arrogant, misogynistic, lying, crying, shitfaced, little hypocrite he is.

“Brett You Lied Again!” screamed our signs to the eyes of our fellow elites across the street.

Some of us were also incensed by the author of the leaked Dobbs decision (and very probably the leaker as well), that nasty neo-Puritan who gives Cotton Mather a run for his toxic incel-lite sanctimony, Supreme Court Injustice Samuel Alito, Jr. (Yale Law, 1975).

“BANS OFF OUR BODIES!” proclaimed the buttons over our bellies.

“No forced breeding!” I shouted, pleased to hear a chorus of “yeah!” from a mother/daughter duo twinning in white T-shirts emblazoned with “Liberal C*nt” in hot pussy pink.

Like Yale Mother, like Yale Daughter: Two Proud “Liberal C*nts”

As more protestors gathered, so did the cops.

The mood changed as they moved aggressively through the crowd, their weapons gleaming in the setting sun. We didn’t feel up to getting arrested, and besides, the final reunion banquet would be underway in a couple hours.

So we left, whereupon none other than Graham Boettcher, Class of ’95, former Saybrook Master Mary Miller’s super-sweet assistant from my Sex Week at Yale Master’s Teas, stopped me as I was taking a selfie with Harkness Tower strategically positioned over my shoulder at the well-traveled juncture of Saybrook, Trumbull, Berkeley and Dwight Hall.

Sorry to drop so many names, but this is (or was) the Yale intersection of intersections: talk about elite traffic.

With Graham Boettcher, Class of ’95, former Saybrook Master Mary Miller’s assistant from my Sex Week at Yale Master’s Teas

As for Graham and I, we almost hugged, but instead knocked elbows, grinning sheepishly, and sidled up for the face-forward selfie.

Banquet Time

For our final night of reuniting, I wore a Yale Xmas tree ornament as a pendant on a silver chain, the perfect—and perfectly ridiculous—accessory for my silver latex dress.

On the stairwell.

Capt’n Max looked dapper in a Yale navy blazer, a string of silver 30th wedding anniversary pearls around his neck and one of my Yale thongs in his pocket folded discreetly like a handkerchief.

Under the TD tent, we gathered, serenaded by our Whiffenpoof brothers, smooth and silky-voiced as when they were “poor little lambs… gentlemen songsters off on a spree.”

The Whiffenpoofs of Yale, Class of 1977.

Enjoying the hoary old, mostly-on-key baritones and basses, the rest of us “poor little lambs” sat in our folding chairs as if strapped into time capsules, barreling back into the fading pastures of yesteryear.

“Baaahhh… Baaaahhhh…. Bah.”

Then, before we can quite grasp the past, forward we fly, whiplashed into an increasingly destructive Capitalocene dystopian future that even the greatest, most elite Yale brains can’t figure out how to stop or slow down.

We “poor little lambs” who aren’t turned into lamb chops just grow up to be sheep, after all.

With National Geographic journalist Scott Wallace, ’77.

Megamachine-manufactured mass die-offs, perpetual growth and perma-wars turn our pastures into toxic cemeteries, overwhelming our elite training, even our humanity.

Individual deaths are easier to grasp, though harder to handle. Saying goodbye to dearly departed classmates is always sobering, despite the free-flowing Chardonnay and the bittersweet fact that I barely knew any of the ones we lost this year.

Burn-Baby-Burning with the Bales-Gitlin Golden Oldies Band.

At least, the pop music of our times was and still is buoyed by that Baby Booming sense of draft-dodging antiwar fervor, quasi-socialistic hippie hope, wild Yippie theater and sex-revolutionary possibilities.

When I first heard “Burn Baby Burn!” in the darkened dining hall of a 1970s Yale mixer, it sounded like a riot that felt like an orgasm. Now sung, strummed and fingered by the Bales-Gitlin Golden Oldies Band—led by the married Ginny Bales and Jay Gitlin—it just seemed as wholesome as it was danceable.

While I’ve danced pretty divinely at reunions past, I opted to stay out of the small “Disco Inferno” of whirling, twirling, mostly maskless classmates this year.

I did enjoy the view as I danced along in my seat, shaking my latex fanny to that 70s sound and then leaning back into Max’s big sleepy arms.

Ivy League Foreplay.

Thanks to the snooze, we were rested and ready for our four-flight hike up the winding stairs, packing up our pearls and panties, and having one more round of senior sex orgasms (burn baby burn) in Max’s narrow little bed, before I stumbled off into mine.

Sunday morning, we thought we were early for brunch, but it turned out we were late for breakfast. The catering staff was extremely nice about it, letting me dish up a bountiful brunch for two from the breakfast trays in the kitchen.

Last Breakfast at Yale with the Egg of the Spring Resurrection.

I can’t praise this year’s staff enough, always gracious, gorgeous and indulgent of silly alumni requests (like late-to-breakfast selfies).

The problem this year was the food itself. I’m no foodie (I’m more of a sex-ie), but considering the length of this reunion journal, I’d be negligent if I didn’t mention the overcooked main courses, the undercooked side dishes, many served cold when they should have been hot, the soggy salads, often out too long in their trays, and cardboard-quality desserts.

Maybe I’m spoiled. Usually, Yale reunion food is excellent, verging on decadent. Talk about elite! Our last reunion’s culinary apex was a main course of perfectly prepared, hot and succulent Maine lobster tails. Not that we need or even should have lobster (now on the Red List) these days. But there’s scaling back and there’s bad food prep.

Maybe because we were expecting the usual scrumptious cuisine, the subpar fare of Reunion 2022 really stung the palette. They should have posted “warning” signs around the “World Flavors Buffet.” Just kidding! Nobody got food poisoning (to my knowledge), and for that I am grateful these dystopian days.

One benefit to bad food is that you eat less and have an easier time swinging… on the super-cool, bonoboësque TD hammock.

So, with one last swing, it was bye-bye Yale for another five years (unless they bring back SWAY on the next swing). Vinnie picked us up and off we went to New York, New York.

With a few hours before our flight (or so we thought), we took a stroll through the old TWA terminal.

Talk about a trip through time. Those were the days when flying was an elite pleasure that the middle class was just beginning to afford, pollution was a boring subject hardly anyone understood, let alone took seriously, and everything was looking up, up and up!

Flying back in time with Trans World Airlines.

We roleplayed the Swinging Sixties, sipping martinis, posing at the wheel of vintage golf carts and the fins of cars, ogling giant TAB cans and dreaming great romantic machine-fueled dreams.

Max gets ready for the drive home.

Also, the food was pretty good… unlike real 1960s fare or the Reunion repast.  We chowed down.

Then, thinking we’d be leaving at 9:00 pm, we shuttled over to Delta by 5:00, where a very nice attendant wheeled Max to our gate. At 8:00pm, we were told that the flight would be delayed until 1:19am. At first, they said it was mechanical problems, then that they didn’t have a pilot. No pilot? No competent plane mechanics? Was the megamachine coming apart at the seams?

Hop in! We’re driving back to LA in My Mini Cruiser.

A jittery Delta representative instructed us to confirm our seats on the 1:19 flight at the Delta Help Center which, as it turned out, was mobbed with angry, shouting, spitting, maskless, plane-less passengers. We hovered on the sidelines, hoping someone would give us some good news and no one would be armed.

No news was bad news. We were in JFK Hell 2022. At 1:00 am, they announced that our 1:19 am flight was cancelled. The kiosks were closing, and now even JFK Hell was freezing over. The poor harried representatives told us we’d have to take the next flight in the morning—and no, they didn’t have hotel vouchers for us—but they’d send a wheelchair right over.

Red rover, red rover, no wheelchair ever came over, and even the Delta Center closed.

“Delta Down,” I kept singing in my head to the tune of Tanya Tucker’s “Delta Dawn”…

Delta Down, where’s that flight you had us on? Could it be you’re full of shit in every way? And did I hear you say, you’ll be flying me out today to reach that zombie airport in the sky?

As I was singing ‘70s country pop in the concert hall of my head, Max, who has the amazing ability to fall asleep anywhere, fell asleep in his chair, then slid onto the floor. Bump! It was alarming and somewhat bruising, but he was okay. Thus, we survived a dark night in JFK after-hours hell.

Delta Down. And yes, that’s Max on the floor.

While Max snored on the floor, I practiced the Zazen I learned at Yale, though not in the official curriculum, until Delta Dawned for real, with a mechanically competent and fully piloted plane to take us and our bulldog memorabilia home to LA. Of course, this flying fish was filled to the gills. Flights with empty seats are as much relics of the past as TWA and Tab.

One victim of packed planes and tiny lavatories (too tiny for stiff seniors!), is joining the Mile High Club. Having sex on a plane is barely worth the now considerable effort, another casualty of our Capitalogenic times. Well, Mile High Club sex isn’t very ecosexual anyway. It’s a Kartrashian thing.

Back to the plane-packing concept, which could well be why our flight kept getting delayed with varying explanations—because Delta wasn’t about to take off until the plane was packed with paying customers, a concept I don’t necessarily disagree with; the problem was that none of those nice representatives wouldn’t actually say that.

When we finally arrived in Bonoboville, bruised and bedraggled, we told ourselves (and Delta’s voicemail) that we were going to sue their panties off for this, but who has time (actually if you’re a lawyer and you have the time, call us)? Sadly, like most corporations, Delta counts on people like us not having the time or passion for lawsuits to force them to be somewhat honest.

Read “Yale Reunion: Bulldogs
Go Bonobos” in Counterpunch

Perhaps it’s just as well. Along with dropping bombs, coal mining, oil spills, fracking, corporate farming and just being Elon Musk, flying is one of the worst ways to pollute the “friendly skies.”

So, for the sake of the planet, all the airlines should make flying more uncomfortable and less desirable for everyone. For starters, how about no private planes, First Class or Business Class? No more elite flying.

Light & Truth & a Whole Lot of Love

While we’re at it, no airline CEO should make more money than a senior plane mechanic. And no passenger should be penalized for joining the Mile High Club with consenting adults (though make it a quickie; no hogging the lavatory). It’s the Bonobo Way.

Show Length 01:09:00  HD

© December 6,  2022 Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 626-461-5950.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Spanksgiving in BonoboVille, Class of 2012: Teal Conrad, Danny De La Paz, Raul Estrella, Natasha Starr, Ed Furlong, Monica Keena Raymond Seville, Sinn Sage, Pippi the Imp, Goddess Soma Snakeoil, Dr. Susan Block, Fat Mike, Shay Golden, Brock Hard, Dane Cross, Starry Knight, Master Liam, Tasia Sutor. Photo: Irwin

Length: 161:22 minutes        Date: 11/24/2012

Check out the Free PGish Pix Page… X Pix and Video at DrSuzy.tv

Here in BonoboVille, we find sexy ways to celebrate most holidays, even that quintessentially unsexy Fall Festival of Fat and Carbs when millions of Americans gather together with bickering relatives to feed on heaping helpings of mashed and candied calories in commemoration of the genocidal European invasion of this great land we call America.

So, after getting stuffed (which we do both gastronomically and sexually here in BonoboVille) on Thanksgiving Thursday—with digestion (or indigestion) and shopping on Black Friday—it’s time to leave the kids with a sitter*, clean up the spatulas, get out the paddles and celebrate SPANKSgiving Saturday night!

Yes indeed, brothers and sisters, after we “give thanks” on Thanksgiving for our blessings, we “give spanks” on Spanksgiving for our so-called sins, as well as for the sheer physical and psychological fun of whacking a set of nice, eager, well-toned, slightly quivering buns.  Amen and Awomen.

This Spanksgiving features an overflowing banquet of spankers, spankees and celebrities, all engaged in or ogling a variety of spankings from over the knee (OTK), to shackled on the bondage cross, to a swat across a tempting behind as it sidles up to the bar.

We also talk about the impractical, unconstitutional and virtually unenforceable Measure B, and how LA County voters need to be spanked for passing that one—and will be, right in the pocketbook, if the porn industry actually leaves LA.

Thanksgiving or Spanksgiving, ’tis the season to give and give some more.  Aside from our usual plea for the bonobos and Sandy victims, there’s the wonderful, award-winning, girl-girl porn star and single mom, Elexis Monroe, now facing a serious bone disease and in need of help from her friends and fans.

 *but make sure the sitter doesn’t spank the kids.  As the late great Gore Vidal said, “I’m all for bringing back the birch, but only between consenting adults.” See Spanking 101 for why spanking children teaches them that violence is the answer and lowers their IQ.  So spare the child and save your rod for your deliciously naughty adult lover.  Slappy Spanksgiving!

FEATURED GUESTS

Teal Conrad:  Many adult starlets pretend to be college girls, but this 19-year-old UCLA freshman really is one. Teal leads a double life: studious communications major by day and wild cum-eating Twisty’s Treat/porn star by night.  This is the first Thanksgiving she hasn’t spent with her Oregon family who have not yet come to terms with their promising daughter’s part-time job in porn.  So instead of the usual turkey and fixings, she ate chicken and a shot of cum in a shotglass (delivered with a smile by her girlfriend’s hubby) for Thanksgiving. Teal screams like a turkey on the chopping block when she encounters my sweet innocent snake Eve, but otherwise gets right into the spirit of Spanksgiving.  After sharing a few more cum recipes (cream pies for dessert, anyone?), she shares her physical charms, showing off her gorgeous, all-natural 34 D’s and very spankable bottom (having been spanked by her babysitter, she’s got a hint of a spanking fetish).  In fact, she’s the first on DrSuzy.tv to receive a spanking this Spanksgiving, and we give spanks for that!

Natasha Star: This Polish porn princess happens to be Teal’s girlfriend whose husband poured her that festive Thanksgiving drink of his own cum in a shotglass.  His name is Raul Estrella and though he doesn’t talk on RadioSUZY1, he lets his feelings be known via his T shirt which says “I <3 My Polish Wife. She and Raul are swingers, porn performers and just plain fun-loving folks.  Natasha was spanked “a lot” as a child, since she was always “bad.”  Now she prefers to give spanks, which she does (for the first time!) to her GF Teal.  Then, caught up in the spirit of Spanksgiving, she turns around and offers her pretty Polish princess ass for the next spanking.

Sinn Sage:  It’s been several months since Spanking Princess Sinn has graced our show with her glorious spankable ass and delightfully mischievous mind, so we’re thrilled to have her back with her BF.  She reminds us that the best way to be a good spanker is to spend some time learning as a good spankee.  Then she wallops Natasha’s bottom and a few more for good measure.  We also talk about Elexis Monroe‘s urgent medical situation and encourage her other friends and fans to help her through this.

Danny De La Paz:  Award-winning mainstream actor, probably most famous for playing Puppet, an incarcerated Mexican Mafia member ordered to kill his beloved brother (Little Puppet), in the wrenching 1992 Edward James Olmos film “American Me.”  We talk about the horrifically non-consensual spankings and much worse (anal rapes, torture-killings, you name it) portrayed in and around the juvenile halls and prisons of “American Me.”  He’s also here to promote his new film “Kill Kapone.”  Openly gay, Danny seems to enjoy the Spanksgiving festivities; there are just girl-girl and boy-girl spankings (no boy-boy this time), but a butt’s a butt, after all.  He also likes the sound of spanking which, he points out, is very much like the sound of making tortillas.

Goddess Soma Snakeoil:  The Goddess is late, but as soon as she slides into her seat clad in a spectacular, rubber version of a 19th century bathing suit (or is it a sailor suit?) atop high lace-up Doc Martins, she gently but firmly takes command of the Womb Room—and the entire holiday of Spanksgiving.  Last seen on DrSuzy.tv in “Rubber Bordello” (our show named after the title of her film) during which she first met Sinn (now they’re friends, co-stars and spanking buddies), Soma is spanking mistress to the spanking mistresses and proves it by administering a sound spanking to Sinn’s bare, super-bouncy bottom.  Amazingly, when Soma was 14, her own mother asked her to switch roles and give her the spanking, perhaps to show how much it hurts to have to spank someone you love, though I suspect it helped turn her into the strong dominatrix she is today.  But even the most powerful goddesses have soft sides, and Soma shows hers when she reveals her “secret”: a tiny tattoo across her inner lower lip that says “DADDY’S” which was forcibly (but consensually) applied by a team of masters under the instructions of her “daddy,” Fat Mike of NoFX.

Fat Mike:  Lead singer and bassist of the seminal punk band NoFX, composer of the Rubber Bordello score, and part slave/part “daddy” of Goddess Soma (I call them “The Goddess and the Genius”), Mike practices what he preaches at the church of no belief.  NOFX tunes like “Franco Un-American” helped me to survive the socio-political insanity of the Bush regime, so I’m always excited to have Mike on the show, even when he’s a little late.  Well, he got his Spanksgiving “punishment” for that, actually a nice flogging on the Bondage Cross in the after-party.

Fat Mike of NoFX, Goddess Soma, Roberto, Lisa, Shay Golden, Brock Hard, Dr. Suzy, Hugo Alarcon, Monica Keena, Ed Furlong, Danny de la Paz. Photo: JuxLii

Pippi:  Goddess Soma’s adorable little submissive, aka “imp,” likes to put up her “paws” and pant, pretending to be a bear, even though she more closely resembles a horny little puppy.  Tiny enough to squeeze into tight places, Pippi eats Sinn’s pussy as Soma spanks her.  Then her own perfectly round, spankable butt gets walloped, first by her Goddess and later, in the after-party, by your darling doctor of spankology. Yum…Let us give spanks!

Starry Knight: Featured in our 2012 holiday greeting card, Starry’s butt is big and fleshy enough to take a double walloping from two of the world’s premiere spanking mistresses, Soma and Sinn.  Then she transforms herself into an erotic Thanksgiving turkey by inserting a glass corn cob (cloaked in a Condomania condom) into her pussy.  With that, Danny de la Paz dubs her the first “corn star.”  Then she rides the Sybian as Soma, Sinn, Natasha, Teal and I all spank and paddle her ass to a rip-roaring Spanksgiving climax. A Corn Star is Born!

Master Liam: This veteran spanking master and BonoboVille resident gives an edifying lesson in the three “zones” of spanking, one leading directly to the pussy, on the upturned, acrobatic ass of his submissive partner Tasia, who happens to be the producer of The Dr. Susan Block Show.

Ed Furlong: Award-winning actor and star of numerous films and TV shows, most notably “Terminator 2” (as John Connor) and “American History X,” Ed drops by to say hi and promote his new film “The Zombie King.” He and Monica Keena (known for her roles as Abby on “Dawson’s Creek,” Kristin on “Entourage,” and Lori in “Freddy vs. Jason”) don’t get involved in the spanking, but they do seem to have a great time in BonoboVille.

Dane Cross: The AVN-award-winning porn star comes home for the holidaze to DrSuzy.tv.  Dane is more of a spanker than a spankee, and gives no thanks for Measure B.  He does give it some hard-hitting verbal spanks though.

Jimmy and Pete the Spanked Cameramen:  its Jimmy’s, aka Fausto’s birthday, and his gift is a birthday spanking at the lovely hands of Teal and Natasha.  Then Pete, one of our still cameramen who moonlights as an accountant, drops his drawers for his punishment, his huge hirsute posterior taking all the Spanksgiving wallops my team of spankers can dish out.

Shay Golden and Brock Hard:  The first time they were on DrSuzy.tv (“Show sNOw Mercy”), Sir Brock and Lady Shay got a good spanking lesson. This time, between all the spankers, spankees and celebrities, they’re more in the background.  But they seem to have a great time, and Shay gets a chance to test her cinematographic abilities wearing the new camera shades.

Weapons of Mass Discussion: Thanksgiving, Spanksgiving, Give Thanks on Thursday & Give Spanks on Saturday, Don’t Spank Your Children—Spank Consenting Adults Only, Elexis Monroe Needs Our Help, Hurricane Sandy, Eating Chicken on Thanksgiving & Drinking Cum Out of a Shotglass, Semen as a Food Group, Semen Recipes, Cream Pies, Double Life as Porn Star & UCLA Student, Measure B, A Full Body Rubber is the Only Way We Can Fully Comply with Measure B, Childhood Spanking Experiences, Maintenance Spanking, American Me, Terminator, Bonobos

Performance Erotica: Spanking, Spanking & More Spanking, Birthday Spanking, Flogging, Paddling, Striptease, Cunnilingus, Chinchilla Mitt Rubbing, Sybian Ride, Hula-Hooping, Rickshaw Riding, Agwa Shots, Absente Absinthe Shots, Stuffing a Vagina with a Glass Corn Cob covered with a Condomania Condom, Topless Hula-Hooping, Wild Rickshaw Rides, Naked Trapeze, More Spankings

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Length 01:36:41 Date: July 21st, 2018

by Dr. Susan Block

A cougar, a kinkster, a professor and a pornstar come together in my Womb Room sanctuary smack dab in the middle of Bonoboville for an intimate evening of taboo roleplay, erotic psychodrama, group spankings, topless Communion, big booty twerking, ingenious bondage, political intercourse, tRUMP-gagging (with Russian flag) and scintillating sapiosexual conversation.

Ikkor the Wolf, Mimosa, Dr. Suzy, Sally Mullin, Phoenix Dawn, Professor Oni. Photo: Malik Daniels

We are all a bit shaken from the news of the latest mass-shooting, leaving one woman dead and several injured, that has just occurred very close to home: the Silverlake Trader Joe’s on Hyperion and Griffith Park Boulevard. I used to live in Silverlake right off Hyperion, and then I moved into a duplex on Griffith Park. Bonoboville shops twice a week at Trader Joe’s (a different one, but still). We wish we could say it was “fake news,” but it’s all too real.

Welcome to the Garden of Bonoboville. Photo: Jux Lii

It’s especially too real for the loved ones of the murdered TJ worker Melyda Corado. Ironically enough, a few months before she was killed by gun violence, she posted videos on social media about stopping gun violence. RIP Melyda Corado, as your brother tweets, “You were immensely loved.”

Pre-Show Selfie

As of this writing, we don’t know if the lethal bullet came from the shooter’s gun or the police, since poor Melyda was caught in the crossfire. We do know that this latest atrocity, like so many others, began with domestic violence, the suspect shooting his grandmother and girlfriend just before going on the TJ rampage.

It’s all very disturbing, depressing and dystopian.  Between so-called “toxic masculinity,” the NRA, the overwhelming greed of the .001% that is currently gobbling up “ownership” of most of this country and the rest of the globe, the ecocidal effects of unbridled capitalism, an American Presidunce who regularly steamrolls facts, logic and diplomatic decorum for the sake of his racist base, and a Brave New World of virtual (almost) everything, have we doomed ourselves as a species?

Probably yes, at least, according to many environmental scientists… but maybe not. So, as individuals and communities, if we really DO care (yep, that jab’s for you, Melania), we need to stand up for what’s right and good in the world. For me, the most important thing to convey is the Bonobo Way, the only way I can imagine that we silly humans might save ourselves (and so many other species, including the real bonobos) from this road of murder, mayhem, greed and Global Warming we’re hurtling down on the way to mass extinction.

If we “care” enough to pay attention, humanity’s closest genetic cousins on Earth, the bonobos, show us a “way” that we can live in peace through pleasure, female empowerment, male well-being, inclusivity and sharing resources, like they do.

Shoot Water Pistols, Not Real Pistols. Photo:: Malik Daniels

And SEX, lots of sex with a capital “X.” Good consensual sex, of course. With all the stories of rape, molestation and sexual harassment swirling around the Trumpocalypse, I feel I should stipulate that when I say “sex” is good for you, I mean the consensual kind.

Shooting the Gun Between My Legs All Over Phoenix Dawn. Photo: Abe Bonobo

You can’t shoot a real gun while you’re shooting the gun between your legs.

Wild Taboo Spanking Sexual Psychodrama (full description furthr down). Photo: Jux Lii

That’s the theme of every DrSuzy.Tv show, including this one, though every show, like a “snowflake” (liberal or literal) is different, as this one certainly is

Cougar Sally

This show features the aforementioned cougar, kinkster, professor and pornstar.

The latter is none other than my sexy Ass. Producer Phoenix Dawn.

Phoenix lives up to her job description, getting her producing ass spanked and whipped numerous times in the course of the live broadcast, as well as during the after-party.

Ass Producer gets Ass Whipped in the After Party. Photo: Abe Bonobo

The “cougar” is “Hello Cougar” host and comedienne Sally Mullins, all dressed up like some kind of cat which she describes as a cross between a leopard and a mountain lion (or is that a “mountin’ lion”?) in a cuddly onesie with cat ears.

Our new intern Chris gives Sally the perfect present—pussy panties that say “Meow”!

Sally brings us up to date on her life as a “cougar,” an “older,” experienced woman (sometimes a MILF) who enjoys sex with younger men (called “cubs”) on the comedy circuit in the Red States of Trump’s America. For a more detailed definition of cougar, check out Sally’s first appearance on DrSuzy.Tv. 

Spank the Pussy. Photo: Malik Daniels

On this show, she promotes her new youtube program, “Cookin’ 4 Pussy,” in which men of all ages over 21 cook something delicious for her in exchange for sex… if she likes what they cook, or maybe how they cook it.

As always, Sally is as sexy as she is funny. I just adore how she merges smart, imaginative, pro-sex, feminist comedy with sensuous, authentic cougar love and lust for hot younger men.

Mas Mas Mimosa

From Cougar to Kinkster, I’m delighted to welcome back Mimosa, a former Christian Scientist from Sacramento, the seventh sibling among nine, now finding herself as a queer pansexual kinkster and BBW porn star.

No, that’s not tRUMP’s favorite Russian beverage! It’s just a mimosa in honor of Mimosa. Notice our cool, eco-friendly Speakeasy Jar. Photo: Selfie.

Since the we saw her last on the Speakeasy Recovery show, Mimosa has been hanging out in Vegas, and she’s s looking sexy, her hair grown out, framing her fascinating face, and her big thicc body toned and summer-hot. A sometime Kink.com performer, Mimosa has often performed a type of consensual, professionally produced humiliation called “public disgrace.”

Public disgrace is, of course, very popular in social media right now, though most of it is not consensual. Ironically, when a liberal celebrity is caught with her or his (usually his) pants down, he is punished almost instantly, fired from his cushy corporate job or at least excoriated and condemned by a jury of his Twitter followers. When a Trumper is publicly disgraced, it’s mostly ignored, especially by the increasingly amoral Religious Right who have become the all-American avatars of ignorance.

On this show, Our Trumpus is Gagged with the Russian Flag. Photo: Malik Daniels

Of course, the epitome of Public Disgrace is the Trumpus himself who, like the “heel” in professional wrestling, appears to revel in getting more disgraceful every day, like a toddler gleefully sploshing himself. Last Saturday’s Bastille Day show featuring Daniele Watts as Putin kissing our tRUMP impersonator who also sucks Vlad’s baguette seems almost prophetic, as this very week our disgraceful Presidunce was sucking up to Putin in real life. And no to my sweet critics, it’s not “homophobic” to depict a Trump/Putin Cuckold Bromance; it’s the perfect comic erotic metaphor.

Unlike many of my liberal colleagues, including the top brass in the Democratic Party and the Resistance, I do not favor making Russia an enemy—hot or Cold War-style—and I am all for tRUMP trying to make “peace through pleasure” with Putin, even if it’s only to erect a tRUMP Tower Moscow or to evade the release of the notorious Pee-Pee tapes (we have them).

But the level of public disgrace to which Trumpty Dumpty has fallen, upsetting even his friends on Fox-TV, was truly astounding. It’s remarkable how effectively this big dickhead with a tiny penis can command our astounded eyeballs, all while his family members, henchmen and billionaires club cohorts are robbing the American people blind, leaving us with nothing but guns and trash.

Breaking News: Screaming racist slurs and showing his hairy white ass on Sacha Baron Cohen’s new “Who Is America?” program in what he supposedly thought was a terrorism training video, GOP Georgia state representative Jason Spenser takes “public disgrace” to new lows.

In comparison, Mimosa’s forays into consensual “public disgrace” are hardly disgraceful, but more like triumphs of positive sexuality over old trauma. Three cheers and a mimosa for Mimosa.

Spanking Mimosa’s Thicc Bottom. Photo: Jux Lii

In fact, the delicious champagne and orange juice beverage is our Speakeasy Bar drink of choice for this show, though Mimosa herself has a gin and soda, showing that you just can’t compartmentalize anyone!

Bonoboville Communions

Speaking of delicious, we have some sweet sensuous Bonoboville Communions this show.

First, Sally opens her catsuit to reveal her lovely, firm and natural boobs as our Altar Girl. Actually, Phoenix opens it and licks it, even before Communion.

When I ask her to choose a Communion recipient, she asks for Bonoboville’s hunky rapstar Ikkor the Wolf.

Ikkor the Wolf communes with the Cougar. Photo: Jux Lii

What a gorgeous Cougar-and-Wolf Communion!

Between Bonoboville Communions. Photo: Malik Daniels

What a sweet, affectionate Waterboarding, Bonobo-Style.

“But can he cook?” our Cougar is probably wondering as she woman-handles his big muscles.

Altar Girl Mimosa sips her Gin & Tonic as Sally communes. Photo: Jux Lii

Then it’s Sally’s turn to take Communion from Mimosa who unveils her also natural 40DDs, as Sally takes her licks.

Usually, we use Agwa, but this time we Waterboard with a Mimosa and Sally, experienced cougar that she is, sucks down the whole shot!

Sax-y Professor Shows Us His Balls

Professor Oni also joins us, serenading us on his saxophone in the Bonoboville Garden before the show.

Upon my invitation, the Professor drops trou and shows us his balls, revealing his complex “ApaDydoe” penis piercing which consists of two barbells and a total of four rather large steel balls.

Professor Oni teaches a Master Class on his balls. That’s ApaDydoe, and you will be tested. Photo: Jux Lii

Wow! As if that’s not stunning enough, he then shows us how an older Prince Albert piercing resulted in a “subcision” or split down the middle of the head of his penis. “Ouch!” think all the boys and most of the girls, but Professor Oni assures us that it didn’t hurt… much.

Sadly, in less than a week, the kinky Professor and his interesting penis will be leaving us for Florida, though he assures us he’ll be back in Bonoboville very soon—maybe for the next Speakeasy Journal party when “Spanking” will be the theme.

Group “Family” Spanking

My spanking theme announcement gets my guests’ creative juices flowing.

In our Sexual Psychodrama, Domme-y Mommy Sally pulls up Daughter Mimosa’s skirt to spank her as Sister Phoenix prays by her side and Papa Oni prepares her punishment. Photo: Malik Daniels

Sally the Cougar assumes the role of Domme-y Mommy Cat to her two naughty daughters, Mimosa and Phoenix who gyrate, twerk and squeal on their hands and knees as Mama spanks their bottoms.

A total BDSM team player, Professor Oni volunteers to play the Bad Dad in this incestuous and ridiculous (but very sexy), spank-happy psychodrama.

At a climactic moment, Daddy Oni even ties up daughter Phoenix, than ties her to sister Mimosa in a nifty demo of “predicament bondage,” using his trusty kinbaku bondage “jute” rope.

Throughout the debauched proceedings, I play the Fairy Godmother, snapping my starlit whip at all family members.

Attempted to explain the world of difference between Incest IRL and Fantasy Roleplay as Papa Oni ties Phoenix to Mimosa and Mama Cougar has another drink. Photo: Jux Lii

Just to round out the picture of a deranged family circle, Mama Cougar sips her Mimosa as she spanks her naughty daughters, one of whom (Mimosa) is giving the Womb Room a very nice view of her neatly shaved and trimmed womb room.

Of course, we wholeheartedly disapprove of spanking children (it lowers their IQ and teaches them that violence is the solution to problems), as well as any kind of “family sex” with underage participants (if you’re over 21 and you want to have sex with your adult brother, knock your Fool-for-Love self out; just don’t diddle the kinder!), but fantasy roleplay of taboo scenarios like this can be fun, erotic for some, mostly harmless and sometimes very therapeutic.

Taboo Spanking Bondage Orgy. Photo: Malik Daniels

A scenario where “fake news” is a good thing!

We Are One AND We Are Bad

With all the disturbing news swirling around us, it seems topically appropriate for Ikkor to sing “We Are One.”

But the tensions of the week also make me long to cut loose and be “bad” to “She Bad.”

Ikkor the Wolf howls We Are One” LiVE from Our Little Church of Bonoboville. Photo: Jux Lii

Plus I want to see Mimosa twerk that big beautiful butt again—this time without a thong (quick, turn the Facebook cam away)!

Throw those One’s in the Air like You DO care. Photo: Photo: Malik Daniels

In one of my notoriously indecisive moments, I wiggle and waver, until someone calls out, “How about both?” 

So that’s what Ikkor does: a soulful rap of “We Are One” segueing into a wild, twerking rendition of “She Bad.”

A vital message in these divisive times: We Are One

Mimosa bare-assed twerking: “She Bad”! Photo: Jux Lii

A twerkalicious ode to power and glory of female sexuality:

She Bad!

Post-Show Antics, Orgasms & Possibilities

After Ikkor’s rap medley, Capt’n Max gives a rousing speech about fighting the Neo Nazis.

Capt’n Max and I fighting Neo-Nazi with lazer whips and mimosas from the Speakeasy Bar. Photo: Abe Bonobo

We wind up the live broadcast with Free the Nipple.

Free the Nipple & Keep Trump Gagged with a Russian Flag. Photo: Jux Lii

Usually, there’s at least on or two guests who won’t show nip. Not this group. Everybody frees the the nipple with joyous summer-hot abandon.

Then we chill out in the heat of the sultry summer night.

Wildcat Sally Bonoboville. Photo: Abe Bonobo

What a beautiful evening to hang out at the Speakeasy bar…

Sharing tales—and tails—with friends and lovers.

We sip mimosas with Mimosa, show off Cougar Sally’s new kitty panties and whip my Ass. Producer Phoenix Dawn’s fabulous ass. with Goddess Phoenix‘s dazzling neon whip.

Whippiing the Dawn. Photo: Abe Bonobo

Even as the Trumpocalypse sweeps us into the darkness, we are blessed by fire and light.

Pansensually aroused by all the fun and games, Capt’n Max and I, two old married folks, go bonobos, turning the fire and light of Bonoboville into orgasms of enduring love.

Life in Bonoboville is filled with little miracles; the other day, a bunch of us watched two baby birds (sparrows?), born into a nest their parents built into the commissary doorway, learn how to fly.

The days are hot, palm trees swaying in the balmy breeze, with occasional semi-spontaneous gatherings (Happy Birthday Harry!), and every Saturday night is sacred… with a twist.

Blue-Hot Fire Collar. Photo: Malik Daniels

Who knows what fresh public disgrace awaits our regularly assaulted senses, when “horrible” has come to be “normal,” in the continuing and devolving Trumpocalypse?

We only know that we believe in the light of possibility and the love of the Bonobo Way.

Thanks to Our Volunteers: Videographers/FB Cam— Kris A, Wesley Mack; Photographers –  Brian Bar, Malik Daniels, Slick Rick, Jux Lii; Intern: Chris; On-Campus Bonobos – Phoenix Dawn, Abe Perez, Camille Rosebud, Mita Altair, Harry Sapien, Gideon Grayson, MarsFX, Clemmy Cockatoo, Ana & Miguel

Spinning into the 5th Dimension. Photo: Abe Bonobo

© July 21,  2018. Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 310-568-0066

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

A Midwinter Night’s Sex Comedy featuring an Ass named Bottom. Photo: Unscene Abe

Length 1:48:25 Date: January 16, 2016

By Dr. Susan Block

“Sex is a comedy, not a tragedy,” said art historian Camille Paglia in Vamps and Tramps, though according to my recent Google search, I’m known for popularizing the phrase more than Dr. Paglia is for coining it. In any case, it hits the nail on the throbbing mushroom head of this show.

RIP Dan “Grizzly Adams” Click to see the interview.

Rape, STDs and blue balls notwithstanding, the great tragedies of life tend to be about death, not sex. Case in point, in just the last few days, I’ve felt buried alive by a small avalanche of untimely cancer deaths of people I knew and/or who have touched my life: Dan “Grizzly Adams” Haggerty (who outed himself as a “bonobo fan” when I interviewed him at the Hollywood Show), David Bowie (whose genius was the soundtrack to much of my early life’s erotic explorations) and my own dear dapper cousin Jeff Block.

So before we frolic into the comedy of sex on this melancholic midwinter’s night, Snake Eve in hand, we talk about the tragedy of death, Thanatos, as the Greeks called this force of murder and war, which has, in modern times, encompassed cancer and environmental destruction as well as more murder, mass-murder and war. In comparison, Eros, the Greek word for the sexual energy that drives all of life on Earth, is pure comedy, or maybe a farce of worldwide proportions.

Melancholy Babies. Photo: Ono Bo

After such sad farewells, we need a good laugh and my first guest, stand-up comic, Joan Rivers joke contributor and Hollywood Rockin’ Wrap Up host Jason Hadley, does the job. I must confess I feel a schoolteacher’s pride in her student, since Jason watched early episodes of The Dr. Susan Block Show (when I was on public access and HBO) at a very impressionable age and apparently, it made quite an impression.

He explains that he was especially impressed with some oral sex lessons I gave using my Wondrous Vulva Puppet, specifically the intensely pleasurable cunnilingual technique of lightly squeezing a very wet clitoris between your index and middle fingers while licking and sucking the little “man in the boat” until “he” explodes like liquid pop rocks in your mouth.

Comedian Jason Hadley does his homework. Photo: Ono Bo

Jason never forgot these oral teachings—which now seem rather commonplace and “vanilla,” but were rather esoteric when I was teaching them back in the 1990s—and his girlfriend is extremely grateful. He even demonstrates the technique as well as G-spot stimulation on one of my current Vulva Puppets as I hold it. If a puppet could squirt, this one would!

Anatomy Lessons. Photo: Unscene Abe

His reward for a lesson well-learned is Bonoboville Communion with the fabulous Dayton Rains—award-winning porn star, webcam and phone therapist with the Institute, and associate producer for DrSuzy.Tv—as “altar girl,” a role that she plays so well she won the SUZY award for it. Usually, the guest picks the body part to use as the altar, but with his girlfriend watching carefully but indulgently from home. “She understands that it’s just business,” Jason explains. Nice work if you can get it. Nevertheless, the faithful boyfriend requests that I take charge and choose the body-part-of-communion for him, perhaps so the GF can see that he has “no choice.”

A Midwinter Night’s Sex Comedy featuring Dayton’s Bottom. Photo: Cavie

Decisions, decisions… the wrist, the back of the neck, the boobs, the butt? Yes, the butt. Considering this is a loose (very loose) take-off on Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I choose our Altar Girl’s lovely ass or bottom, “Bottom” being the name of the central Shakespearean character, a handyman and amateur actor who is magically transformed into an ass… that is, a donkey (Equus asinus asinus), though the Elizabethans appreciated the double-meaning of the “ass” word at least as much as we do.

Since Jason is Jewish (and “will feel guilty about this for hours,” he moans), I sing the Hebrew blessing, substituting Ron de Jeremy rum for wine, as he takes his Bonoboville Communion with all the reverence of a Bar Mitzvah Boy-Gone-Wild. To top things off, Jason asks me to sign his copy of The Bonobo Way to his mother whose name is “Susan.” I’m not even going to venture into what that means. I’m sure he has a comedy routine on the subject or, if he didn’t before, now he will.

Jewish Communion with Ron de Jeremy rum. Photo: Cavie

The next joke is on us because our other featured guest (who will not be named, out of respect for her otherwise excellent agency) is a flat-out no-show. This could have put us into a “show hole” but, always aware that the best laid plans may not get you laid the way you planned, especially when you’re doing the “most unscripted show on Earth,” Commedia Erotica-style, we just go with the flow and do a great show.

Scanning the Womb Room congregation, I spot the tall, Modigiliani-beautiful Hannah Ray, and invite her up on the bed for a chat and then an over-the-knee (OTK) Bonobo Way book–spanking, since she hasn’t yet read the book (be well-read or get, well, red), finding the sweet spot on her deliciously curvaceous bottom through a strategically torn rip in her jeans. Having worked with us a few years ago, Hannah is a Bonoboville alumna in good standing, on her way to Vegas to join forces with another Bonoboville alumna, the sultry Liliana. Hannah is a bit body-shy this show, keeping her pin-striped shirt buttoned to the neck, but she does take Bonoboville Communion with relish—and Agwa Coca Leaf Herbal Liqueur—from Dayton’s bare and bountiful breasts. I then pronounce Ms. Ray “Hannah Banana,” and stick a plantain in her mouth. Dayton too. Jason politely declines the offer. Although he’s into all manner of porn (including pregnant lesbian porn!) and sex, he does not go for cylindrically-shaped foods. Well, at least we get him lei’d.

Hannah’s bottom gets a book-spanking. Photo: Cavie

Hannah is accompanied by the perpetually mysterious adult film auteur Jack the Zipper, whom she first met in Downtown Bonoboville a few years ago. As usual, Jack will not show his handsome self on camera, but he does regale us with sexy-comic tales of Charlotte Stokely, Johnny Depp and Johnny’s particularly sweet variety of medical marijuana, christened “Honey Depp.”

Bonobos go bananas! Photo: Cavie

This brings us to our next Bonoboville sacred-sex ritual of reverent irreverence, wherein Dayton metamorphoses, legs outstretched, into the Goddess Venus Cannabis, legitimizing her claim to her other SUZY award for “Most Talented Twat,” aka “Best Kegels,” by literally smoking a blunt through her cunt.

As Jason says, “America’s Twat Talent!”

Then she puffs out vagi-canni fumes to Jason, our featured guest; Jonathan, a new Studio member; me (of course) and (sort of indirectly) Capt’n Max.

Thus fortified, the Captain speaks candidly about his own personal Big C Battle, and how there is life—and sex, including some of the most intense orgasms he’s ever had!—after cancer (at least certain kinds, like bladder cancer) for some very fortunate folks like him.

“Sex is a comedy, not a tragedy.” Photo: Cavie

Yes indeed, we are a lucky little couple bebopping along through our third show of the second Year of the Bonobo, getting ready to #GoBonobos and give the Keynote at the first Symposium on Ecosexuality in the Caribbean. Christopher Columbus invaded the island of what we now call Puerto Rico with guns and smallpox, and now we are coming to the University of Puerto Rico, Mayaguez with books and the Bonobo Way.

Which brings me back to bonobos (I always come back to bonobos) and what I call “The Bonobo Funnies” in the book. Many psychologists consider humor, even if it’s just a chuckle, a hallmark of humanity. But bonobos (pan paniscus) also love to laugh when tickled physically or mentally. Moreover, they even crack the jokes, and the complexity of their funny bones is right up there with Buster Keaton. One of my past show guests, “Champions of the Wild” filmmaker Christian Bruyère, related how the human-trained, but still quite independent bonobo, Panbanisha, put him through a comedic gauntlet before consenting to let him film her. Via computer sign language and gestures, she turned the tables on the award-winning director, directing him to dress up in a gorilla costume and pretend to scare an on-site employee. Dutifully, Bruyère donned the furry suit, then beat his gorilla chest and chased the staff member down a hill. All the while, Panbanisha enjoyed the slapstick scene from her director’s chair. Only after Bruyère followed her precise, Keatonesque directions did this demanding diva consent to his original request that she appear in his movie. I should be so smart in my dealings with Hollywood filmmakers.

Of course, common chimpanzees (pan troglodyte) also have a sense of humor and love to play practical jokes, but the punchline is that they kill you. Haha. Actually, the common chimp kill rate isn’t anywhere near as high as the human War Machine. Hahaha. At least, individual humans do tend to feel some guilt about killing, whether it’s Catholic guilt, Jewish (gelt?), Muslim remorse or just non-denominational PTSD. This is why, in the midst of all the modern mass-murder and mayhem, I believe in the Bonobo Way.

Read it or get spanked by it!

Beautiful Birthday Gal Aaliyah Corsets is 30 years old and an hour late for which she receives her OTK birthday spanking, black patterned pantyhose stretched across her bouncy bottom (there’s that ass again!), as she eats Jake’s cake. Yes, Handsome Hollywood Jake is back. Last Saturday, Destiny Dare ate Jake’s balls. Apparently, the ladies like the taste of our Speakeasy bartender’s goodies.

Big bonoboësque thanks to Joe Williamson and Roberto Bonobo, Dr. Susan Block Show associate producer (the abbreviation for that is “ass producer” in keeping with the Shakespearean theme), for coordinating Jason’s very special appearance on this very funny, surprisingly sexy Midwinter Night’s Wet Dream.

A Midwinter Night’s Sex Comedy with Jason Hadley, Dayton Rains, Hannah Ray, Ono Bo. Photo: Cavie

See you soon on The Island of Enchantment!

#GoBonobos!

© January 16, 2016. Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 310-568-0066.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

https://drsusanblock.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/13/20240217_fdr_141_edit_2.mp4

by Dr. Susan Block.      

From the Capitalocene to (hopefully) the Bonobocene – with assorted horrors and hijinks in between – the Love Train goes rolling along.

There’s blood on the tracks – the innocent blood of thousands of Gazans, bombed and starved by Benny Net Nut and his gang of Zionist thugs.

Meanwhile, two semi-senile US Presidential candidates – Genocide Joe the Net Nut-abetting War Criminal and Trumpty Dumpty the Jack-of-All-Crimes (theft, fraud, assault, defamation, election tampering, treason and war crimes), vie for control of the train.  

Is that a light at the end of the tunnel or a nuclear bomb exploding?

At the moment, darkness reigns as any criticism of Zionism is being censored as “anti-Semitism” (it’s not). Meanwhile real anti-Semitism is rising, as the Zionist massacre of innocent Palestinians in Gaza as well as the West Bank gets worse and is splayed across social media for all the world to see, and yet on and on it goes.

What is this madness?

Well, it sounds like genocide, looks like genocide, and if we were there, I’m sure it would smell like genocide, so yeah, it is genocide.

But our leaders refuse to call it what it is: genocide. Why?

We know their pockets are stuffed with Zionist and U.S. weapons industry cash. Apparently, so are their ears and their mouths.

Therein lies the bloody center of this storm of madness.

Speaking of storms, Capitalogenic climate change is causing floods, fires and famines around the world, but hey, life goes on (for some of us), and so does love – and Capt’n Max and I are lucky indeed to be alive and in love! And despite our general antipathy to V-Day in all its chaste commercialism, we had a great Valentine’s Day 2024.

It was not very commercial (we didn’t even go anywhere), but it was delicious (home-cooked lobsters – yum!), not at all chaste (two orgasms just after midnight to kick it off, and three more to wind it up with el grando climaxo), Lupercalian (I wore little red Pan horns and drew a heart on my forehead like the Lupercii drew on their foreheads in goat’s blood, though I used lipstick for a less messy effect), bonoboesque (Happy World Bonobo Season! Save the Bonobos! Make Like Bonobos, Not Baboons!), slightly soused (Cheers to Absente Absinthe!), definitely aroused (we’re seniors, but not dead!) and very romantic (Max is Roman, after all).  

Your Bonobo Love-Crazy Elders on Lupercalian Valentine’s Day 2024

Valentine’s Day can be stressful, as we’ve acknowledged, and there are many ways to handle it. So imagine my surprise when I came across the worst piece of V-day advice on my news feed.  Dr. Laura Berman (who happened to interview me about fetishes back in 2002) advises couples to not have sex on V-day.  She advocates taking sex off the Valentine’s Day table entirely. Wow. This is not only odd, but part of a disturbing, anti-sex neo-puritan trend that is poisoning healthy human sexuality in our times.

My tip for V-day or any holiday is just the opposite. If you’re an experienced couple, make love first if you want to make love last.

Just after midnight as the holiday starts is perfect. Then, you can blaze through your day in a relatively stress-free afterglow. So, if it’s a bad day, or if you eat or drink too much and can’t have sex or don’t want to, it’s no big deal and no one will get *blamed* or have to *miss out,* because you already had sex. But if it’s a good day, and you’re feeling feisty, you can end the holiday on an orgasmic note and do it again.

That’s what we try to do on holidays, and that’s what we did this V-Day, and – even for two decrepit old fogies who can barely turn around without pulling a muscle – it hit the spot like Cupid’s arrow.

Want more? Check out Valentine Seasons Beatings on my new Substack (subscribe for free)!

Brave and brilliant Wikileaks publisher Julian Assange is still in London’s bleak Belmarsh high security prison for exposing U.S. war crimes.

Because Assange has an important court date coming up, Capt’n Max and I – as well as Abe the Engineer and very passionately pro-Assange caller Maria – spend much of this show extolling his journalistic truth-telling, drooling over his sex appeal (well, I am), denouncing the slow, harsh torture to which he has long been subjected by the Anglo-American imperial regime(s) – despite the support of the world – and calling for his immediate release.

Proud to be a Julian Assange “Groupie” in 2010 and now! Photo: Jux Lii

We have supported Julian Assange since before 2010, and so do many others around the world on the Right and Left who care about free speech and freedom of the press.

Assange is more than a great publisher; he is a survivor and a symbol of Freedom of the Press for all of us.

As I write this, Assange is about to mount a final plea for his right to appeal his extradition to the U.S. where his treatment will be even worse than Belmarsh, verging on deadly. We have been saying it for almost 15 years, but let us say it again: Free Assange!

Meanwhile, sex education and information are being censored more and more, especially by META and its overlord, Mr. Mark Zuckerberg, whom I am taking to arbitration for their crimes, as we also discuss on this show.

Why are we taking META to arbitration? For the sake of freedom of speech, for the sake of fairness, for the sake of our mental health in the face of META’s dehumanization, for the sake of sex-positivity and sex education, for the sake of our freedom to be able to love whom we want to love – including ourselves –  in the privacy of our own homes.

Multiple SUZY award winner Chris G. calls in and eloquently pledges to write a letter to the arbitrator, having supported us against censorship for years, especially in Zuck the Cuck’s latest bot-driven fascist crackdown.

Save the date: June 26 for the arbitration of Dr. Susan Block vs. META and Mark Zuckerberg! Time: 10 AM PST. Location (in Los Angeles) TBA.

One of the literal high notes of this rather musical show is when Maria requests a song from Chris, and he obliges with a Leonard Bernstein-worthy rendition of West Side Story’s “Maria.”

Doesn’t seem that Chris’ bout with the ‘Rona affected his deep baritone. Hope your mom gets well too Chris!

Later Maria sings “Don’t Dream It, Be it” – substituting “Be Bonobo” for “Be It” – from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Since Susan Sarandon is one of the stars of that iconic movie, I give her a shoutout for her courageous and very bonobo activism on behalf of Palestine.

More topics on this show…

• My upcoming interview with a London podcast about another colorful character who passed through Bonoboville (before we called it Bonoboville), Jonathan Taylor Spielberg. Stay tuned for this unique Hollywood story.
• #GoBonobos for Fulton County, Georgia’s DA Fani Willis. Trump’s lawyers are trying to pin the scarlet letter because she had a consensual sexual affair with a lawyer whom she assigned to the Trump case (after they broke up). Well, she had her reasons, and none of them appear to be illegal. Maybe she’s right when she says that she’s not the one on trial; Trump and his mob are on trial for trying to “steal the election in 2020.” And she looks damn good saying it in her scarlet power dress.
• Another one of Trump’s lawyers, Alina Habba, who just lost her client $85 million to E. Jean Carroll and $355 million to the State of New York, once said she’d rather be pretty than smart because she can fake being smart. As in sex, so in law: it’s not so easy to “fake it.”
• Russian dissident Alexei Navalny was found dead in his prison cell. He was not a great guy, a bit of a fascist and certainly no Julian Assange, but they say he was poisoned by Tucker Carlson’s Bear Daddy Vlady Putin, and anything that makes Tucker blush as red as Fani Willis’ dress is okay with us.

Lots more on this rollicking and yet very serious ride. Fingers crossed (but not legs!) that the light at the end of the tunnel’s not another bomb.

Ceasefire Now in Gaza! End Apartheid in Palestine! Dump Trump! Stop Genociding, Joe! Free Assange! Be Bonobo.

For more Valentine Lupercalian Bonobo love & inspiration, check out
Lupercalia 2020, Lupercalia 2019, Lupercalia 2018, Lupercalia 2017, Lupercalia 2016, Valentine Lupercalia Bacchanalia 2015, Lupercalia 2014, Valentine Lupercalia Rising 2013, Valentine Lupercalia 2012, Valentine Lupercalia 2011 

© February 17,  2024 Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 626-461-5950.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Bill Gates, Catalina, Sexy Slapstick Videos, Dr. Susan Block, Yara Yum & Maya Goddess on DrSuzy.Tv. Photo: L’Erotique

Length 1:29:40   Date: July 19, 2014

Usually, where sex is concerned, the cleaner the better. But sometimes, messy fun is the most fun. This show is a good example of that, exploring the fine art of food play, pies in the face, the “splosh” fetish, getting down and dirty, sucking whipped cream from the tips of big bananas and licking wet salt from the nips of beautifully bare and bodacious boobs.

The new prince of pie-sexuality is “The Piemaster,” calling in to DrSuzy.Tv live from Michigan to talk sploshing and treat us to a sampling of his “Sexy Slapstick Videos” of cute, mostly naked girls getting “responsibly” pied, doused in chocolate, slimed in lime cake batter and wading through syrupy muck. Even if you’re not a splosh fetishist (as most of us must confess we are not), these odd odes to erotic mess are amusing in that goofy, slapsticky, porn-klowny way. Watching ladies get creamed is strangely akin to seeing an over-the-top bukkake scene where the girl gets glazed by load after load of frosty white semen until she resembles a melted Zero bar.

What’s it all about? Different things for different splosh fetishists, but if you listen (click the link above) or watch until the end of the show, you can hear me guess the Piemaster’s personal secret: He’s a virgin. It’s no big deal, of course, but the audience gasps as the otherwise fast-talking 3.14-master stutters into a riveting admission that yes, he has not (yet?) had sexual intercourse with a woman. He prefers to see them get pied. You could say there’s a little anger issue baked into this cake. But hey, it’s better (much better!) than Elliot Rodger’s vile solution to his virgin question.

In fact, you could say that Mr. Piemaster is providing a service to both his members (including his own) and his models. Though getting a surprise pie in the face is supremely embarrassing (which is a big part of the thrill for the sadistic pie fetishist), it can also be empowering, especially when you know it’s coming and you’re getting paid to take it like a pro, as the Piemaster’s gals demonstrate, joyously and “responsibly” wallowing in plastic pools filled with gooey gobs of goop, like grown-up kids playing in brownie mix. Though, upon seeing all the ladies getting pie in their pies, I have to say it’s not healthy to get sugar in your vagina, especially if you’re prone to yeast infections (this is a “public cervix announcement,” with a tit tweak to Annie Sprinkle).

After seeing all those gals get pied, we need to see a guy, so we find a clip of Microsoft mogul Bill Gates getting a pie in the face—three times in a row!—while attempting to enter a building in Brussels in 1998. Of course, this is a deplorable, nonconsensual assault, but it didn’t hurt ol’ Bill, and it’s one of those gloriously satisfying moments of comeuppance to see that even a billionaire isn’t immune to getting creamed by the money shot.

Then, just as we’re feeling like we need to hose off, in come a couple of cute, bubbly and jiggly gals, the petite, voluptuous (34DD natural) and mellifluous (lovely singing voice) Yara Yum and her gal pal, statuesque sexpot Catalina, whom we met at the Last Show at the Old Speakeasy. Since both were raised Catholic, and Catalina once had a wicked crush on a handsome priest, these gals are game for a good, messy, salty, titty–licking Bonoboville Communion. Our new executive assistant general manager, Maya, joins in, and all give their Mexicana Seal of Approval to our Bonoboville Communion drink of choice, dangerously delectable Dirty Tequila.

We also get messy with whipped cream and bananas, taking several calls from horny guys looking for fun (clean or dirty) including Brandon from Brooklyn who’s so afraid to “get messy,” he has a tough time ejaculating, David from Great Neck who has a tough time not ejaculating when told to imagine his 9 ½ inch Greak Neck thrusting between Yara’s lovely 34DDs, and heavy-breathing Brad from LA who ejaculates a personal Mount Vesuvius dedicated to “Mayyyaaaaaa!!!”… his new DrSuzy.Tv crush.

All this good clean, messy fun is a nice contrast to the seriousness of last Saturday’s show, an indictment of the #1 movie in America right now, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, for its defamation of bonobos, and a coup for the newly formed Bonobo Anti-Defamation League as well as my scheme for a genuinely different kind of sequel, Planet of the Bonobos. You saw it here first, then in Counterpunch, then the LA Times linked to it. Everybody’s talking about it, going bonobos and a little bananas. Hopefully all this hooting and hollering is getting folks to give up enough money shots to help save our kissing cousins from extinction. Lola ya Bonobo and the Bonobo Conservation Initiative are a good place to start.

Interestingly, bonobos love to combine food and sex, two of the richest representations of love, and when your feast becomes an orgy, you’re bound to make a mess. So splosh on… and join Bonoboville! It’s sex-positive, bonobo-supportive and everything you could want in one cool community. It’s currently in beta and a bit messy, so come on in and muck around with us until we get it right.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Tammie Parrott, Chelsea Bonobo, Polly Superstar, Dr. Susan Block, Snake Eve, Onyx Muse, Shadow Cumbie. Row 2: Master D, Dark Phoenix. Photo: Jux Lii

Length 1:50:09:00   Date: Dec. 6, 2014

By Dr. Susan Block

It’s Polly Superstar’s virgin voyage into the new Womb Room of Bonoboville, but it feels like a reunion. This is partly because we’ve led somewhat parallel lives over the past decade or so in our respective realms, mixing separate but similar sex-cultural cocktails: one part polyamorous exploration, two parts monogamish love, three parts artistic bonoboësque vision and 12 parts wild and crazy fun.

It’s also because Polly’s passionate new memoir Polly: Sex Culture Revolutionary is a masterwork of self-disclosure—revealing the most intimate details of her heart, soul and sex life while providing no-nonsense guidance for anyone who wants to throw a kinky sex party. Having ingested my Polly primer—twice!—I open the show feeling like I know this perfect stranger better than some of my best friends. Then I get to know and like her even better.

The first half of the broadcast focuses on Polly’s fabulous book, her colorful life and the “Kinky Salons” she started in San Francisco and which have since spread to Europe New York, Portland and now our own City of Kinky Angels. Then we open things up to our in-studio audience who loves Polly, partly because most of them are poly, and partly because Polly is just so loveable. Several jump into the broadcast bed with us—including beautiful-entrepreneurial Onyx Muse, slinky-sweet Shadow Cumbie, BDSM Master D, chic sheik chauffeur Tammie Parrott, always-up-for-adventure Dark Phoenix and orally inclined Chelsea Demoiselle—for a rollicking (with emphasis on licking) Bonoboville Communion, wiggling into striptease and just tease in general, climaxing with a wild Sybian ride during a blowjob flanked by giggling half-naked voyeurs. Yes, indeed, we got your sex culture revolution right here.

Heavy Reading. Photo: JuxLii

Weapons of Mass Discussion: Sex Culture; Revolution; Community; Polly’s errant youth as the bright and restless child of a sex therapist mom & hot-air balloon-flying dad; sex parties vs. Kinky Salons; police raids & police brutality; The Bonobo Way in action; wonderful perverts; the taboo temptations of incest (Caller Taylor asks us what we think of “kissing cousins”); Bill Cosby’s Sleep Fetish; Consensuality; England’s odd ban on homemade kinky porn; Capt’n Max on getting busted for sex publishing in the 70s and how the real revolution comes when you look in the mirror and decide to make a change.

Shameless Name-Dropping: Christopher Ryan Ph.D. (we credit his landmark book Sex at Dawn for opening our eyes to how human civilization more or less f*cked up human sexuality); Margaret Cho the Mother Teresa of Comedy; Suicide Club Bridge-Climber, Cacophony Society, Burning Man & Snake Eve’s Pooping Victim John Law; Carol Queen & “The Fine Art of Fisting”; Ashley Manta, Annie Sprinkle, Tuppy Owens & Nina Hartley—now writing her own memoir!

Commedia Erotica: Polly’s poly-colored mini-skirt, British accent (especially when she enunciates the word “fetish”), sex-affirming ideas and luscious cleavage; Onyx’ gorgeous petite body in nothing but skimpy, strappy panties and a confident, dominant attitude (plus she buys a signed copy of Polly and The Bonobo Way!); Shadow’s black lacy lingerie, adorable A-cups and sweet-as-a-colt exhibitionism; Tammie’s virgin boobage reveal; Snake Eve slithering around naked flesh and high heels, girls going bananas with actual bananas, the “Kinky Salon Pledge of Allegiance” (right hand on boob, left hand on neighbor’s butt cheek), “Bonoboville Communion” with dangerously delicious Dirty Tequila & extra salt, Dark Phoenix’s swashbuckling Sybian ride with Chelsea’s able oral assistance.

Now that our parallel lives have intersected, I think we’ll see more of Polly in LA and on the show. In the meantime, this international sex cultural dynamo is off to host Kinky Salons and Polly-signings in London, Copenhagen and Berlin. So, quick, get her book, check out a Kinky Salon, release your inner bonobo and join the sex culture revolution!

© December 7, 2014. Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” internationally renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure, occasionally seen on HBO and other networks.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Chris, Kinky Gaga, Dr. Suzy, Ashley Stone, Tasia, Lil Uno.    Photo: JuxLii

Length: 120:25 minutes        Date: 09/08/2012

See the free pix here.  X pix and Video at DrSuzy.tv

Is “weird” the new sexy?  This show explores the meaning of a brand new holiday whose time has come: “Wonderful Weirdos Day.” It started in Austin, the brightest blue spot in big red Texas, a town that honors diversity, art, originality, openness, freakiness and just plain wonderful weirdness in a state known for its rather punitive enforcement of Deep Southern-style uniformity.

I start with an ode to the glories of weirdness by the wonderfully weird genius Frank Moore.  Frank, in addition to being an award-winning artist, poet, rock star, filmmaker, happily married man, as well as my Presidential running mate in our 2008 campaign and the producer of The Dr. Susan Block Show on Berkeley public access TV, happens to be quadriplegic (relating to his cerebral palsy) and, well, a little weird.  The poem, Mutation is Evolution, is about how weirdness—whether physical “disabilities,” psychological uniqueness or sexual “deviance”—is a form of mutation which, as every elementary science student knows, drives the vehicle of evolution.  Therefore, society represses and tries to eradicate weirdness at its own risk.  Without the mutating power of the weird, we’d all still be single-celled organisms living in perfect, life-stultifying uniformity.

This is one reason I wrote my Open Letter to Yale President Richard C. Levin (now garnering dozens of comments, pro and con, from Yalies and anti-Yalies), taking him to task for scapegoating, censoring and essentially castrating Sex Week at Yale.  In Levin’s uncouth determination to repress “weirdness,” the expression of erotic (more…)

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Length: 92:35 minutes

Date: 05/08/2010

Happy Feet and Hot Moms

According to author George Orwell, “If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever.” It’s not a particularly heartening view of life…unless imagining that boot with a stiletto heel gets you off! On the eve of Mother’s Day and in the midst of Masturbation Month, this episode of radioSUZY1 ranges from incest fantasies to on-air orgasms, but keeps dancing back to those boots and the feet inside them. And if you’re not into trampling or any kind of foot fetish, never fear: this show will get you high on heels, titillated by toes, intoxicated by insteps and stimulated by stockings. Dr. Suzy keeps us all on our toes, massaging our mental pleasure points regarding the foot’s healing powers and sociological symbolism, while Max “the Butler” serves up his usual snarky and hilarious fare of asides. We’re joined by foot model Amber Berlin, clad in ivory Victorian boots, who differentiates the various types of requests she receives from foot fetishists. Amber assists Dr. Suzy in counseling to callers, advising one foot-obsessed listener to stop pussyfooting around and start sharing his fantasies with potential partners.

 Devoted Dr. Suzy fan Imtiaz (in his fourth consecutive week on the air!) shares his newly-acquired interest in feet, not to mention how his own personal celebration of Masturbation Month has positively affected his health. Caller #3 is less tapped into the show’s thematic footing but still divulges a fetish that is most appropriate for a Mother’s Day Eve show. We continue to veer slightly off-theme with our second guest, a studio audience member named Jarred who offers a refreshingly “normal” perspective, revealing how he and his fiancé Karen—a “Hot Mom” in Canada–keep that heat boiling in a extremely long-distance relationship. When we get Karen on the line, we witness first-hand how honesty and openness between partners can inspire some truly hot phone-sex sessions…climaxing with Karen’s own airwave-shattering climax. If that’s not incentive enough, this show also boasts multiple fantasy-based role-plays, the definition of phrases like “the dangle” and “the spread and crunch,” a boot-to-boot showdown between Amber and Dr. Suzy, and—honoring the Mmm Season—a communal disclosure of favorite masturbation techniques.

 After the show, as always, everyone gets off on the right foot at the erotic after-party with a wrestling match between Dr. Suzy and Amber and ends… probably far too late for the night before Mother’s Day, in any event. Even if you never actually set foot in Dr. Suzy’s Speakeasy, though, you can still celebrate Foot Night and Masturbation Month from wherever you are. After all, fantasies know no geographic boundaries, and if Max’s “revolution of hearts and minds” is ever fully realized, our “vision of the future” involves peace, pleasure, and no trampling at all… that is, unless you really enjoy that. ;)

• Call 1: A foot fetishist wants advice about how to broach the subject with women
• Call 2: A repeat caller talks about his recently-acquired foot fetish, thanks to Dr. Suzy, and his experiments with masturbation
• Call 3: A young man shares his experiences and continuing fantasies about incest
• Call 4: A hot mom shares the erotic details of her long-distance, open relationship with her (in-studio) fiancé, climaxing with her own on-air climax!

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Length 01:23:39 Date: Feb. 15th, 2020

by Dr. Susan Block.

Brothers and Sisters, pagans and Pan paniscus–bonobo sapiens, whippers and snappers, heart-shaped butts and ancient history nuts…

Lupercalia 2020: Drumpf under Gag Order with a Penis Balloon, Ana Quintana, Juici May, Sunshine McWane, Dr. Suzy, Rhiannon Aarons (the Luper), Charlie Zyzzyx. Photo: Jux Lii

Friends, Romans, Countrywomen, lend me your ears…
I come to bury Valentine’s Day… Not to praise it…

Sorry to mangle Shakespeare’s words, but here’s the deal: Valentine’s Day is fake news concocted by the early Catholic Church, enhanced by Hallmark, sweetened by See’s, polished by DaBeers and abetted by Amazon.

The Sexless Story of Saint Valentine

All this pricey, saccharin fakery is based upon a sexless fairy tale starring Saint Valentine, a celibate Christian priest arrested for unlawfully marrying young couples in “evil” pagan Rome of the 4th century A.D.

While imprisoned, so the story goes, Valentine heals his jailer’s blind daughter, and they fall in love. It’s a very pure, godly, sex-free love, the kind a virgin blind girl would have for a priest sworn to celibacy and bound for execution. Then, before he’s beheaded (on February 14th, of course), the priest leaves the girl a farewell note—which she can now see, thanks to his miraculous ophthalmological skills—and he signs it, “Your Valentine.”

Awwwww….!

What a touching story of chaste ideals befitting the High Holiday of Hopelessly Romantic Love, St. Valentine’s Day.

But alas and alack (a big lack), the ideal is the enemy of the real, as Capt’n Max says.

In reality, there were several Christian martyrs named “Valentine,” and no evidence that any of them healed his jailer’s daughter or composed a farewell card.

However, the ideal is more marketable than the real—at least according to Hallmark, DeBeers, See’s, Bezos and Bloomberg—even though it could give you a toothache, cost you three paychecks, or drive you crazy just trying to order an Uber Eats romantic dinner… like we did V-Day night when our account kept hanging, and after an hour of cyber-frustration, we had to open a new account.

I’m all for romance, and I’ve got the over 27-year-old marriage certificate to prove it. I love the red roses, luscious lobster, soft kisses and multiple orgasms my Valentine gave me on Valentine’s Day.

I’m so grateful for our love, as the many lonely, distraught or just plain unsatisfying V-Days before we met that I spent with nobody at all or, even worse, with the *wrong* somebody, are still fresh in my mind.

Me & My Valentine (who looks kind of like Jodie Foster in that “Silence of the Lambs” poster with the moth on her mouth). Photo: Selfie

Even before I learned the history, Valentine’s Day always seemed contrived to me, like the artificially flavored candy-coating on a natural succulent strawberry. The real juicy fruit is in there somewhere, but the sickly sweet shell disguises, sanitizes and commercializes it beyond recognition.

Lusty Lupercalia and the Spirit of Pan

But deep inside the phony, saintly Valentine shell is the original, primal holiday of the heart: the primordial Lupercalia, a heart-felt feast for all the senses, including your sense of history with nothing saintly or celibate about it.

Channeling the Spirit of Pan, Great Goat God of the Wild and Lord of Lupercalia. Photo: Carl Russell

I open the show live from the little Love Church of The Bonobo Way in Bonoboville, channeling the Spirit of Pan, the great horned, horny Greco-Roman goat god of the wild.

As Pan, I snap My Februa with our starting lineup of Commedia Erotica Players. Photo: Carl Russell

The Romans called Pan “Faunus,” connecting him with the “fauna,” aka the nonhuman animals, both wild and domesticated, as he himself was part goat.

For Lupercalia, Pan manifests as “Lupercus,” the shepherd/goatherd god.

Pan teaches a wood nymph to play on his pipes.

But I prefer to call him Pan because that’s the name for the lusty, mischievous, ecosexual God of the Wild that I learned about when I devoured Greek myths as a child, looking for more lusty, earth-positive stories than my Judeo-Christian Bible (which I read cover-to-cover) provided.

I thought Pan was particularly cool because Pan likes to play, and so did I.

The “God” of the Hebrews, Christians and Muslims is a “wrathful” god, occasionally a “loving” god, but never a playful god… well, except when He shows Moses His divine heart-shaped ass. That’s actually a rather Lupercalian moment, and would have been more so if Moses would have swung a leather strap across the sky like he was flogging it, but alas, none of the Biblical translations say that he did.

The Goat God & a Goat

Much later, I learned that some of Pan’s “play” involved bestiality, which I found pretty gross, personally having no desire to have sex with any of my pet cats or parakeets, my neighbors’ dogs or even Puff the Magic Dragon. However, I was fascinated by Greco-Roman mythology, filled with stories of humans mating with gods who take the form of bulls, horses, swans and other non-human animals. And then there were all those lonely real-life goatherds and shepherds making Valentines out of their goats and sheep. We now deplore this “animal abuse,” as well we should, but the abuse of nonhuman animals in our modern agricultural system is far worse, not to mention immensely destructive to our ecosystem, and one of the chief drivers of calamitous climate change.

Valentine’s Day now World Bonobo Day

Pan is also the patron “saint” of the “Make Love Not War” bonobos whose Latin classification is Pan Paniscus.

Happy World Bonobo Day! Help save the bonobos and give The Bonobo Way. Photo: Jux Lii

And now, thanks to the efforts of the Bonobo Project, Valentine’s Day is World Bonobo Day!

Whether you’re married, single, in a couple, a throuple, a commune or a convent, you can honor LOVE with the world’s greatest lovers who are as lusty, mischievous and ecosexual as their patron Pan.

In a sense, World Bonobo Day brings Valentine’s Day little closer to the original Lupercalia.

If any nonhuman animals embody the spirit of Lupercalian lust, it’s the bonobos who swing through the trees, as well as with each other… and love to play, spank, lick and tickled, engaging in communal ecstasy on practically a daily basis.

Our closest genetic cousins, bonobos are also the “peace apes.” Never seen killing each other in the wild or captivity, bonobos show us that peace, through sharing the pleasures of food, sex and other good things, is possible for apes like us.

Indeed, The Bonobo Way  of female empowerment, male well-being, loving strangers, peace through pleasure is the ultimate antidote to the fear and hatred that drives us apart.

Church turns Pan into Satan

Though Jesus in the Gospels is very bonoboësque, preaching peace and love for all, freedom for women and slaves, and compassion for the poor, the early Church (seemingly more influenced by Paul and Augustine than Jesus) was not.

The Church banned the people’s worship of Pan, Faunus and Lupercus. and, over time, they turned playful Pan into the Devil. The Demonization of Pan was quite intense. Sure, Pan was no Catholic priest (though some of those Catholic priests were and are much worse than Pan).  He could be beastly and probably would have had the #MeToo movement after him, but to control people and our “nature,” the Church turned the half-man/half-goat god into the lowest of the low, the worst of the worst.

The rest is Satanic history.

22-year-old me as Arlecchino holding a cross in a New England Commedia performance of “Plastic Cash” in Westport, Conn.

But here in Bonoboville, I reincarnate the God of the Wild as a sort of “Lady Bonobo Pan,” an extension of the Arlecchino and Columbina stock Commedia dell’Arte characters I used to play, post-Yale, with an improvisational acting troupe called New England Commedia.

Nowadays I call our performers, “The Commedia Erotica Bonoboville Players,” who improvise their roles as I tell the story of Lupercalia.

It’s a cross between a school play and a burlesque, topped off with a religious sexual experience: the female ejaculation of pure amrita. Holy Water you won’t find in any Church, except the Church of the Bonobo Way.

If you use your erotic imagination—if the social media-demons haven’t already vaporized your erotic imagination—our cave-like Womb Room is transformed into the womb-like Cave of the Lupercal.

So gather ‘round if you’re feeling frisky and into history…

Gather ’round and I’ll tell you the tale of the Lupercal… Photo Carl Russell

And I’ll tell you a story.

Stars of the Lupercal

The title character and star of the Lupercalia story is the “Luper.”

Photos 1, 3, 4, 5: Jux Lii.  Photo 2: Selfie.

If you don’t know a “luper” from a “leper,” well, Luper is Latin for “she-wolf.”

Our Luper is played for the third time in fine “furry” fashion by multiple SUZY award winner for “Most Well-Rounded Kinkster,” sapiosexual MFA, filmmaker and author and naturally busty sexpot, Rhiannon Aarons.

The other two main characters of our Lupercalia Story are twin brothers, Romulus and Remus, the sons of Mars, the God of War, and Queen Rhea Silvia, daughter of King Numitor of Alba Longa.

Photo 1: Selfie. Photo 2: Jux Lii.  Photos 3 & 5: Carl Russell.  Photo 4: Eric Glowski

You’d think twins of such pedigree would be extremely lucky—and they are—but not at first. Shortly after Romulus and Remus are born, their evil great uncle Amulius tosses them into the Tiber River.

Evil old Great Uncle Amulius is reprised every year in a short but heartfelt performance by Capt’n Max, who was born in Rome and really relishes tossing those kids (played in their infancy by balled up pieces of paper) into the Tiber, cursing them in Italian as they float downstream to almost certain death. Then he steals the kingdom of Alba Longa from his daughter-in-law and her dad.

What a dastardly old dude, though not as bad as Drumpf who locks more and more children in cages or sends them “back” to brutal countries (often torn apart by American interference), essentially condemning them to death.

Then it’s back to our Commedia Erotica reenactment of the Lupercalian origin tale, where the Tiber River is played by Ana and Sunshine waving a long, streaming piece of blue material in the air as Max/Amulius tosses the paper into the “waves.”

Capt’n Max, in his signature role as mean old Great Uncle Amullius, tosses the twin infants, Romulus and Remus, into the Tiber River. Photo: Jux Lii

It wouldn’t be much fun to follow the adventures of two balled-up hunks of paper (unless it was drawn by a really good cartoonist), so we quickly turn our paper twins into human form.

And oh wow, what lovely human forms they take, the Brothers Romulus and Remus being played by beautiful erotic entertainers Juici May and Charlie Zyzzyx,

Charlie Zyzzyx as Remus in the Bonoboville Forest. Photo: Carl Russell

After tossing and turning in the Tiber a bit, Romulus and Remus are miraculously rescued from drowning by the she-wolf.

It really is kind of miraculous, the way it unfolds in our Commedia play. Charlie Zyzzyx makes a stunning Remus, and since Juici May hasn’t shown up and the play is underway, I quick-cast Sunshine as Romulus. In full goat makeup, Sunshine is understandably not too thrilled about having to play the founder of Rome looking like a goat or a cleft palate kid, but she’s a trooper… and a trouper.

Juici May arrives just in time to play the part of Romulus. Photo: Jux Lii

Then, like a Lupercalian miracle, in skips Juici May, ready to play, a half-hour late but looking great.

So we improvise, like good Commedia troupers, without missing too many beats.

I haven’t seen the Divine Miss May in over a year, and I want to hug her and ask her how she is, but we’re in the middle of the beginning of the Lupercalia story, so without much fanfare I welcome Juici May, 2018 SUZY award winner for “Most Bonobo” and “Best Female Ejaculation,” to our new digs. Then before she has a chance to look around or even catch her breath, I instruct her to take on her role as Romulus, hero of Lupercalia.

The indefatigable Juici May is, as always, more than up for the challenge.

Romulus (Juici May) and Remus (Charlie Zyzzyx) drowning in the Tiber. Photo: Jux Lii

Sunshine happily goes back to playing half the Tiber, billowing the waves over the abandoned twins.

Charlie, though a virgin to DrSuzy.Tv, calmly assumes her position, rolling on the floor, her statuesque all-natural, whimsically tattooed body topped off by sea green hair, looking like a water nymph as the waves roll over her and her twin brother (I know, the pronouns get confusing when you’ve got two ladies playing twin brothers).

Of course, Romulus/Juici May and Remus/Charlie are not identical twins, though each looks spectacular in her own way, even while pretending to drown.

A Sex Worker Saves the Day

Just before they are drowned, the Luper (she-wolf) crosses the river and saves the twin boys who are really (in our productions) girls.

Rhiannon Aaron reprises her tour de force performance as the Luper of Lupercalia, the Great Wolf MILF, who’s also a sex worker (Lupa). Photo: Jux Lii

Having played this critical role twice before, Rhiannon knows just when to don her eerie copper-colored Wolf mask and pull down her top below her fur collar, revealing her enormous tits or, since she’s a wolf… teats.

Then, so the story goes, she takes our young heroes to the cave they called the Lupercal and suckles them both.

Photos 1, 5-8: Jux Lii.  Photos 2-4: Eric Glowski

I’m not sure what this says about Romans and their relationships with nonhuman animals, but I bet some of those Tuscan shepherds got their calcium straight from the teat.

Presumably, whatever wolf cubs our Luper might have in the cave are not howling mad that Mama has adopted a couple of human babies, suckling them until they are big and strong.

The Great Wolf Whore suckles our heroes, giving them health, strength and a good time. Photo: Jux Lii

It’s actually not so far-fetched; some children really have been raised by wolves, and maybe they’re better off than those raised by negligent or abusive human parents.

Interestingly, the word “lupa” is Latin slang for “prostitute.” This explains a lot, especially all the suckling.

Wolves and Sex Workers are very nurturing. Photo: Jux Lii

So the savior of Lupercalia, the Luper/Wolf who saves our heroes from death and nurtures them into a healthy life, is also a Lupa/Sex Worker.

Our Romulus and Remus—more into oral passion than passionate oratory—tune into the primal spirit of the She-Wolf, the “Sacred Whore” of the original Valentine’s Day, the Great Wolf-MILF of ancient Rome.

Real wolves are great nurturing mothers. Sex workers are also often nurturing, giving their clients not just sex, but love, compassion and understanding.

Come Let Us Play… in the cave-like Womb Room sanctuary of the Little Love Church of the Bonobo Way. Amen and AWOMEN. Photo: Jux Lii

So, save the wolves, and decriminalize sex work now!

The Founding of Rome (not Reme)

Now grown up and having heard the story of their almost-murders, Romulus and Remus vow revenge on their evil Great Uncle Amulius. They return to Alba Longa to kill the mean old man and return Alba Longa to their Granddad Numitor.

Whipping Presidunce tRump Baby under gag order with a big Valentine-red balloon dick crafted by Sunshine. Photo: Jux Lii

We don’t reenact the murder, but we do whip our tRumpy doll, keeping him under gag-order with a Lupercalian red dick balloon, courtesy of our balloon-artist-in-residence, Sunshine McWane.

Leaving their home town for seven auspicious hills, Romulus and Remus decide to undertake building a whole new city that they plan to rule together.

Romulus and Remus fight over a fence. Photo: Carl Russell

But these boys are sons of Mars, not bonobos, so they quarrel about a fence which is really a wall (sound familiar?).

Suddenly, in a fit of sibling rivalry like Cain killing his brother Able in the Judeo-Christian Bible, Romulus kills his brother Remus.

Romulus kills his brother Remus, as the Wolf sadly watches (though instead of killing, we flog). Photo: Jux Lii

Fratricide is a recurring theme among the ancients, both pagans and monotheists.

Being bonoboësque, we don’t do any killing in our reenactment.

Photo 1: Eric Glowski.  Photos 2-4: Jux Lii.  Photo 5: Carl Russell.

Instead, Juici May as Romulus give’s Charlie/Remus’ heart-shaped ass a good flogging with a Lupercalian red Jux Leather flogger.

Then Charlie/Remus roles over and plays dead, like a beautiful, well-trained, green-haired German shepherd.

Now that his beloved brother Remus is dead, Romulus mourns… but not for long! After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Photo: Eric Glowski

According to the legend, Romulus “regrets” killing Remus (which Juici May acts out with great drama), but he doesn’t lose much sleep before founding the city of both of their dreams, naming it Rome, after himself, conveniently forgetting his beloved bro.

Otherwise, Rome would be called “Reme.”

Moreover, “romance” would be called “remance,” Augustus Caesar would be the first Reman Emperor, the Vatican would be the capital of the Reman Catholic Church, Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck would go on a Reman Holiday, and so on.

HERstory might be different, but HIStory is written by the killers and their scribes. Photo: Carl Russell

Alas for poor Remus, but since hunter-gather times, history has been written by the winners, the killers and survivors of humanity’s bloody spats and regrettable wars.

Frat-Cave Fun

But Remus isn’t completely gone. His spirit lives on in a college fraternity, the Luperci Fabii, as does that of Romulus in the Luperci Quintilii.

Sacrificial Goat and College Loincloth in the Frat Cave. Photo: Jux Lii

As time passes, these two “fraternities,” populated by young, nearly naked, Roman “frat boys,” meet at the Ides of February every year within that dark, womb-like cave of the Lupercal where the She-Wolf/Sex Worker (Luper/Lupa) once suckled and loved their twin great-great-grandfathers, and where her Lupine spirit still resides.

In the primeval cave, the naked young frat bros and their priestly leaders honor the great Goat God Pan by sacrificing a real goat.

Photos 1, 4, 5: Carl Russell.  Photos 2, 3, 6: Jux Lii

Our goat is played by Sunshine, a proud Capricorn, the astrological “goat” sign, reprising her SUZY-award-winning role from Lupercalia 2019.

According to the legend, they also sacrifice a dog, but that’s too gross, especially since we just lost our beloved Betsy doggie.

The Luper flogs the Sacrificial Goat.. or is this meat-tenderizing? Photo: Jux Lii

So we just focus on the goat, “sacrificing” her through flogging, not killing.

Rhiannon the Luper/Lupa does most of the flogging with a big red Jux Leather flogger.

Using a fresh blood red lipstick, I draw the sign of the heart on Charlie/Remus’ uplifted forehead. Photo: Carl Russell

Then the high priest marked the boys’ foreheads with the blood of the sacred beast.

In Bonoboville, we use red lipstick instead of goat’s blood—which would be a little messy.

I draw hearts on Juici May’s, Charlie’s and Rhiannon’s foreheads uplifted to Olympus.

Sunshine requests an X to mark her spot.

With Liberty and Februa for All. Photo: Carl Russell

Upon being marked, the Lupercalians laughed and feasted on fresh roasted goat and got very drunk on winter wine.

Then the least drunk among them cut strips from the goatskin, making loincloths.

They also cut thin leather strips into whips they called “februa,”and yes class, that’s where we get our name for the month of “February.”

Lupercalia Whip-A-Thon. Photo: Jux Lii

Our februa are made by JuxLii of Jux Leather, perennial sponsors of Lupercalia in Bonoboville.

Running of the Luperci

Thus equipped and fairly inebriated, they sprinted out of their womb-like cave, laughing and howling like wolves.

Running like virile young Cupids, they raced through the hills and villages on their way into Rome, wielding their goatskin februa, gaily whacking the hands, backs and behinds of willing women, also drunk, looking for luck, love and perhaps a baby.

It was consensual—at least, mostly consensual—and not gender-discriminating; they also whipped willing men.

They believed that such sacred Lupercalian whacks ensured fertility in barren women and virility in listless men.

It’s not be as scientific as an IVF clinic, but it sure did whip the local populace up into a frenzy for sex, often creating a Roman baby boom around harvest time.

All the Luperci whip Lady Bonobo Pan with long-stemmed red roses. Photo: Jux Lii

Whether for procreation or recreation, all that public whipping and fornication was a lot sexier than a paper Valentine.

In fact, it was a little too sexy for the early Catholic Church which squelched Lupercalian enthusiasm at the end of the 5th century by not only making Lupercalia illegal, but by turning Pan into the Devil, branding the horny old Lupercalian goat and all communal sacred sex as “Satanic.”

Then they plunked Saint Valentine’s Day down on essentially the same date as the old Lupercalia, appropriating the vivid color of goat’s blood smeared on human skin as its signature shade: red with a touch of white for goat’s milk.

The also turned Cupid (Eros to the Greeks), generally portrayed as a sexy, virile, young man, into the innocent sexless baby Cupid that only a pedophile could find erotic.

The Heart is an Ass

It’s long been my view that another symbol of Valentine’s Day is Lupercalian in origin. That is, the classic Valentine “heart” looks nothing like the cardiac organ for which it seems to be named. It does, however, look like a set of well-whipped buns.

No wonder we call the perfect ass “heart-shaped.” Because the heart logo is shaped like the perfect ass.

The Church may have banned Lupercalia for centuries, sugar-poisoning its lusty history with the forced romance of Valentine’s Day, but we are bringing it back, from the annals of prehistoric Rome to the anals—and hot heart-shaped asses—of modern Bonoboville.

“Floggers Not Flowers!” is the battle cry of the unValentine Lupercalian.

Though we enjoy flogging with flowers, especially long-stemmed Valentine roses.

Spank dat Ass with a Red Red Rose. Photo: Abe Bonobo

Why not?

It’s better to have your buns beaten (consensually) on Lupercalia than your heart broken (badly) on Valentine’s Day.

Feel the Bern!! #GoBonobos for Bernie, the “Most Bonobo Presidential Candidate.”

Better loving through socialism.

Side note: Check out my Anti-Valentine to Rush Limbaugh, King of Creeps and Godfather of Modern American Bigotry. Also in Counterpunch.

Though I love love, I’ll take communal lust and pleasure over commercialized love and pressure anytime.

Actually, I usually like to celebrate both.

Assume the position for Lupercalian ecstasy. Photo: Abe Bonobo

Assume the position for a Lupercalian whipping (or a nice Valentine boink)!

It’s Holy Water! A Squirting Lupercalian Climax

In ancient Rome, all that whipping led to a lot of boinking.

Juicy May prepares to mount the Motorbunny. Photo: Jux Lii

Here in Bonoboville, it leads to Juici May mounting the Motorbunny for a big squirting orgasm.

I hand the controls to Rhiannon, who in fine Luper/Lupa fashion, nurtures those good vibrations.

Then Sunshine, Charlie and I take turns whipping and smacking Juici’s fine behind and pinching her hard hot nipples.

Juici Little Devil on the Machine. Photo: Eric Glowski

After just a minute or two, she squirts like a geyser, forming a perfect arc that none of the cameras really capture—though some catch the squirt just emerging from her urethra—but all of us there in the Womb Room Cave of the Lupercal witness the fleeting miracle with our own eyes.

Juici May’s Arc de Triomphe cascades triumphantly across the floor, landing right on Jux Lii’s kilt, making it a “squirt skirt.”

Photos 1-3: Jux Lii.  Photos 4-5: Carl Russell

Wow!

Another Juici May marvel of erotic expression.

Though it spurts forth from Juici May, it’s like all of us are squirting in a great orgiastic, ecstatic, Galentine, Lupercalian, bonoboesque, communal orgasm.

Photos 1-4: Jux Lii.  Photo 5: Selfie

Shock & Awe… with no casualties.

It’s Holy Water, Brothers and Sisters, Lovers and Sinners.

Video Stills: Gideon Grayson

Certainly, this liquid is more sacred than the “blessed” H20 in those little white plastic bottles labeled “Holy Water” in fake gold.

A substantial splash lands on the floor in front of us, and I invite the faithful to come forth and lick it up off the tiles, if they so desire.

Charlie eats the chocolate off the floor. Photo: Carl Russell

Despite many straining to get a closer look, and perhaps a whiff (thought Juici May’s female ejaculate has very little, if any, aroma), no one takes me up on my offer to lick it up off the floor.

Later, Charlie confesses that she would have licked it up, if I had “forced” her to do so.  Alas, though some might call me “pushy,” I never “force” anyone to do anything.  Lady Pan that I am, I’m adamant about getting enthusiastic consent, especially in the #MeToo era.

Charlie eats a chocolate out of my hand which was soaked in Juici May’s squirt. Photo: Jux Lii

By the time, she’s told me this, the clean-up crew has mopped up the Holy Water; we also don’t want to be the recipients of a slip-and-fall lawsuit.

Now knowing Charlie likes the “force me” dynamic, I pretend-force her to eat a Valentine chocolate off the squirt-mopped floor.

She follows my command with more enthusiastic consent than a hungry puppy, and I hand-feed her another as she licks my palm.

It being Lupercalia, we show off a few pages of the SPANK ‘n’ Art edition of Dr. Susan Block’s SPEAKEASY JOURNAL, featuring Lupercalia scenes with Rhiannon as the Luper as well as a member of Dominatrixes against Donald Trump (D.A.D.), a floggerific Spanksgiving, the recipient of a baguette spanking on Bastille Day and much more.  There’s also a “double-truck” Jux Lii photo of me spanking Juici May into a squirting orgasm on Spanksgiving 2018.

Speaking of spanking, I’m pleased to announce I’ve been invited by DomCon Headmistress Cyan to be a Mistress of Ceremonies for DomCon 2020.

Spank dat Heat-Shaped Ass! Photo: Jux Lii

Don’t miss it!

Winding Up Another Lusty Lupercalia

We do a little more whipping, whacking, kissing and consenting.

Lupercalian Feast! Ana’s chicken and rice instead of goat meat and vodka and champagne instead of wine. Photo: Selfie

And before we can say “go bonobos,” it’s time to close another great show.

The after-party overflows with love, play, politics, gossip, flirtation and seemingly endless conversation.

Juici Kiss. Photo: Selfie

What a great group!

We chat, eat, drink, kiss and canoodle into the wee hours.

Photos: Selfies

Finally, with the last guests still lingering over drinks and chocolate, My Valentine and I slip away for one last V-Day roll in the hay, running with the Luperci into Olympian heavenly dreams.

Happy Lupercalia 2020 from Bonoboville!

Now assume the position for a good Lupercalian whipping… and for making love.

We love you.

My Valentine & I get ready to Run with the Luperci up to Orgasmic Olympus. Photo: Selfie

© Feb. 15, 2020 Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 213-291-9497.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Length:  90 minutes    Date: 12/25/2010

Holiday Cheers abound on The Dr Susan Block Show!

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Vamps & Vets in Bonoboville. Photo: Tin

Length 1:51:31 Date: December 10, 2016

by Dr. Susan Block

Gathered together in our Womb Room, a multi-colored congregation of pundits and porn stars, journalists and fetishists, monogamists and polyamorists, singers and swingers, vamps and veterans, from Hollywood to Tehran, faces the impending Trumpocalypse with lively discussion, Bonoboville Communion, erotic play, music, laughter, striptease… and protective gas masks, just in case.

In the last few decades, the sex-positive movement, Sex+ or, as Capt’n Max prefers to call it, the “pro-sex” rƎVO˩ution, has made big bonoboesque strides forward, opening America society up to greater sexual freedoms, tolerance, communication, women’s rights to health care, same-sex marriage, transgender awareness, polyamory, BDSM, fetish play, the importance of consent in any sexual interaction, the idea that sex work is work, and sex publishing is protected by our First Amendment rights . Speaking of which, three cheers and a beer for Sacramento County superior court judge Michael Bowman who recently rejected pimping charges brought by former state attorney general and current Senator-elect Kamala Harris against Michael Bowman, proprietor of Backpage on the basis of Free Speech rights. We the Sex-Positive People are also very proud to have defeated Michael Weinstein’s draconian, sex-negative Prop 60 here in California.

Sex+ in the Trumpocalypse. Photo: Zane Bono

It’s all part of the Sex+ or pro-sex movement away from old-time religion and sex-repressive governance and toward erotic freedom, consent-conscious sexuality, tolerance, tantra, more orgies, more shameless sexual fun and what I call a “Bonobo Way” of being.

Trickle Down Misogyny

But now here we are, teetering on the edge of the Trumpocalypse, led by a self-proclaimed Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief, flanked by a rabidly religious, sex-negative veep, a prospective cabinet of hardline conservatives, and a newly empowered base of armed and ignorant “Trump Bros,” KKK and neo-Nazis euphemistically dubbed the “Alt-Right.”

GasMaskGirl Jay outfitted for the Trumpocalypse. Photo: Zane Bono

With such cold winds blowing into our warm Womb Room, what’s a concerned, fun-loving sex-positive citizen to do? How do pro-sex progressives swim against the current of “trickle down misogyny and trickle down racism” (as the now-groveling Mitt Romney once eloquently put it), bullying, intolerance and “rape culture”? Why are some people sexually aroused by The Donald? These are some of the questions that our congregation addresses with smiles, Bonoboville Communion and joie de vivre, even if some of us wear gas masks, given Agent Orange Hair’s statements on the EPA and climate change.

Dirge for America

First up on my broadcast bed is Dirge Magazine senior editor Reneé Asher Pickup in her virgin appearance on the show, thanks to associate producer Paniscus Brecht (now a therapist with the Institute) who also appears on this show. A “dirge” is a funeral song and though it seems a bit early to declare the death of democracy, the ghostly, darkly witty Dirge style seems an appropriate song to sing on this show. Pan and I festoon ourselves with skulls, the archetypal symbol of mortality that fascinates as it repels, like the Dirge logo and the emblem of Yale’s oldest, most elite and most secretive secret society, “Skull and Bones.”

Reneé, raised Mormon and a U.S. Marine veteran, discusses some recent articles in Dirge, including the The Satanic Temple (TST) vs. Trump and Pense (for which I invoke the Divine Interventions Satanic Dildo ) and her own article on hybristophiliacs, people (usually women) who romantically fetishize serial killers (usually men), mass murderers (like Elliot Rodgers), burglars, rapists, war criminals, Fuhrers and quite possibly a certain Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief.

Face-Sitting Trump

Speaking of T-Rump, Reneé spends a good portion of the show sitting on the face of our plush-and-rubber Trump the Dick with Small Penis Syndrome, partly to protest the UK’s misogynistic ban on “face-sitting” porn, and partly for what I call “Trumpocalypse Therapy.” See last week’s Sploshing Trump segment for more along those lines. We also agree that it is, symbolically at least, a good way to keep his mouth shut.

Trumpocalypse Therapy, the Bonobo Way. Photo: Zane Bono

Later she sticks her fingers in Trumpty Dumpty’s cut-out eyes like a happy witch playing with her voodoo doll.

Reneé also gives an enthusiastically consensual Jacquie Blu a short but spirited book-spanking with The Bonobo Way, as well as a  riding crop (her first time giving a spanking on camera!), then returns to her seat on Trump’s face.

Renee gives Jacquie a good book-spanking. Photo: Tin

Cosmo Anal-ysis

One of several of Reneé‘s blogs, “Does this Sex Column Make My Ass Look Fat?” is her witty and often spot-on critique of the sex advice in in Cosmo and similar magazines aimed at a young female readership.

Anal-yzing Cosmo. Photo: Zane Bono

Since I happen to be a sex advisor who is occasionally quoted in Cosmo  (just last week, I was interviewed twice by two different Cosmo writers about anal sex—both giving and receiving!), I feel compelled to defend the magazine which has historically been Sex+ and pro-women’s rights since I was a young Cosmo girl in the 1970s, when Helen Gurly Brown took it over, and the only other alternatives were staid Redbook and  Ladies’ Home Journal. And it’s doing a pretty good job conveying the sex-positive movement to so-called Middle America, with Cosmo girls from Tallahassee to Temecula enjoying anal-gasms and learning to give their boyfriends P-gasms and, according to my anal-ysis, that’s a good thing.

Wry, Loni & Gypsy

My next featured guest is sex educator Wry Mantione, last seen in Bonoboville with his two sexy girlfriends in Poly on Wry (one of whom plays a wicked violin).  He’s been conducting a series of talks and town meetings on the subject of  consent, leading workshops in BDSM and polyamory, and organizing Sex-Positive LA events as well as Kinky Salon parties with previous DrSuzy.Tv guest, Polly Superstar. Wry and I chat about the meaning of “consent” in the Trumpocalypse and how the election of a boastful sexual predator for President has many survivors of assault struggling with nightmare flashbacks and paralyzing fears. It’s true that a little bit of fear can be an aphrodisiac, like spice in your enchilada. But too much fear spoils the meat, and Trump-triggered terror is ruining a lot of survivors’ appetites for sex and a lot more.

Later Wry demonstrates the popular and rather dangerous art of “choking,” first on fellow guest, budding adult star, Loni Legend, and then on my assistant Gypsy Bonobo (also a therapist at the Institute). Do NOT try this at home, unless you’ve taken a good workshop in the subject as you can easily kill your partner with an accidental wrong move. Nevertheless many people, including a high percentage of attractive young ladies, love to be “choked” into ecstasy during sex. Loni and Gypsy both characterize Wry’s demo as “mild.” I’m usually all for extreme fun but, on my show, I prefer Wry’s “mild” to wild. Better safe and slightly unfulfilled than, well, dead.

Wry & Gypsy have a post-choke chat. Photo: Zane Bono

We haven’t seen sexy Loni since our No Prop 60 show, and we’re delighted to hear that two of her recent films have been nominated for AVN awards. Loni models her leatherette bustier to the tune of Carmina Formosa‘s Bonobo Way-inspired “The Kinkster.”

Loni Legend, Altar Girl. Photo: Zane Bono

Then she doffs her top to reveal her lovely natural boobs (which seem to have grown at least one cup size!) which serve as a luscious altar for Gypsy’s Bonoboville Communion. Then Gypsy returns the favor. It was just a few months ago that Loni was too young to take Communion, so the Womb Room erupts in applause as I waterboard her, bonobo-style, with Xmas-green Agwa di Bolivia Herbal Coca Leaf Liqueur.

GasMaskGirl Returns with Persia

This show also features the return of “GasMaskGirl” co-owned and operated by retired U.S. Army Major Manny Garcia, associate-produced by Sarah Bella Bonobo. This time, Manny brings a beautiful new GasMaskGirl named Persia who comes from where else but Iran. Persia happens to have a Jewish mother and Muslim father, a living example of the #JewsandMuslimsRefusetobeEnemies meme. As I’ve often said, the best answer to bigotry is integration through sex. We chat a bit about life, latex and Tehran. Read more about sex parties from LA to Tehran in Step 10 of The Bonobo Way: “Create Your Own Bonoboville.”

The GasMaskGirls don’t bring their gas masks this time, but that’s okay because Persia looks luminous in an elegant pink and purple latex dress designed by Kathlrrn Kissam, a cousin of Anderson Cooper who has visited Lola ya Bonobo, the bonobo orphan sanctuary that we help to support, even when Manny ties her to a chair.

GasMaskGirl in Chair Bondage. Photo: Zane Bono

Though it’s a shame to cover her pretty face, even for a few minutes, we put Bonoboville fetish-connoisseur-in-residence Del Rey’s gasmask on Persia as she sits in chair bondage, just to get a taste of that GasMaskGirl experience.

Veterans’ Night: Manny shows off GasMasked Persia’s pedicure as Renee face-sits on Trump. Photo: Zane Bono

When a foot fetishist named Kevin calls in from Atlanta, Manny removes Persia’s shoes to reveal her beautiful pedicured feet. My other guests and staff, including premiere foot masseuse Capt’n Max, chime in to give Kevin advice on how to get a woman to let him enjoy his fetish with her feet.  

Jay Toriko also represents GasMaskGirl (he will soon be featured in one of their films), rocking his very fashion-forward black and silver gasmask complete with attached oxygen tank.

German soldiers and their donkey wearing gas masks.

We Are One & We’re On The Doctors!

Diverse as we are and divided as we feel, Ikkor the Wolf steps up to the stage to remind us that “We Are One,” as everyone throws up their index fingers (our fingering fingers!), and Reneé wiggles her butt on Trump’s face.

“We Are One” with Ikkor the Wolf. Photo:: Zane Bono

Diversity + Inclusion + Peace through Pleasure + Female Empowerment = The Bonobo Way.

Shout out to our beloved Team Bonobo reps Daniele Watts & Chef Be*LIVE who came on THE DOCTORS with me to talk about erotic hypnosis, hypnotherapy and the power of orgasms. This show aired Wednesday, and if you missed it, you can see it here.

Kudos to the adorable Dr. Travis Stork, sexy Dr. Nita Landry and winking Dr. Andrew Ordon for a Sex+ interview with me about our work at the Institute, and talk with Daniele and Be*Live about their experiences under hypnosis with me. It’s too bad The Doctors staff wouldn’t let me wear my hat (but at least my hair had recently been done by awesome hairdresser Mark Brown), and of course, the editors cut out my best and funniest lines (and sliced off significant portions of Daniele’s and Be*Live’s stories). I suppose that, like our friends at Cosmo, they felt the need to homogenize us, the better to deliver us in soundbite-sized portions to a fragile America that they feel can’t take my sense of humor. But I’m grateful that they treated the subject matter with respect and seemingly genuine enthusiasm, and hey, it’s good for Biz-Ness.

Speaking of which, if you’d like to experience erotic hypnotherapy, call the Institute at 213-291-9497, and let us take you on a relaxing yet exciting journey into the erotic theater of the mind. If you’d rather learn how to put yourself under, read Step 2 in the 12 Steps to Liberating Your Inner Bonobo in The Bonobo Way.

Infinite Orgasms

After the show, the conversation continues under the roof in the Garden of Bonoboville, as we watch the red, green and white lights glitter in the rain, transforming our little garden into a misty waterworld of fairytale fantasy and infinite possibility. The Trumpocalypse looms and, considering the lessons of Weimar Berlin and other similar periods in history, we feel compelled to resist and protest anti-sex repression, racism, misogyny, bullying and militarism. On the other hand, there is always the possibility that things will be different, that it won’t be “so bad,” that miracles happen, and Sex+ goodness will win the day. Though probably not without some effort on our parts.

Hoka-Hoka. Photo: Zane Bono

Well, ‘tis the season to make merry, party like bonobos and share lots of good cheer and loads of big orgasms which, after the guests have left the Garden, I share with my Captain, as always, doing our best to practice what we preach. The Doctors would approve.

Thanks to this week’s volunteers and our in-house bonobos Abe Perez, Del Rey, Gypsy Bonobo, Harry Sapien, Jacquie Blu, MarsFX, Paniscus Brecht and Zane Bono.

© December 11, 2016. Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 310-568-0066.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

Kelly Staxxx, Tiffany Starr, Dr. Suzy, Fat Mike of NoFX, Goddess Soma Snakeoil, Tef Dollaz (row 1), Tasia Sutor, Suave, Jamie French, Sinn Sage, JuxLii, Mistress C, Amina Noir, Mike Beadle (row 2). Photo: Nordov

Length: 97:33 minutes        Date: 02/18/2012

Click here for free PG pix page. X pix and video at DrSusanBlock.tv

Take one punk rock star, two tranny stars, assorted porn stars, dom stars and Munkey-Barz, stir ‘em up in the  Womb Room with music, politics, flogging, Agwa, sizzling hot anal sex, kinky hijinks, a Peter Piper and plenty of bodacious bare booty bouncing off the rubber walls, inspired by the classy (yet deliciously nasty) new film, Rubber Bordello, and what do you get? An amazing show, and a suitably awesome climax to more than a year straight of live 3-camera Womb Room broadcasts.  Now we’re taking a few weeks hiatus while Captain Max embarks upon his great and treacherous journey into the high seas of neo-bladder surgery.  Oh, but what a sensational and heartwarmingly outrageous Speakeasy send-off it is!

Featured Guests:

Goddess Soma Snakeoil:  One of the most fascinating, creative, charismatic, nasty and yet nurturing dominas ever to enter my Womb Room, this time the Goddess joins us on behalf of her hot and slippery new film Rubber Bordello. She also reminisces about masturbating to the Bible and meeting her BF/collaborator Fat Mike of NOFX (who scored Rubber Bordello’s charming ragtime soundtrack) as a professional party domme, confessing that it was “love at first beating.” Since Fat Mike shies away from being beaten until the after-party,  Soma demonstrates her fluid Florentine on Sinn Sage’s magnificent buns.  Then, in the after-after-party, the tiger comes out of the domina, and Soma, Sinn and I share some deeply orgasmic hoka-hoka, surrounded by a tight half-circle of our adorably gawking bonobo menfolk whom we all screwed silly later.   Amen and Awomen.  Yum!

Fat Mike: NOFX bassist and vocalist (and Human Sexuality graduate at San Francisco State—one of my alma maters), Fat Mike is Goddess Soma’s BF, creative collaborator and adoring slave.  NOFX tunes like “Franco UnAmerican” helped me to survive the socio-political insanity of the Bush regime, so I’m excited (more…)

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?

https://drsusanblock.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/13/20230826_fdr_116_edit_2.mp4

by Dr. Susan Block.  

Are you urban or suburban, urbane or insane?

My urban X-pedition to the Urban X Awards mid-hurriquake for sex education’s sake flows through this show like a red-carpeted river of love.

Photos: Rodrigo Alvarez.  OG Fringe Logo Vest: DreDay of Dr. Block’s Pleasure Shop

Praise be to the heroes and heroines of free X-pression in the center of today’s storms of repression.

Get my fringed DreDay Vest!

Into the storm drops Trumpty Dumpty, Big Egg of the Trump Crime Family and Rico racketeering mob boss of the legal beagle Batman Villains Club, MAGAt cult leader, and leading Republican 2024 Presidential candidate, on an urban X-pedition to Atlanta’s Fulton County Jail for Indictment #4 (with a total of 91 criminal charges), and all the mug makers are putting his mean mug shot on their mugs.

The Mango Mugger mugged America once; the next time could be fatal.

Related or not, as our live broadcast begins, another horrific racist body-armored ammosexual incel mass shooter murdered multiple human beings before turning his weapon of war on himself. This time, the particular racist ammosexual sprayed a Dollar Store in Jacksonville, urban center of Ron DeStupid’s Florida where sex is censored and racism is empowered with “permitless concealed carry” gun laws.

Armed killers are on the loose through America, and some of the worst are wearing badges.

Sometimes, cop kills are obvious shots in the back. In other cases, they’re a bit more subtle.

A couples of years short of a century old, Kansas newspaperwoman and owner of the Marion County Record, Joan Meyer, died the day after an unconscionable police raid of her newspaper’s office and her home.  

Video footage of fascist cops in Kansas illegally raiding the home of Joan Meyer, 98, who passed away less than a day later as a result of the stress, according to her son. Meyer was a legend in the news industry and a co-owner of the Marion County Record.https://t.co/FMPvFEWpJJ pic.twitter.com/OfSenrluwt

— Fifty Shades of Whey (@davenewworld_2) August 21, 2023

As the raiding cops barged through her door, the 98-year-old Meyer confronted them with remarkable courage and strength, challenging them from her walker, calling them “assholes” engaging in “Hitler tactics,” which they were, and ordering them to “get out,” but they didn’t.

The next day, she died of cardiac arrest. What a travesty, tragedy and atrocity. These Marion, Kansas police “assholes” with their “Hitler tactics” murdered this almost centenarian journalist. RIP Joan Meyer.

Meanwhile, the Censorship Industrial Complex strikes again and again. Anti-imperialist website Mint Press News—friends with Frank Moore’s people (who tipped us off about this), as well as Abby Martin, Mike Prysner and Robbie Martin–has had its TikTok account deleted without warning or explanation. This comes after it was previously de-platformed from PayPal and had its money withheld.

We know the feeling, being currently censored by YouTube, Facebook, Spotify and Instagram which we are about to take into arbitration. Social media censorship is all around us, always aiming to monetize and/or silence us, with guidelines clear as polluted skies, and bots as bad as bad cops.

We take a call from Reza in Iran, which he prefers to call Persia, though he’s very picky about who or what is actually “Persian,” and he’s a little obnoxious about it, but he too is in a fight against censorship and deletion of his shows, and we support him in that. To paraphrase a paraphrase of Voltaire, though we may disagree with what you say, we defend—though probably not “to the death”—your right to say it.

Chris G calls in from New Jersey to talk about his recent Tik Tok successes (social media builds you up and takes you down, sometimes in close succession!), his mom’s podcast and his media studies at Felician college. At one point, when he is delivering one of his stirring speeches to “save this precious woman” (I believe that’s me), in support of the restoration of my terminated channels and accounts, we hear music in the background (he says it helps relax him before bed)—which is kind funny, but also makes his speech even more stirring!

Then “Hybrid Bonobo,” aka David, calls in to say he loves my 1996 interview with Harvard Anthropology Professor Richard Wrangham, but can’t get over how “different” we sound (it’s called aging, David!), and asks some challenging questions about sex, vision and genitalia. Listen up for my illuminating answers!

Human Ape Ancestor Fossils (over 8 million years old) found in Turkey.

Speaking of human apes and the Persian region, here’s some 8 million year old breaking news: We always thought we humans and all of our ape cousins evolved in Africa, but now there are fossil findings that show that our human ape ancestors migrated from Anatolia, Turkey to Africa, and then back to Europe again. It’s all quite mind-blowing in ways I will explain at another date…

Not so mind-blowing, but worth a shoutout: Our Vice TV piece, flaws and all, has over 155,000 views. If you haven’t yet seen it, what are you waiting for? Check out what all the fuss is about.

Back to our Urban X-pedition to the Urban X Awards at the Globe Theater in Downtown LA (DTLA) in the middle of the Hurriquake! It was fun. I was nominated for “Most Popular Sex Educator.”  I didn’t expect to win. Because even though the Urban X Awards is inclusive of everyone—and it really is—all colors, all sexual orientations and gender identifications, it’s still “urban.”

Photos: Rodrigo Alvarez +Selfies

Originally called the Urban Spice Awards, established in 2008, the Urban X Awards “recognize achievements by performers and others in adult media, with a focus on Black, Latin and Asian achievers.”  I can’t really check those boxes, although I am Jewish, which is not a race, but it’s actually very urban if you define “urban” as being “of the city.”

Jews of all races are the original urbanites. We may not have a country (Palestine is not *our* country; the Zionists are dead wrong), but we are often of the City.  

Speaking of urban Jews, we take a detour to talk about our friend Luzer Twersky, raised Satmar Orthodox Jewish, now atheist, and he’s starring in a movie called Dovbush that just premiered in Ukraine in which he plays the Baal Shem Tov.

In fact, he’s now in the urban center of Kiev, Ukraine at his movie premiere under Putin’s attack, with air raid sirens blaring.

Talk about living the ultimate urban experience.

One definition of “urban” is “downtown,” of course, and “going downtown,” i.e., cunnilingus, is one of the yummiest sex acts. No wonder, we love the urbanities…

But we also love the other kind of “downtown” of our DTLA days, 1998 – 2013. We were DTLA arts area pioneers, urban campers camping out in abandoned factories which were rough for life, but fantastic for art and big bacchanalian events like Eros Day and Lupercalia.

Actually, DTLA and I go back even earlier to the late 1980s when the late great Scott Kelman ran the Factory Place Theater and Boyd Street Theater on Skid Row (yes, those were the days when you could run a theater on Skid Row, which at the time was just a row; now it’s 40 blocks), featuring such up and coming stars as Whoopi Goldberg just before she did “Ghost.” That’s how far back I go with DTLA. I am OG Urban.

Capt’n Max  and I reminisce about our urban days, from our HBO shows to our LAPD raids. Then, thanks to the Staples arena, DTLA became too pricey and too dirty for us. And the dirt wasn’t worth the price.

So, we moved to Inglewood which was just the right mix of urban and beachy. But after a few years, thanks to the Coliseum, Inglewood also got too pricey (all these giant sporting arenas really ruin urban areas) and too dirty (the air pollution). So, we moved out to Arcadia, which is more suburban sprawl than urban life, part of what Henry Miller called “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare.” But we like it here, and everybody likes us. That is, our neighbors and our landlady do, but not the City of Arcadia inspectors who pretend to be urban, but are really the same kind of small town “assholes” whose flagrant violations of constitutional rights wind up killing upstanding citizens like Joan Myer (see above).

They haven’t killed us, and hopefully they won’t, but they do try to trample on our rights. Could it be because we are hard to classify? Because we’re sex educators?

Which brings me back to my Urban X nomination for ‘Most Popular Sex Educator’ which I did not win. But my favorite of all my fellow nominees, the lovely Sinnamon Love, did win, and deservedly so. After all, while I am followed by just over 25,000 on the X (formerly Twitter), Sinnamon has over 495,000 followers. Now that’s “popular.”

Moreover, I love Sinnamon love. She was a guest on DrSuzy.Tv a few times during our early urban period in the 2000s.  And speaking of “X,” Ms. Love was also a guest star of our Eros Day X in 2009, one of our biggest, most urban bacchanals in DTLA, our Eros Day Orgy for Obama, our 10th annual Eros Day which doubled as a wild inaugural ball for our most urban and urbane President.  

Though my urban days are numbered, I still went to the show. Max didn’t; he would have gone, just to accompany me, but we both knew it wasn’t his thing, so our new bonobo Rodrigo escorted me through the hurricane!

From the weather reports and X hysteria, I thought I might have to swim Downtown. But I’m an adventurer; I climbed to the top of the Golden Gate Bridge when I was an urban San Franciscan, and I’d paddled a canoe through white water rapids in the Adirondacks.

Me at the Top of the Golden Gate Bridge, circa 1988

So, I figured I could make it to DTLA in an Uber. It was pretty wet splashing out of Arcadia. I wore boots, a hat and an OG Fringe Logo Vest custom made by Dre Day of Dr. Block’s Pleasure Shop.

As soon as we splashed down, like a miracle, those Urban vibes zapped that rain as soon as we got to the City. No hurricane. Barely any rain. So, we did the Red Carpet where they interviewed me about the meaning of “urban” and the importance of sex education.

Urban X Awards Hostess Banksie, aka Lindsey Banks, interviews me about the power of sex education. Photo: Rodrigo Alvarez

Education is power, and sex education is sexual power. And in this erotophobic era of sex education suppression, banning books, police raids, the blooming powers of the anti-sex Censorship Industrial Complex, repression of sexual expression, social media account closings, defunding the Kinsey Institute, firing sex educators, taking away women’s sexual rights, making The Handmaid’s Tale a blueprint for reality, death threats on my Vice piece, and the list goes on, it’s great to be honored for our work… and play of sex education.

Then we watched the show (which was a little overlong and disorganized as awards shows often are), but several longtime DrSuzy.Tv guests from our DTLA days were the evening’s main winners, including big male winner Isiah Maxwell, big female winner September Reign, PR Queen Erika Icon and the great and glorious Ana Foxx. It was also very cool to hear the hyphy beat of another of our favorite urban guests—Too $hort—playing throughout the festivities. Blow the whistle!

Kudos to the Urban X Awards, for courage, great taste and a good time—not to mention a stimulating talking point on this fun-for-all F.D.R!

© August 26,  2023 Susan Block, Ph.D., a.k.a. “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist, author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure and horny housewife, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For speaking engagements, call 626-461-5950.

Need to talk? Sext? Webcam? Do it here. Have you watched the show? No? Feel the sex. Don’t miss the Forbidden Photographs—Hot Stuff, look at them closely here. Join our private social media Society. Join us live in studio 😊. Go shopping. Gift shop or The Market Place. DrSusanBlock.tv, real sex TV at your toe tips. Sex Clips Anyone? FASHION, we have fashion! We also have politics. Politics? Have you Read the book? No? How about the Speakeasy Journal? Click here. Ok, how about some free sex advice?