in the first place. Maybe you've pondered along these lines yourself. Maybe you've idly rolled the old sexual chestnuts around in your mind and wondered why it is that women are the ones with the organ dedicated exclusively to sexual pleasure, when men are the ones who are supposed to be dedicated exclusively to sexual pleasure. Men are portrayed as wanting to go at it all the time, women as preferring a good cuddle; yet a man feels preposterously peacockish if he climaxes three or four times in a night, compared to the fifty or hundred orgasms that a sexually athletic woman can have in an hour or two. Maybe you thought it was some sort of cosmic joke, in the same category of sexual dissonance as the fact that a man is at his libidinous peak before he is quite a man, by age eighteen or twenty, while a woman doesn't reach full flower until her thirties or even forties (about the time, a female comedian once put it, that her husband is discovering he has a favorite chair). Or maybe you've thought the clitoris is a kind of accident, barely there, more Ariel than anatomical. The clitoris is small, after all, and hardly distinct from the surrounding folds and crevasses of the vulva. For women who are anorgasmic, who cannot climax no matter how they thrash and struggle, the clitoris may seem the most overhyped and misleading knob of flesh this side of Pinocchio's nose. Sure, it works for some, but for others it is notoriously undependable. Marilyn Monroe, the most elaborated sexual icon of the twentieth century and surely the source of autoeruptive glee for thousands of fans, confessed to a friend that despite her three husbands and a parade of lovers, she had never had an orgasm. Could even Immanuel Kant, said to have died a virgin, be considered such a sorry sexual naif?
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As it happens, evolutionary thinkers are engaged in a vigorous debate over the point, or pointlessness, of the clitoris and its bosom buddy, the female orgasm. They are asking whether the capacity for orgasm does a woman any good and thus can be counted an adaptation that has been selected over the wash of time, or whether it is, to borrow a phrase from Stephen Jay Gould, a glorious accident. The debate is good clean dirty cortical fun, so much more amusing than being adjured, as we were in the 1970s, to get a mirror and inspect our genitals for ourselves. It gives the clitoris a jaunty new consequence; a brush with Darwinism can do that. But it is also an unnerving debate. Some researchers have argued, in print, that the female climax may be so unnecessary as to be on its
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