Sex Research for Two  By Anka Radakovich 


Like Dr. Albert Kinsey who was a pioneer of sexual research, I too am interested in furthering the world's carnal knowledge. Therefore, I have opened the doors of the Anka Institute of Human Sexuality, a research lab devoted to the study of sexual practices and product testing for the benefit of mankind. Current studies include research in sexual positions, penis enhancing products, and what really happens at a local massage parlour.

To accomplish my research, I will need a staff. I cannot accomplish certain experiments myself because, well, I don't have a penis. To help me with my sexperiments, my "Research Assistant" will have an insatiable curiosity and a fertile imagination. He will also look good in a lab coat and no pants.

To facilitate the process, I placed a help wanted listing on Craigslist.com in the "activity partners" section. It read "Position open for sexual research." Short term position available as sex "associate." Generous employee benefits. You will be paid for a weekend of sex research in New York City. You will be a guinea pig, But you will freaking love it. Send photo and resume and a brief letter stating your qualifications. Enthusiastic attitude a plus.

More than a thousand potential Research Boys applied; eager to assist me in my sexology studies. These candidates included a football player, a bodybuilder, a cop, a professional wrestler, and a soldier responding to the call of duty. Also applying was a homeless guy looking for a place to stay, an unemployed slacker who makes money selling his own plasma, two cross-dressers, three virgins, and a bunch of guys in prison.

Since I asked for credentials, Bob, a software engineer, said he was "ten inches soft." Bill, a physical therapist promised he would "make my vagina talk." A third listed his experience, "I am an expert at cunnilingus and and proficient in G-spot massage. "One guy just said, "I am very very horny."

Kevin, who described himself as a "Maleslut," said his experience included "getting into a pushing match with Bruce Willis in a strip club on four tabs of mescaline." Another guy sent in photos of his penis that said "research tool." William, who is incarcerated, enclosed a visitor information form and wrote "I would love to sniff your chair." He said he is trying to correct past "negative sexual behaviors such as, masturbating in his palm and then shaking hands with women."

Of all the applicants, I chose 28 year old Steve, because he lived in New York City, he was cute, and he was the only one who applied who didn't seem completely insane. ith Steve and I heading "he

Institute" we will discover better living through sexual chemistry. Science awaits us.


Our first lab experiment was to product test penis enlargers. Our first was the "Penis Enlargement System" by Dr. Joel Kaplan who claims that his "medical vacuum pump will enlarge a man's penis 1-3 inches and "improve girth by 25%." Dr. Kaplan has a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology and Human Sexuality and calls himself the number one inventor and pioneer of erection enhancement therapy. He is also the inventor of the "Penis Head Enlarger." 

 For days, my associate worked with Dr. Kaplan's pump, as well as two others, including a device called "The Overdrive" which guarantees to "blast you over the finish line." Dr. Kaplan's pump only slightly outperformed the "Blue Veiner" even though the latter  was endorsed by the APP ("Association of Professional Pumpers.") According to our lab findings: Steve concluded that "My dick didn't get any bigger, but I think my foreskin got two inches longer."

Our second task was trying out the positions from the book The Art Of Auto-Fellatio/Oral Sex For One, also by esteemed author Dr. Kaplan. His book includes "step by step exercises for Auto Fellatio including actual photographs of the 10 most popular self-sucking positions.(Someone has spent way too much time thinking about his own penis.)

I always wondered though, that if I could go down on myself, would I? My associate and I got to work and tried out the positions together. In additions to Dr. Kaplan's positions, I also had a brochure, courtesy of my London colleague, Dr. Tuppy Owens who also written instructions called "Sucking Yourself Off." It says "Sit against a wall, swing leg over head, bend neck, adjust position." Steve worried that if he mastered the technique, he would never leave his house. (An ex-boyfriend told me he could blow himself by wedging up against a toilet bowl. Three months after I broke up with him, I saw him walking down the street. He was wearing a neck brace.) I swear.

Steve was not as flexible as I was, but after trying several of the positions, I couldn't even get close to "it". He would have to keep practicing. As we bent over trying the different positions, I couldn't help but wonder "If I could suck myself off, who would I think about? Myself? Someone else?" I realized that if you were a guy and got mad at somebody and called him a "cocksucker," you would also be referring to yourself.

Our third experiment was to check out the local massage parlor. Looking for some "massage therapy," we called up places with names like "Afternoon Delight" and "Paradise on the Table." Steve asked if they could fax him photos of some of the girls. His inquiry was met with a disconnection to the recorded tape, apparently designed for callers who sounded so undesirable that even a massage parlor had to reject them.

I called another place advertising for "sensual oriental massage" and asked how much it would cost for me to watch. They hung up. The third place, however, was accommodating and asked if I wanted to participate. (They figured it would be less work for them.) Their ad promised a "sensual" and "therapeutic" staff of "leisure consultants." The cost: $150 U.S dollars plus a $75 voyeur surcharge for me.

At the "spa," an anonymous flat that looked like a doctors office with a waiting area and three small rooms, we were greeted by "Candy," an attractive 22 year old who referred to herself as a "relaxation specialist." Candy was cute and had long brown hair and bangs and said her clients included lots of "tense nine-to fivers." In a red brocade wallpapered room, she told Steve to take his clothes off and lie on his stomach. (I've never seen anyone take his clothes off so fast in my life.) She dimmed the lights, put on some horrible New Agey music, and rubbed his whole body with oil for five minutes. Then she stripped down to high heels and a black thong. As she told Steve about her Native American Indian heritage, her "massage therapy" raised a half-tepee. "I love to play cowboy and Indian," she said, as she rubbed his chest. Then she said "You can feel my breasts and my ass." Steve went for it and erected a full wigwam. Next, she brought out a bottle of massage oil and oiled his tomahawk. He was speechless. I have to note that at this point I wanted to participate but I didn't want to break the moment. Needless to say, the massage therapy was definitely working as a relaxation technique. Steve was so into it that he asked her to rub his "taint." Then it was all over. But it was a happy ending. Included in the price was a free cleanup.

As we were walking out, Steve said, "That last fifteen minutes where I was groaning about my sore muscle was the best part!" Little did he know that I timed that part and it only lasted three minutes.

Back at the lab, we analyzed our field data on a scale of one to ten. Steve estimated that the hand job itself scored only about a 4.5. His findings-- "I felt like I had just been milked." He also reported a half hard-on as he left, due to lack of body contact. "But the fact that I had a cute naked chick rubbing my research tool brought the total experience up to a 7.5." he concluded.

 As I dedicate myself to probing the horny frontier, my research continues.