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The G-Spot? You're just as likely to find the Loch Ness Monster

PUBLISHED: 14:09 14 February 2012 | UPDATED: 09:21 16 February 2012

Searching in vain? The G-Spot is about as real as the Loch Ness Monster according to new research.

Searching in vain? The G-Spot is about as real as the Loch Ness Monster according to new research.

Like the Loch Ness Monster, the Abominable Snowman and a mobile phone salesperson that doesn't try to sell you an insurance policy you'll never be able to use, scientists are now telling us that the G-Spot doesn't exist.

A new piece of research from Dr Amichair Kilchevsky, a urologist from the Yale-New Haven Hospital in Connecticut, reveals there is no conclusive evidence for “the centre of female sexual pleasure” after reviewing 100 studies conducted over the past 60 years.

This, of course, comes as welcome news to anyone for whom searching for the elusive G-Spot has always been, for want of a better phrase, a wild stab in the dark.

Dr Kilchevsky has revealed there is no evidence to support the existence of the G-Spot or “woman’s seat of pleasure” which was ‘discovered’ by German gynaecologist Dr Ernst Grafenberg decades ago.

I don’t remember seeing that degree course available as an option at university.

I always thought a woman’s ‘seat of pleasure’ was a chair positioned in front of the telly when the advertisement for David Beckham’s new underwear range is on, but according to Dr Grafenberg, it’s actually a nerve-packed area offering a sexual punch second to none.

The search for the G-Spot has been similar to that for the Holy Grail or the key to the double glazing in the front room which hasn’t been seen since the day it was fitted: pointless, time-consuming and ultimately depressingly fruitless.

Generally, heterosexual men fall into one of three camps – those who pride themselves on being the embodiment of The Joy of Sex, those who read Cosmopolitan once and think this qualifies them to know what women want and those who believe pleasuring a woman involves getting her a dishwasher.

The first group will not let you leave their room of seduction until your G-Spot has been found, geo-tagged and pinpointed on an exact map of your body which they have covered in highlighter pen and plastered with Post-It notes. Damn it, you are going to ENJOY this, even if it kills us both.

In fact, this may be how the myth of the G-Spot emerged in the first place.

Bored into a state of almost catatonic compliance, Dr Ernst’s wife suddenly realised that if she pretended he’d hit the internal jackpot then she might be able to go back downstairs and have a nice cup of tea and a rest before an afternoon spent starching the lab coats in a twin tub.

Little did she realise that she’d condemned the rest of womankind to a lifetime of fruitless excavation with the sexual allure of a scab-ridden tramp frantically scratching himself at a children’s nativity play.

Group two are by far the most common of the three – during the honeymoon period of your relationship, the bit where you still find the fact they trim their toenails with their teeth alluring, they might make a couple of attempts to get out the compass and ruler to make a cursory search for your ‘seat of pleasure’. Then, showing great common sense, they will give up.

The third category of men consider foreplay to be closing the bedroom door to keep the dog out.

Personally, I find it hard to get too upset at the G-Spot’s demise, because you can’t miss what you never had, or that no one ever found, or, indeed, bothered to look for with any degree of enthusiasm.

In my experience, the men I have encountered along life’s highways and byways find it difficult enough to find toothpaste in a supermarket: their chance of finding a minute spot of questionable existence without benefit of large signs, helpful assistants and a tannoy system is negligible at best.

In true fighting spirit, however, Dr Kilchevsky has vowed that the search for the G-Spot must go on.

Until then, the G-Spot remains missing in action. Although you know what’ll happen now: it’ll turn up when we’re least expecting it. Down the back of the sofa, maybe, or in the car glove box.

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