Allow me to be bold: I love masturbating. LOVE. “Then why don’t you marry it?” you ask. And I respond: “Believe me, gal, I would if I could. I would if I could.” I figured out the business at age 17, inspired as I’d been by some static-covered soft-core I’d watched on Cinemax, which left the rather dangerous impression that all future sex-makings would involve jewel tone, crushed velvet bedspreads. The revelation – of how to masturbate, that is; not the thing about the bedspreads – proved so delightful, so addictive, that after six days of the stuff, I awoke to find my right hand – the business hand – paralyzed. I kid you not. It was frozen in a manner to suggest I was holding a modest-sized grapefruit. But I was not holding a modest-sized grapefruit. What I was doing, was rather, suffering from a case of carpal tunnel caused by excessive masturbation.
Seven (exclusively manual) years later, I got my first vibrator, a gift from a friend given after one in a series of bad break-ups. “Here,” she’d said, handing it over. “This’ll be better than he was. I promise.” Seven (predominantly motorized) years later – a year ago or thereabouts – I got my first good vibrator. You know the type: She’s got some muscle to her. She goes … fast. She has … settings. In this last year we’ve been together, a funny thing has started happening. Not on the first orgasm, but on the second, maybe third: I’ve been …. Well, what? I’m not quite sure. I’ve been either a) peeing, or b) ejaculating. As a woman for whom the right answer is almost always the lame one, I was, for months, convinced I’d regressed to childhood, and had taken to pissing the bed. After several thorough investigations, however, I believe otherwise. I believe, in other words, that I am her: A Female Ejaculator. Here’s how I discovered it was NOT pee:
1. The Smell. I’m sorry, but if you’re doing the ol’ jerkin’ of the gherkin, and suddenly, a cartoon-worthy SPLASH! occurs, you’re gonna be like, “WHA???” and you’re going to smell it. You just are. Allow me to indelicately state that mine was fragrance-free like a high-end lotion, y’all. Nothing urine-y about it. And it was morning. And I’d just drank a full-on pot of coffee, you dig?
2. The Color. I had one of those comprehensive Crayola crayon boxes as a kid. I know colors and their individual variations. More to the point: I know my yellows: I know maize to naples to jonquil to lemon chiffon to whipped lemon to amber to apricot to golden rod to lion’s dust. So it is from an informed position that I tell you: This business wasn’t yellow. It was clear.
3. The Consistency. Female ejaculate looks more like urine than it does, well, male ejaculate. And weirdly enough, this initially threw me for a loop. It’s like, despite my informed understanding of my non-sperm-carrying ways, I was nonetheless expecting something … cloudier, I guess. But that is simply not the case. I know this to be true: Wikipedia and Ask.com both told me so.
4. The Pre-Mas Pee. This, my friends, is short for “Pre-masturbation Peeing.” In an attempt to help clarify the issue, I took to peeing before masturbating. I would empty her out. We’re talking 100 percent bladder depletion. Consistently, did this fail to affect anything. I could Pre-Mass-Pee to my heart’s content, and still: What I’d taken to calling “my splash effect” was nonetheless splashing like yours truly had a fire on her bed.
5. The First Conversation. It seemed wise to ask around, see what my friends were up to. I went first to Annie. She’s been married for five years, with the guy for ten. My thinking went, Surely, the length of her relationship will mean she’s had the comfort level necessary to explore an issue such as this. Alas, we got together for coffee and I asked, “Have you ever thought you pissed yourself while coming, but then thought, ‘Oh. Wait. I wonder if that was actually me ejaculating instead’?” And Annie went, “What? No. I’ve felt the impulse, I think, but there’s no way I’d risk pissing the sheets. I hate doing laundry.”
6. The Second Conversation. So then I went to Lauren. She was the one who’d bought me that first vibrator back in the day. She’s open about this stuff. Experimental. There was one time I asked, “So, what’s up with you?” in that casual way that people do, and Lauren went, “Butt sex. Like, lots. I never thought I’d say it, but there you go. I’m loving it.” Anyway, I posed the same question to Lauren I’d posed to Annie, and Lauren went, “When specifically is it that you think you’re ejaculating? Second orgasm? Maybe third? “Yes,” I said. “With a vibrator?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “And how much,” she asked, “is coming out?” I considered this. “Small water-balloon,” I said, indicating something golf-ball-sized. “Like if one of those suckers were to burst.” “I see,” she said. “In which case, you’re ejaculating.” “Really?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, taste the stuff.”
7. The Taste. So I did it. I tasted it. And I refuse to think of having done so as disgusting. I’m sorry, but I struggle to think of any boyfriend I’ve had who hasn’t done the same. And that’s to say nothing of the number of times I’ve, ahem, sampled the male specimen myself. So I did what any lady must, any lady on a mission: I laid out a towel – white, natch, for my continued, unflagging research in the color department – I employed my vibrator, I came, I came again, I splash effected, I put my face right up on there, on that towel. And then, my darlings, I stuck out my tongue. So it is that I can give it to you, straight from the horse’s mouth. That splashy stuff? It was not pee.