“Your orgasm is your problem,” my ex-husband once said to me.
I frowned at his suggestion and two days later, some books appeared on my night table: I Love Female Orgasm and The Elusive Orgasm. I resentfully cracked one open and it seemed like a lot of trite stuff about the importance of relaxation. I couldn’t be more relaxed in my marital sex life if I tried. For Godʼs sake, I was almost asleep. How bad was the sex in my marriage? Well, after my ex-husband would leave for work in the morning Iʼd bust out my Hitachi magic wand and relieve myself multiple times. When he returned from the office, heʼd often see the shoulder massager laying lifeless on the floor.
“How many times did you beat off today? Four? God youʼre a freak,” heʼd say, shaming me.
Unsurprisingly, that marriage ended. And after three-and-a-half years of very unfulfilling sex, I went on a bit of bender having mindless and mediocre encounters. Occasionally they would do some manual shaking maneuver a la Yahtzee which made me a little extra juicy but no fireworks. No orgasms ever presented themselves. Never. Not orally, not digitally, not through the aid of a penis. Nada. I thought I might spend my golden years with Mr. Hitachi after all.
Of course, Iʼd heard in passing about this crazy phenomena of female ejaculation and seen the videos where a literal fountain gushed out between a girlʼs legs. Although I envied their dedication and fervor and it looked, uh, interesting, it was a completely foreign concept to me. I would have been happy to finally have a regular orgasm. Squirting seemed to be the extraterrestrial of climaxes limited only to the professional vaginas of porn stars.
Then I met somebody. On Facebook. We had heated, dirty IM conversations for about a week and then I drove to his place for a rendezvous. He was a member of Mensa with big brains and a filthy mouth. I was smitten. I rang the doorbell, my heart pounding. Then he opened the door and he was fat. Adorable, but fat. I mean really fat. Gandolfini (RIP) fat. My dismay must have been evident because he blurted out, “I told you I was fat!”
I laughed. His honesty was endearing but I wasn’t sold. After some awkward chatting, he grabbed me and kissed me.The chemistry was electric. My heart raced and I felt tingly all over. It was fucking magical. Iʼll admit, I was pissed. No, not this guy! Dammit, really? I thought. But my body loved him from the get go. Who can explain sexual chemistry? It is just one of those mysterious, nebulous things.
During our first sexual encounter, I had eight orgasms. I was flabbergasted. Iʼd had three partner-driven orgasms in my entire sexual career. After the first orgasm, I grabbed his arm and looked at him in complete shock. Was he a wizard? Did he have a vibrator surgically implanted in his penis?
“What?” he asked innocently.
I said nothing, eyes wide, speechless. I had been convinced till that moment that I couldn’t have an orgasm with a partner. I thought I had ruined myself with high-powered sex toys. But all those convictions went out the window with this new fat man. Even more disturbing was that I had begun to squirt with this guy. He nicknamed me “spritzy.” That pet name morphed into “angel juice box”. From unorgasmic to a squirter overnight? I wondered if it was just this guy or if I had finally found my sexual self. I decided to try out my new superpowers on a previous fuck buddy, a tall lean well-hung musician. No squirting, no orgasm. Nothing. I was miffed. With my tail between my legs, I slunk back to my fat lover. Here was my sexual messiah, only he didn’t come in the package I expected.
But this was all just the beginning. Within a few more weeks, I began to really squirt. At first, I thought I was peeing. The liquid was being expelled from the urethra and the amount was copious. I kept touching the drenched sheets and putting my wet fingers to my nose. It was absolutely clear and odorless and a little sweet. I admit, I tasted it.
“Itʼs not pee,” my guy kept telling me. “Donʼt worry.”
He soon became my boyfriend. Do you blame me? I mean, many men had swung the hammer but he was the only one to ring the bell. I had to keep him.
We began to do some research. Female ejaculation is an expulsion of fluid from the Skeneʼs gland through the urethra before or during female orgasm. This female ejaculation is similar in composition to a manʼs semen with high levels of prostatic acid phosphatase but of course, without the sperm. This female ejaculate is known in Sanskrit as “amrita” and means “divine nectar”. I am not a big one for goddess worship and don’t go in for the whole “releasing of sacred waters” mentality but I will go so far to say that it is a pleasurable experience, albeit a messy one. Now before I make love with my boyfriend, we lay down a folded up towel beneath me. “It’s not going to work this time,” I always whine. And I’m almost always wrong.
During my last visit to my gynecologist, I asked her about this new phenomena. Why me? Why now? She was not phased but offered no explanation except to say that once you become a squirter, you are always a squirter. Great! A switch had been flipped now and there was no going back.
My boyfriend has since nicknamed my female ejaculate “shemen.” Thankfully, he finds this whole squirting thing extremely erotic, a relief since he gets hosed down pretty regularly. He’d only encountered it one time before but he’s taken to it, well, like a duck to water.
It feels similar to peeing but it’s more of a sudden contractual release connected to sexual stimulation. Even after all this time, I always make sure I empty my bladder before I have sex so that I am sure I am not urinating. The amount of fluid can be rather shocking. When the sensation comes, I bear down instead of clenching up and voila! I do think you need to feel really safe with your partner and completely relaxed. It is very much a process of letting go. And of course it helps if your partner is very technically skilled. I have never been able to make myself squirt like in those crazy porn videos, nor am I even interested. I hate doing laundry.
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