A college-student contributor friend of ours, who wishes to remain anonymous, has a confession to make:
I was sixteen when I first started masturbating. I may have been something of a latecomer to the game, but what I lacked in experience I soon made up in frequent practice. This. Was. Awesome. For about three weeks, I took advantage of any free moments and stole away for some vigorous and exploratory self-loving. I was a quick learner and all was going well — really, really well — until one afternoon, after a mind-bogglingly powerful orgasm, when I quickly realized I was lying in some very wet sheets. Not the kind of sweat-damp sheets you get after a particularly fervent session, but sheets soaked to the mattress in a foot-wide splotch radiating directly from between my legs.
I had peed. I was sure of it. I had masturbated until I had broken my lady-bits and was suffering from sort of sex-crazed incontinence. I immediately solemnly swore to steer clear of my new favorite activity for all eternity.
A few months later, I was watching a late-night rerun of â€śTalk Sex with Sue,â€ť and my favorite grandmotherly sex-advice-spouting firecracker took a question from a woman in my very situation. â€śThatâ€™s me!â€ť I thought. Another sex-crazed incontinent! Immediately, Sue assuaged this womanâ€™s (and my own) panic, explaining the phenomenon of female ejaculation. I mentally reviewed my rather wet episode: It did not look like pee. It did not smell like pee. Had I ejaculated?
So commenced round two of frequent masturbatory exploration, this time in the bathtub on Sueâ€™s advice. I discovered that, to my delight, I had not somehow rewired my urinary response. No! When stimulated in just the right way, in just the right spot, I was a squirter, that mythic being of over-the-top porn and bad erotica.
I was, initially, torn. I was beyond relieved that I was not a masturbatorily damaged freak, and a little amused by the fact that I could impersonate a geyser, not to mention thrilled that it felt so damn good. But at the same time, I felt fairly certain this meant I would never be able to have partnered sex, that any future partner would be repulsed by my anomalous anatomy.
In the years since, Iâ€™ve reached a level of comfort and pride with regards to my ejaculatory abilities for a number of reasons. First, the accompanying sensation of release is wonderful. Also, in a world where facials are par for the course and come-shots punctuate every porno, it feels really hot to be able to upset gender roles and come all over my partner. The added lubricationâ€™s not so bad either. Thankfully, none of my sexual partners have been grossed out like I was worried theyâ€™d be (and if they had been, I wouldn’t have wanted to bed them anyway). Across the board their reaction has been amusement and arousal and interest. Still, I have a lot of anxiety around communicating this particular skill set to new partners.
There are a number of reasons I feel compelled to clam up about my, well, spitting clam. First off, Iâ€™m always a little confused by the timing of the conversation. If I wait to mention that I ejaculate until after it happens, there is a high likelihood heâ€™ll think I peed on him, an assumption Iâ€™d really love to avoid. If I say it too early and it doesnâ€™t happen, which it often doesnâ€™t, Iâ€™m worried heâ€™ll be disappointed or feel like a sexual failure, which is simply not the case. My biggest problem, though, is that I LOATHE the term “squirting,” which kind of leaves me at a loss for what to say when I do feel comfortable bringing it up. Squirt, squirter, squirting. There is nothing sexy about the way those roll (or trip) off the tongue. â€śIâ€™m gonna squirt!â€ť sounds more like a warning of an impending water-gun attack than a sexy mid-romp exclamation. I have similar issues with the other offered alternatives. â€śGushingâ€ť conjures an image of those waxy, fluid-filled lunchbox snacks so popular among ’90s elementary schoolers. â€śBaby, sometimes I ejaculateâ€ť can have the same inherent sex appeal as â€śOh, yeah, insert your erect penis into my vaginal canal.â€ť I call for a new term. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
For now, I settle for an early â€śBaby, sometimes I ejaculateâ€ť whispered in the most seductive tone I can muster — to mitigate the clinical blow of the word, push through the anxiety, and let myself go with the flow. Quite literally.