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 “Talk Sex with Sue,” and my favorite grandmotherly sex-advice-spouting firecracker took a question from a woman in my very situation. “That’s me!” I thought. Another sex-crazed incontinent! Immediately, Sue assuaged this woman’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 Sue’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, I’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 lubrication’s not so bad either. Thankfully, none of my sexual partners have been grossed out like I was worried they’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, I’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 he’ll think I peed on him, an assumption I’d really love to avoid. If I say it too early and it doesn’t happen, which it often doesn’t, I’m worried he’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. “I’m gonna squirt!” 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. “Gushing” conjures an image of those waxy, fluid-filled lunchbox snacks so popular among ’90s elementary schoolers. “Baby, sometimes I ejaculate” can have the same inherent sex appeal as “Oh, yeah, insert your erect penis into my vaginal canal.” I call for a new term. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
For now, I settle for an early “Baby, sometimes I ejaculate” 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.