I’ve never asked a guy to pick me up and fuck me against a wall. This isn’t because I don’t want it, of course. The idea of a guy picking me up and fucking me against a wall is so deeply horny that I felt the need to write the phrase twice in the first paragraph just so I could experience a double-helping of sexy shivers.
No, the reason I haven’t asked for this is because it’s tricky. I weigh a fair amount – enough that picking me up and holding me at waist height for as long as it takes to get you to pump your sweaty, trembling load into me is quite an ask.
Guys have tried it before occasionally. One or two have even done it quite successfully, although I’ll admit that’s because I’ve had something to brace my feet on at the time, thus taking a bit of the weight off to allow them to concentrate on the tempestuous pounding.
Anyway, I digress. My point is: if I were to nag them to do something that is demonstrably a bloody difficult thing to do, I would no doubt make them feel a bit insecure. This would impact on all other frenzied lovemaking, and we would both be sad.
Stop trying to make me squirt
Now we get to the crux of the issue, and what I mainly want to discuss today: female ejaculation. Or ‘squirting’, as it’s more often known. Legend (and, indeed, porn) has it that some women can, at the height of climax, ejaculate fluid from their paraurethral ducts.
It looks a little something like this.
Whether you find it hot or horrible, these women are superhuman in my eyes. If I could steal one bodily function from men it would be the ability to forcibly and visually expel fluid from my body at the moment of orgasm: it makes things so beautifully and stickily final. The idea of being able to come – really come – makes me cross my legs and pray to a God I don’t believe in for a thing I know the prudish bastard would never grant anyway.
But I can’t.
I can’t squirt.
I just can’t do it.
No pressure, love
A long time ago, with a boy who was just as intrigued by squirting as I was, I had a bloody good go. Not just once, or even twice, but repeatedly and scientifically over the course of a few months. In between the standard shags and mutual masturbation sessions, we’d occasionally slip in a half-hour or so of concentrated effort to see if the magical squirting would occur.
I’d lie on my back, kneel down, bend over, and all but tie my ankles in a knot behind my head to see if he could get his hand in at any angle which would achieve a different result. I drank water, I clenched muscles, I all but wanked myself raw over the course of that time and yet still it never happened.
Gushing vs squirting
Having thoroughly done my research on Wikipedia, I can tell you that there’s apparently some controversy around the difference between gushing and squirting, and whether they’re separate things. I can tell you that I think they are, for the simple reason that gushing is something I can do. Put your hand in my cunt and wank me to a functional orgasm and nine times out of ten I’ll coat your hand in whatever the technical term for ‘girljuice’ is. Gushing’s a doddle. But squirting? Spraying? Sending jets of aforementioned fluid with force and speed out of my urethra? Nope.
What I’m actually trying to say has nothing to do with squirting. Squirting is a sideline (although if you have any tips I’m willing to try again). This blog is actually about expectations, and how – wonderful though it is when your partner fulfils them – sometimes your wildest fantasies will remain unfulfilled.
Female ejaculation: an unsexy kind of challenge
This blog was prompted by an email from a lovely guy who pointed out that I’ve never written about squirting before (which is usually a way of saying ‘Gotn, I have a fetish for female ejaculation and I would like to read a sexy story about how you once did it’) and challenging me to try and make myself squirt. Although it wasn’t his intention, the email made me sad. Because it put me in mind of all the times I tried and failed, and all the men I know who like this, and who will therefore inevitably be disappointed with me.
If female ejaculation, or being fucked against a wall, or having someone tie you into a beautiful parcel, or accept the entirety of your fist in their anus – if any of this is a genuine fetish, I won’t blame you in the slightest for never giving me the time of day. But if it’s just something you think is ‘quite cool’, then I’d beg you to consider whether it’s worth nagging someone to do it. Asking is all well and good – if we never asked, we’d never get laid. But when something becomes not just a request but a challenge, the sexiness can immediately disappear leaving only a sweaty mess of disappointment.
Although my initial squirting experiments were fun, I eventually called it quits. Putting on my stoic face while the boy tried, for the fifty-seventh time, to push me to an orgasm that felt like a chore wasn’t exactly an enjoyable way to spend my life.
Sometimes I won’t be able to live out your fantasies, and for that I am truly sorry. If you keep asking me to try, I’ll only get sorrier. And sorry isn’t exactly sexy, is it?
I can only do what I can do.
Note: the email that the guy sent me was lovely, and it is not his fault that it prompted my moment of squirting melancholy. I am delighted that he sent it, because it gave me the idea for this blog.