by Eurydice (c) 1999
FEMALE EJACULATION 101
It could happen on one of those salacious nights when you and your lover, for no discernible reason, are as raw and passionate as jungle animals. Breasts and balls are squeezed, leaving you breathless. Fingers hover at every curve, and at every orifice they linger to probe and diddle. In the dark, your partner pins your shoulders down and crawls on top, mounting you so you can bite her nipples or with your fingertips pull them an inch away from her chest, and so you can reach around and slap her cheeks, or maybe slide a finger, even three, into her rectum. She doesn't ride your penis so much as rotate on it, going east, west, north, south, ending with a slow circle as your hard-on is circumnavigating the globe of her vaginal wall. While your dick is taking a mini tour, she breathes differently, exhaling often, and you notice a growing urgency, a quivering to her thighs, her belly, her voice. If the lights were on, you'd see her eyes roll back in her head like the shark's that bit Robert Shaw in two. You do feel her head swooning against your hand, drawing the same circle as her pussy around your cock. When she starts clawing your chest and tearing at your nipples, you start to feel spooked, and when a free hand clutches your nuts, as if she might rip them out and eat them, you're fleetingly frightened; that she's gone mad.
It gets worse: at the height of this ravaging of your body by the maenad who has replaced your perfectly rational lover, you hear a ploosh and a swoosh, as if something (a vital organ?) in her is being expelled—as if the poor woman's womb just fell out—and instantly you feel a great rush of warm goo from somewhere between your navel and your knees, as if an invisible faucet were turned on. Belly to belly, it feels like she's wringing out a soapy sponge. A fragrant, soothing viscosity covers your stomach, your thighs, your balls. And suddenly your penis seems coated with honey. She comes in wave after wave after wave, until it sounds in the dark as if the two of you are roiling around in a full bathtub. Since it's her first time, she says something coherent like 'What was that?' at just the time you're dying to turn on the light to check out the sloshy sheets. Congratulations! Your woman has ejaculated, and her teacup-sized capacity, when you see and feel it in your hands, puts your crummy spoonful of sperm to shame. You need to dry the bedlinens and air the mattress.
Female ejaculation has been the subject of intrigue and controversy within the medical establishment?partly because it's the result of the infamous G-spot being pressed and massaged. G is named after Dr. Ernst Grafenburg, a German gynecologist, who 'discovered' it in 1944, and, after years of research, declared in 1950 that it is a highly erogenous zone on the inner upper wall of the vagina. The most extensive research was done in 1980 by Drs. Whipple and Perry. The only thing researchers know for sure is that the female ejaculate is produced in the soft tissue called the Skene glands and comes out of the urethra; it is viscous, transparent; it has a powerful aroma and gets very sticky, very fast; and it has been repeatedly chemically analyzed and positively determined to be distinctly different than urine.
The one thing everybody agrees on regarding the G-spot is that every woman has one. It is located midway between the woman's bellybutton and her uterus, about two inches up on the inner upper wall of the vagina between the back of the pubic bone and the front of the cervix. It's not a spot or a locus, but a shifting field that houses a bundle of nerves that are more sensitive than the rest of the vagina and that requires arousal to be activated. One reason it's famously difficult to locate is that most men have to adjust their intercourse to the extent that instead of deep penetration to the uterine wall they must slide forward. Another reason is that many women prefer it dormant.
Since its 'discovery,' the G-spot has been excoriated as a male myth—a patriarchal attempt to reinstate the importance of the penis (or his substitute) as a necessary instrument for female orgasm. Masters and Johnson hooked women up to electric sensors, monitored them during orgasm, and announced, in Human Sexual Response, that 'anatomically, all orgasms are centered in the clitoris.' With the clitoral orgasm, the woman's sexual pleasure became independent of man's; the penis became expendable. For some women, intercourse became an anticlimax. Feminists advocated that men had trumped up the notion of a superior vaginal orgasm to keep women dependent on them. (An alternate view, vocalized by a minority of women who ejaculate, claimed that patriarchy fears, and has suppressed, female ejaculation because it threatens its hegemony, and that men find it offensive if women come more than them.) For the last four decades the primacy of the clitoris made a woman's pleasure easy to accomplish: apply some friction, a little tongueplay, and, bang, your woman sees the face of God. Not so fast. Is that the true God? Any 12-year-old can learn to get a woman off that way, and, judging from some pornflicks, many a dog. Stimulation of the G-spot requires thought, knowledge, a new respect for the female anatomy. And you can't produce it on cue: sometimes nothing will get her to the state of abandon she entered so fluidly the night before.
Every woman has a G-spot, but not every woman has the same response to its stimulation. Some women feel nothing, some feel an urge to urinate, some feel more wet than normal, and some shoot jets of fluid 8 feet up. (When done by hand, the ejaculation can squirt a couple of feet in the air, like a boy's pee against a wall, and there's more than enough to give you time to get out your Polaroid and take a picture.) All physically healthy women are capable of ejaculation, although some may have what sex therapists call 'vaginal anesthesia' and require years of practice before that zone is awakened. About 20 percent ejaculate occasionally, and 10 percent do on a regular basis.
There are videotapes (instructional or pornographic), clubs for women only, consciousness-raising sexual workshops, Tantric schools of sacred-spot massage, and a porn category called 'squirting', all devoted to the orgasm the French call, wisely, 'juissance' (joy+bliss), which was dumbed down over time to mean any orgasm. This ultimate female orgasm is also the original, narrow definition of the 'little death', or 'petit mort': every woman I know who has ejaculated, has stopped herself in the midst of it overcome by the fear that after this unleashing there can be no other. The orgasm is so intense it's almost like an out-of-body experience. Women must train themselves to surrender control and trust the sensation, which is akin to the feeling of having one's waters break at the onset of giving birth.
'The first time' usually happens by accident: say, because of the angle of the penis, its curve hits the G-spot, she feels her joy rise and makes it repeat that move, and, OOPS, her floodgates open, and it's every man for himself. The woman is surprised, the man bewildered. Both recognize they found a new dimension, something akin to the Bermuda triangle. For both, the conversion is instant. Let me assure you: there's nothing like it. It's as if a switch has been pulled, and vast reaches of ecstasy that had been asleep are now alive. She's yours, period. The downside is that, once a woman has tasted plenty, any man who can't get her there will be damned to nowheresville.
It need not be a rare phenomenon. Like the clit, with practice the G-spot becomes sensitive, quick to respond, unfailing; eventually, a woman can pinpoint it on her Venus mount (mons veneris) with absolute exactitude. There are exercises you can do to stimulate her G: when she's already aroused, rub the flat of your fingertip against the upper inner wall of her vagina using a 'come here' motion. You can use a vibrator with a special G-spot curve. Or massage the front lining of her belly at the same time you massage the muscles just above the clitoris, either with your stomach or hand.
Your woman needs to be relaxed; if that almost never happens, then wait until she's half-dead with sleep, at the time she doesn't really care to know you let alone have her bedtime violated. Whatever it takes to tell her body 'all's right with the world' will do. Your job begins with insertion. You must think of your penis not as a piston, ramrod, or avenging angel, but as a velvet glove, a seeker after truth. Pump your way not toward the bottom, or the center, as you would do to achieve the deepest penetration. Your penis should be provocative, working against the soft inner tissues like a paint brush, filling but not occupying every crevice and crack and funny dent of the membrane, giving the vaginal wall a slow massage. Work your way back to the front, as if you were going to pull out, but once you're there, head north, rubbing the convex inner flesh that begins above the clitoris and leads to the bellybutton. Now probe more earnestly, with a noticeable angst to the pace, until the tip of your altogether sturdy penis finds itself curling against the vaginal ceiling, head pointing toward the bellybutton, as if the penis' nose had been bent. The route is a half-hearted 'C' or the first half of a parenthesis. One end of the C is above the clitoris, the other is the bellybutton; in this neighborhood you'll feel at the tip of your penis a muscular something or other, sort of, but not actually, a knot, or a root structure. It's the G-spot?like porn, you'll know it when you find it, because your partner's cooing will demonstrably change, incorporating a question mark, and her canter will become a gallop that could win a derby, at which point you're briefly alone for the ride. Whatever you do, don't start exploring her body now, focus on the fact that your penis must remain in place, that this is going to be a Big Deal. The perks you'll receive as your reward are as undeniable as they will be unthinkable. For the moment, she's going to thrash against you like her ass is on fire, and if she can she'll bite clear through your jugular, so be prepared. It's a good time to milk her nipples?she's hardly cognizant?and, just for the feel of it, and the purposes of conversation later, slide your hand along that burning ass to the crotch the two of you share. What you'll find down there will be a lather, sticky and bubbling and plentiful. Don't kiss her unless she starts it; don't even talk, don't break the spell. Let her feel as if she doesn't need you: she's in a zone where men don't go. She'll make a point to open her eyes periodically, breaking her concentration to acknowledge you. She'll look at you like she Loves you. She does. This may last several minutes, because once the ejaculation begins, the fluid wants to empty itself completely?like the bladder of its piss?one reason probably for the shame that some women feel about letting go of their juices. After she's ejaculated 3-4 times, lift her off your dick (even if she gets pissed off) and clamp your mouth around her pussy, pressuring hard upward over the same spot. Clean her out. Once her release takes off, every time you press against that trapdoor she will keep gushing. If you like the sensation of having a woman sit on your face, you'll never forget this. If you enter her anally, it's a matter of massaging the same area from the other side to the same exact result, only more visually stimulating since you can now watch the clear liquid flow from her labia which is facing you in close-up as she sits on your penis for better control. Or try mounting her from behind rather than seating her on you, and use a free hand to massage above her clit, over the ovaries, around the middle of her pubic hair, where the pelvic bone begins. In every case, you'll enter a female body as fully as any man can.
Don't even think about your own orgasm; if it happens, brought on by your awe at being awash in such bliss and being the undeniable cause of it, fine. But if you get mesmerized by all the sounds and smells, and find yourself flopping around with no friction, don't fret: afterwards she'll be so grateful and liberated, her entire body will be yours to do with as you will, or she'll eat you from top to bottom, patiently, and expertly. Make no mistake: women who ejaculate are different in bed (and in the kitchen, in the car, in a movie) than those who don't. Clitoral women like the filled-up feeling of a penis inside them but know that their bread is buttered elsewhere. A clitoral orgasm is like a male orgasm: a big bang; an ejaculation requires no work or strain, no clenching; it's a washing away of tensions in waves of cathartic discharge. Ejaculant women flow, and beam, and exude fecundity, and will happily become tramps to feed their habit; this means you can be forgiven lots of self-centered behavior if your woman identifies you as the horse that she rides in on.
And ejaculation is the only orgasm that can't be faked. When she comes, you know it. The rest is wishful thinking, shouting at the wilderness, wailing at the moon, whatever. If you think your ego gets a boost when you give head to a woman who may come, or may fake coming (and remember all women fake 3/4s of the time, according to most surveys), wait until you turn out to be, because of your extraordinary erotic skill, the first man in 100 to get her to flow; you'll gain mythic dimensions in your eyes as well as hers. You'll feel so empowered and secure sexually (it's like the high women feel when they make a guy come), it will be easier for you to get what you want. You'll find that new forms of foreplay will trigger the same grin on her face, and she'll try anything you associate with helping her to get the ejaculate flowing. Sex is Pavlovian: we go where the good stuff is. Even if in the final analysis you're not really loved by her, at least you'll always be adored. And, for a while at least, she'll think you are god.