I know how to squirt.

A lot of women want to know how it is I squirt. Here’s what I’ve learned to do.

Making G-spot Contact

The first time it ever happened to me was roughly 12 years ago. At this point in my sexual history I had just ended a year-long relationship where I orgasmed from only sex (both while on top and bottom) and also had only ever orgasmed from oral once. I was 25.

This particular night was just your average tryst. Nothing special except that this cock was significantly bigger than the one that had made me orgasm for a year. However, despite being less than 5 inches long and fairly narrow, that smaller penis had taught me to sit low and heavy on a man’s groin, to really sink into it and how to ride him with abandon.

I’d been under the wrong impression for years that making love while on top should replicate the man’s motion like when he was on top, but with a cock that was small that was basically like feeling nothing, hence my new moves: to grind down hard and tilt my pelvic cradle against my lover’s in order to stimulate my clitoris against his pubis, to sit tall and not lean over. I came every time with a big clitoral orgasm.

So, naturally, I applied my new method with this bigger lover. I began to feel a glow in my womb and my chest felt numb and buzzing and then I felt a release similar the sensation of urinating, but slightly higher than my urethra. And it felt big and blossoming, but distinctly different from an orgasm.

That first time it squirted in my lover’s eye. We both stopped for a second to laugh. I didn’t know what to say. He exclaimed, “You squirted!” I had no idea what that even meant, but I felt no shame about it. He seemed really pleased about it. And then we kept going.

Looking back on it, it’s my first experience with my g-spot.

Size Can Matter

I never felt that again until the first time I had sex with Troy (I’ll have to share that story some time – it was goddamned epic) and it was because his cock was big enough to massage my g-spot no matter what position we were in; I didn’t have to be on top. He was by far the biggest man I’d ever been with (around 8.5″). He was elated by my juices and I was utterly incapable of controlling them. They just happened to me. It became the center of our fucking.

Which is what set me off in the hunt of large cocks. Honestly, that’s the only reason. I happen to have a deep well and a larger member hits me just right every time. The smaller ones simply don’t. Until I learned some new tricks…

Head Space – What I do

Today I don’t need a large cock to squirt anymore – yay! I’ve learned to squirt on command about 4 out of every 5 times that I try, and it’s dependent on a couple of things. First, I have to be significantly turned on, and second, the more I trust my lover the easier it becomes. My head has to be in the right place if I’m the one in charge of my squirting.

When alone, I imagine gripping the shaft of a cock with my pussy like a fist, and then simultaneously I push out around it while relaxing. All my focus, all my energy, all my breath is focused on my cunt. I contract a few times, then release and push out. Repeat. It’s all I can feel. If I squirt by myself, totally alone, with nothing and no one touching me I am a quintessential cunt. I have this, I think, I am this. If I squirt with my Hitachi, which is actually fairly rare, I am typically sitting on the edge of a bed or standing, so there is pressure on my vulva.

When with a lover, tantric lovemaking elicits much wetness from me and my lover doesn’t even have to be participating in the method. Contracting my vaginal muscles as he pulls out – as if I were sucking him back in – and then pushing against him as he pushes back in – like bearing down – stimulates my g-spot. Switching back and forth like this is only possible when the pace is slower. When the pace is frantic I simply grip with all my might.

Skills – What He Does

There are two things that my lovers have done that have caused me to squirt deliberately. One is with their cock, the other with their hands and fingers.

With any size cock, he pulls out all the way or almost all the way, and if I’m doing my tantric gripping, the sensation of leaving my body makes me squirt.

With his hands and fingers, he curls his fingers inside of me with his palm on my pubis and he slams his hand against me in a small, rapid circular motion. It’s a lot of work for him, it’s not gentle. It’s rough and intense and has always, without exception, yielded results for me.

The Neighbor said that technique worked on an ex-girlfriend, as well, but she squirted with an orgasm at the end of his ministrations, whereas I squirted almost as soon as he put his hand on me and couldn’t stop until he stopped. And again, for me, squirting – or cumming as I sometimes refer to it – is very different from my orgasms, though extremely and overwhelmingly pleasurable. I am left deeply moved and affected; I feel done and relaxed and highly emotional.

Letting Go – It’s Not Pee

I don’t know how clear a picture I’m drawing here. Of course this is one woman’s experience with squirting, but I have talked to my lovers at great length about this. Troy devoured books about the female anatomy and he understood that the ejaculate traveled a similar path as urine, but was certainly not urine. He also believed that an old lover of his would have probably squirted herself, but each time she felt the sensation she ran to the toilet.

And here’s where I have to agree. The sensation prior to ejaculating is reminiscent of peeing, but that’s it. When we need to pee there’s a pressure in our bladder, unmistakable; with squirting, the sensation is lower, more concentrated around the urethra and clitoris.

We have to trust our bodies not to get wires crossed. It’s really that simple. I know I’ve had my run-ins with poo, so you’d think I’d be the last person on the planet to say TRUST YOUR BODY, but I really believe it. I know my system won’t allow me to piss all over my lover in a fit of passion. And in part my trust in my own body allows me to let go and allow the stimulation to rise and then exit my body via a squirt.

Sometimes the fluid is odorless, sometimes it’s musky, sometimes it’s less pleasant and more urine-like. And it can all come from the same woman on different days of the week. Its scent is tied up with hormones and ph levels. Some experts believe that all ejaculate has some urine mixed in, others resolutely say that’s not true. I’m of the camp that sometimes it can be mixed in with a little urine. My ejaculate, like all the anecdotal and scientific research I found, has varied from odorless to faintly of musky to strongly of urine. The Neighbor  never said anything and, in fact, once lifted a soaked towel to his face — which to me smelled faintly of urine — and told me it smelled delicious. His enthusiasm helped me to not care and to truly just let go.

Go For It

And here I have to ask a bigger question in general: Even if you did piss on your lover, so what?? You’re engaged in an intimate, messy activity that is inherently complicated and involved with the bowel, bladder, anus, and vagina just to name a few. Shit might happen (as you all know it certainly has with me). So I say, even if you do fear peeing, just fucking go for it. You won’t die and your lover will have a chance to show his mettle. And that’s the worst case scenario. Best case is that you’ll feel a g-spot ejaculation/orgasm!

I hope this has shed some light on the mysteriousness of squirting. I’d love to hear from other women who do it and hear your stories. Are they similar to mine? Different? What do you do to squirt? Do you have any control over it? And to all you women who have never done it, I say to you that you have nothing to lose in trying! Most of you will have the basic building blocks (Skene’s glands are necessary, some think), but at the very least you can have a ton of fun trying!

And here are some articles I liked regarding this whole thing:

Make Her Ejaculate

Female Ejaculation

Shejaculation: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Gush

Originally published 2/18/12.

I figured out how to buy a sports bra that fits.

My bust line is 44″. Forty-four motherfucking inches. On top of that my ribcage is huge; it’s a 36, but it’s also slightly concave as I’m sure you’ve noticed in my more revealing pics.

All this to say, I am large on top by mainstream standards. I wear a 36 DD bra and large, sometimes extra-large, shirts.

Thus, I’ve been buying XL sports bras so the cup will fully cover each breast.

The problem, however, is that if it fits the largeness requirement, it doesn’t fucking provide the proper support! There’s nothing more uncomfortable than large bags of flesh on your chest being tugged away from your body like hot gum from the pavement.

So in a moment of brilliance the other day, I bought two sports bras in a medium. It was as if the skies fucking parted.

The fabric, broad and soft, didn’t cut into me like I’d always expected, and the smaller size held me in like a warm, ace-bandage hug.

Oh, the bliss of my bountiful, bouncing boobies being blessedly bound to my bodacious body! Bliss, I tell you!

On a side note, I discovered today at softball practice that The Neighbor and 4 am girl are on some kind of Sunday Funday league thing together (this league stuff is how he met her 2 or 3 years ago).

I saw her stupid, $1500 mutt when I pulled up to the practice field where they were wrapping up their thing and my heart stopped for a second.

I know he’s lost all interest in her and only interacts with her for this team thing. I’m cool with it. As he once told me, “You won. You got me.” And it’s true. I don’t worry about losing him to someone anymore, least of all her. I’m a leaf in the wind, after all.

It still felt strange that he’s having anything to do with her, but, I guess, no stranger than finding out recently that two weeks after they broke up she called him from jail and he had to do one of those personal bond thingies to vouch for her dumb, drunk ass.

He’d said she’d wanted to keep it a secret and he’d honored that back then, but he no longer cares to keep her secret these days. I can respect that. I still can’t respect her or her $1500 mutt.

Anyway, lets talk about how awesome my new $10 Old Navy sports bras are!

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I get help from my friends.

I’m going to go out by myself later and I asked for advice from one I trust implicitly.  I have this feeling that 4 am girl is coming over tonight to stay with The Neighbor (he’s been over at her place four nights in a row; it makes sense she’d come tonight).  And I want to be scarce.  SCARCE.  Or just so drunk I don’t give a fuck.

The texting took a turn for the worse. All my fault, naturally.

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I promised not to touch him.

I figured I’d interrupt the regularly scheduled program of brokenhearted moaning and groaning and take some pleasant walks down memory lane.  This is an archived note I wrote back in August of ’10.   Jimmy happened before I’d met Troy, which is significant, and before I ever had sex as my marriage disintegrated into full-blown separation.  My voice is different to my new ears and honed writing skills, and to my better understanding of myself, but the message is the same: I love men, I love cock, I love sex, I am dissolute.  This will be part of a Memories Series just so as not to confuse you all with timelines and men — I know it’s confusing enough as it is.  Enjoy.

My evening started at around 6:45 with a photo of my skirt hiked up and my hand on my inner thigh that I texted to Jimmy, a former lover from eons ago, from a coffee shop on a busy street.

We texted for two hours.  Me, looking over my shoulder wondering if anyone could see the filthy things I was writing or any of his photos.  My pussy pulsed, my heart raced, I couldn’t stop fidgeting.

He was alone, he said.  Had a night “free.”  The girlfriend was out of town.

Eventually, I felt emboldened and texted, “So, for fantasy’s sake, what would happen if I came over right now?”  He’d already given me weak push-back.  I could tell he was struggling, but I certainly didn’t want to break him on the fidelity front.  I really was just testing.

He wrote back, Oh man… I think we’d have some wine… but wouldn’t take long for us to have our hands on each other.”  Then, “I’d want you to take it from me… make me give in.”

I told him to tell me where he lived and he (wisely) gave me cross-streets.  We laughed with LOLs at the evasion, but I knew enough to know he wasn’t far from where I was sitting.

I was so turned on I was shaking, and yet, it was juxtaposed with the reality that I looked like a normal woman sitting at a sidewalk cafe wearing a short, flowing skirt and a white v-neck.  It was incredible.  A fantasy come true.

I sent him a picture of my face and he remarked at how “dirty” I looked.  I felt like I could have slayed a dragon at that moment.  Had there been an armed robbery I would’ve saved the fucking day.

He told me he wished he could cum on my tits.  I drew a vivid picture for him of his hands on my body, his mouth on my tits, him pinning me down and pile driving into me while I pulled him in deeper with my hands.

Then he says this: “Yeah… fuck.  Holy shit.  I can’t even think.”  

I thought he’d just cum and that he was cum dumb and as a joke I say, “Quick, tell me where you live hahaha.”

And he does.  He fucking gave me an address.

My heart starts slamming in my chest, my pussy wetter than when showered, and I ask him if he’s serious.  I give him outs, I tell him to tell me to fuck off lest I walk to my car and come right over, but still he’s hemming and hawing.  He’s concerned that he “can’t” do anything and doesn’t trust himself, but I trust myself entirely and assure him that if it’s weird I’ll leave immediately, but I’d like to hang out if, at the very least, to talk about what the hell it is we’re doing with each other.

Then he says, Come on.”

So I go.

I arrive 10 minutes later outside of his little blue house.  Knock fucking knock.

We’re nervous, it is a little weird, but not bad.  It’s been 7 or 8 years since we’ve seen each other.  So much has changed and yet, nothing.  He’s still tall, goofy looking, hung, adorable.  When we fucked the couple of times we did back then it was electric and I didn’t know half the things I know now about him now, nor him about me.  We’d been sexting for 3 months.  I felt like I knew the inside of his sexual brain.

I have a glass of wine, he grabs a beer.  We smoke a cigarette, we chat about his house, our lives, a little about sex.  I am going to stay true to my fucking word and I am, literally, sitting on my hands.  I get a little saucy and when he returns from the bathroom I make sure to be leaning over to get some lip gloss from my purse.  I have no idea if he noticed, but a few minutes later he does something that changes the entire trajectory of the night for me.

He grabs my phone and starts flipping through our conversation from that afternoon, which also includes previous sexts.  He’s opening pics, we’re laughing, he keeps moving closer.  I don’t know what to do.  I’m vibrating with arousal.  I don’t want to push him even though he’s told me before that his sexual appetite inevitably ends any relationship he’s in, but I still certainly don’t want to be the catalyst; nor do I want him to associate me with guilt or regret.  He seems so easy and relaxed, we’re laughing, barely flirting, so on a whim I grab the phone and run into the bathroom with a twinkle in my eye.  I think I’m being funny, but not inappropriate.

I take a picture of the bra that he’s just told me is “fucking amazing” in my text pic and I come back out and text it to him.  And now it was my turn to change the course of the night; it brought everything to a whole new level.

And still I think I have it under control.

He gets the text and immediately gets a hard on, strokes it for me and draws my attention to it.  I would never have thought to look otherwise.  He says this is what happens to him whenever I send him a photo when he’s at work.  I tell him to re-enact the work scenario, so he stands up, turns his back to me and takes out his cock and phone and takes a pic of it and texts me back.  Modestly he puts his dick back in his pants and sits down.

I get the text and tell him what I would have texted.  His eyes glimmer, I’m humming between my legs.  I say, “Unbuckle your pants.”

And so he does.

“Stroke it for me.  I want to see.”

And he does.

We’re looking at each other with pain, mirth, and arousal.  I feel ablaze with desire and power and submission.  He could have asked me anything at that moment and I would have done it.

As he strokes his cock I sit on my hands and lean towards it.  I look him square in the eyes and say, “I promise I won’t touch it,” as I let my hair fall forward and tease the tip.  The air is electric.  I lean lower and open my mouth and let my hot breath skate across the head.  He moans.  I take a sip of wine, lean back over and let some dribble out over his cock.  He moans again and I close my eyes and envision devouring it with my mouth, I lean closer, spit on the head and suddenly I feel its heat hit my lips.  I jump up and apologize for losing my balance.

He says, “You didn’t.  It was me.”

I pull way back and breathe, chest rising.  I’m clutching at my thighs as I sit cross-legged for want of him.  I watch some more, my eyes on the heavy meat in his hands, a whole two feet away.

I want to see you! he demands suddenly as he lifts my skirt.  I understand immediately and pull it up around my waist, pull down my panties and start to stroke my clit. More.  I want to see that pussy.  Now.”  I pull my panties down more and plunge my fingers in.  I’m sopping wet.

“I can hear it already.”

I am soaring, climbing.

“I can smell you.”

“I can, too,” I whisper.

Then it’s a blur.  I was happy doing just that but then he’s looming over me, all 6’2″ of him.  “I want to touch you,” he whispers hoarsely.  I nod consent, completely delirious, and his long fingers stroke and enter me, his palm friction on my curls.  I look up at him and his face is intense and consuming mine, watching me.  I close my eyes again, overwhelmed with passion, unbelievably happy this is happening to me, happy with just this, then I feel his lips crush down on mine, his tongue plunders my mouth and he wraps my hair in his hand and pulls roughly.  He kisses my neck and then my mouth again, his hand still tangled in my hair and the other deep in my pussy.

I kiss him back fiercely, whimpering.  He stops kissing and keeps fingering me then wraps his big hand around my throat and I cry out.  This is what we’ve been talking about for months together: his hands on my throat while fucking me.  I clutch at his arms, still afraid to touch his cock, even now.  His hand is working furiously, he keeps bending down to ravage my mouth, I am lost.  So, utterly lost.

I grab his cock and squeeze but I can barely move; I can’t think.  He stands straight and it wobbles in front of my face.

“I want to suck it,” I gasp.

What?he asks.

“I want to suck it, I say throatily.  He nods.

I plunge down onto it and he grabs my head with both hands and chokes me with its length.  I have my hands wrapped around his ass pulling him into me then gag and cough and turn away only to dive back onto it.  My hand is around the shaft, my other hand is clutching his pant leg.

“I want to feel your balls.  Take your pants off,” I pant.  I rip his pants down and start sucking again like it’s oxygen, but still fondling his balls in one hand.  I can feel his hands on my head guiding me.  Then he whispers he’s going to cum.  I redouble my efforts because I know that if I make him wait we’ll do a whole lot more than just this.  My left hand is moving with my mouth, my right snakes around to his perineum and anus and my fingers push deftly at their fuzziness.

His moans tumble on top of one another and I drink his cum like it was the wine he’d given me earlier.  Some spills out down my chin and onto my neck as I suckle it to completion.

He throws himself back on the couch and I do the same.  I’m panting like I just ran a marathon.  I’m so jacked up I’m seeing stars.

He gets me a glass of water to rinse my mouth and I chuckle at the sweetness but tell him, “Don’t worry.  It tasted like nectar.  Really.”  He’s still skeptical, but then again, he’s not the one with jizz tingling on his tongue, either, so how could he possibly understand the beauty?

It takes us a cigarette, a bathroom break, and a lot of nervous walking and chatting before I calm down enough to feel ok to even drive.  He feels like an asshole, he says, but I reassure him he’s not.  If anyone’s the fucking asshole, it’s me.  Let’s be honest here.  He’s worried about me, keeps asking if I’m ok.  I laugh and tell him it’s not about me, then he reassures me he’s actually pretty good.  It’d have happened eventually anyway,” he says while looking at me directly.

I leave him with his thoughts and drive home thinking, “No one knows I just sucked dry an amazing cock.”  When I get home he texts me and I tell him as much and he says, “True… except me :-)”

Yes, except him.  Then he continues to reassure me that he was ok, had rationalized it already, and lamented that he felt like he’d “short changed” me.  I reassured him he hadn’t just as I was having my first orgasm.  After my second I simply said, “Mmm.”

A couple more “I’m good if you’re good”s were exchanged and here I am: sated; nostrils filled with the scent of his cum; fully understanding that I do still have “it”.

Am I a bad woman because of this?  Am I untrustworthy?  I can’t wrap my head around it because I’m still in the goddamned afterglow of the entire night.  We’ll see what happens to my conscience tomorrow morning.

I guess, sometimes shit just happens.  Wonderful, passionate, crazy shit.


I’ve been taking care of my vagina all wrong.

The clinician had grey hair faded from blonde, pendulous breasts, and a no-nonsense clip to her speech. “That’s right: only use white, unscented Dove bars on your vagina and never use the same razor blade twice.”

I sat on the exam table with my dress around my waist — pantiless — a paper blanket draped over my lap. “How could I have gone my entire life without knowing this?!”

She smirked, shrugged and said motioning to my crotch, “Nothing fancy down there. Ever.”

Yes, ma’am.

I already knew never to douche and that our vaginas are beautiful, yet fragile little ecosystems of bacteria, ph levels, and hormones, but Dove “soap”? I thought we were supposed to stick to au natural things like real soap made from natural ingredients. Not shit that happened by accident trying to make something else.

And my longtime relationship with body hair removal had taught me to exfoliate first, wear panties as little as possible and use Tend Skin for ingrown hairs, but disposable razors?? What about the landfills? What about my quintuple razor I bought special just for my sweet pussy to get extra smooth?

Nope. Bad. All bad.

So, I went out and bought a $5 bag of those cheap ass pink disposable razors because god knows I don’t want any trouble down there. I haven’t brought myself to buy the Dove bar, yet, but per Boss Lady’s instructions, I’ve halted all fragrant washings of my little peach and just use clean water while I bathe.

I also bought a bunch of running shorts with breathable mesh linings.

The manatees and buffalo may hate my new habits, but my pussy sure won’t.

Like my new shorts?