Maybe someday female ejaculation will be a science, or maybe it will always remain somewhat mystical.
Maybe it’s an art.
Flood of Information
Maybe someday, enough educated explorers will perform sufficient sexological studies on a great enough volume of valiant volunteers so as to enable humanity to thoroughly understand this fascinating phenomenon.
But for now, the scientific facts about squirting are still (surprisingly, for this supposedly over-exposed age of information) quite vague. 10 to 40 percent of women ejaculate. Fluid volume ranges from two to 150 milliliters. Squirting is an involuntary emission of sex-specific bladder-originating fluids and / or a prostate-specific androgen secretion from the Skene glands.
In other words, at this point in time, the science behind squirting reads somewhat like this: ???!!
Gushing About Her Experiences
Much of the so-called ‘evidence’ about squirting is still anecdotal and, as such, possibly only indicative of the experiences of one or a few women. Here are a few interesting-yet-still-anecdotal details from women that I have interviewed about their particular adventures on Planet Squirt. These may / may not only represent the viewpoint of one / a minority / most of the fortunate adventurers.
Anecdotal Info to Soak Up
- For some women, squirting is synonymous with climax. When she cums, she ejaculates.
- For some women, squirting is a separate circumstance that may or may not occur in conjunction with orgasm. She squirts, then later she cums.
- For some women, squirting is an integral part of any sex. When she has sex, she invariably makes a hot mess.
- For some women, squirting is a special occasion that only occurs in very intense sexual situations or with a very specific set of sexual criteria. She only squirts occasionally.
- For some women, squirting involves a high volume of ammonia.
- For some women, squirting involves low levels of ammonia or no ammonia at all.
- For some women, squirting can result from any form of sexual stimulation including oral sex, external clitoral stimulation, penile-vaginal intercourse, and other forms of penetration. Arousal = ejaculation.
- For some women, squirting only results from a specific (and often ‘come hither’-motion-related) form of sexual stimulation. When she is fingered in a certain way at a certain speed, she squirts.
- For some women, squirting can only take place when the object of penetration (finger, penis, dildo) is removed at the moment of ejaculation. “Take it out now!”
- For some women, squirting can only take place when the stimulation is continued up to and past the point of ejaculation. “Don’t stop!”
For Those of You Who Didn’t Drown in the Above Deluge of TMI and Are Still with Me
So maybe someday intricate studies of vast quantities of actual human beings will prove, disprove, or partially prove many of the above suppositions, and we’ll finally nail down the science of squirting like we have the science of the Human Sexual Response cycle or the science of Serotonin Levels in Bisexual Mice.
But maybe some things are better when they’re still a bit mystical.
And you – how do you squirt?
or The Runaway Firehose
They say that when a girl comes over for a drink and suddenly she excuses herself to use the bathroom, that’s when you know you’re in.
Girls pee before sex. Guys should not. Here’s why.
I have always postulated that girls have better sex than guys. They basically control the entire interaction. They usually have the last word on consent. Multiple orgasms. And what guy can just take off his dress or put your hand on his breast and in one fell, instant, unequivocal sweep, drive you completely crazy?
But that’s a theme for another article.
Another reason girls have better sex than guys is what’s going on in their heads while they’re doing it, as opposed to what’s going on in our heads.
Girls can think about whatever they want. Their whole sexual experience can be focused on their pleasure, feeling every inch of their bodies, reveling in their sexuality, inhaling their wildest sexual fantasies.
Us guys have to basically just think about our grandmas.
Girls can orient their entire experience toward the mounting pleasure they feel, relishing it and bathing in it and allowing their climax to slowly build up inside of them. Girls can spend every second of sex trying to make themselves cum. Guys spend every second of sex trying to stop themselves from cumming.
Which is where peeing after sex comes into play. Known (from now on, ahem) as the man’s secret weapon, waiting until after sex to pee can give you that slight extra edge of uncomfortability that can help you to stave off your orgasm until she is completely satisfied.
When he feels himself nearing the point of no return, the savvy post-sex-peer can focus on that pinpoint of pain in his bladder to back himself slowly off the ledge and back down into his safe place. A full bladder combined with a particularly wrinkly grandma can be just the key to help a man weather the climax storm until his woman is completely and thoroughly spent.
At which point, given the okay from her, he can then instantly and with zero effort unleash all the demons of hell, and then quickly rush off to the bathroom.
Where he will experience the secondary benefit of peeing after sex: a socially-acceptable excuse for sitting down while peeing.
Sitting down while peeing is one of the most wonderful feelings in the world. No longer having to combine balance, archery, and urination, the beauty of simply collapsing onto the seat and allowing the floodwaters to release themselves like a runaway firehose is a pleasure that almost rivals the dominant feelings of being able to stand up and pee all over stuff.
Because everyone knows that you can’t pee standing up right after sex.
That shit will go everywhere.
This morning I wrote a tweet, which started a conversation that made me think. I wrote this: “To me, fat is not funny or sympathetic. As a dangerous, debilitating, & easily-avoidable self-inflicted medical condition, fat is just sad.”
In response, I was told by a thoughtful man that what I had said was offensive to him. Now I am well aware that facts can be offensive (both in the immutable way that boys are generally stronger than girls and in the very mutable way that boys are generally paid more than girls). But was this offensive statement a fact, or was it just an offensive statement?
Keep in mind, I am talking about the physical dangers of being fat. I have never implied that fat is less smart, less attractive, less aesthetically pleasing, or less kind.
Smart: I have known brilliant minds whose bodies carried around the cross of this disorder.
Attractive: I have had girlfriends who were unilaterally considered overweight. Many people find certain kinds of fat very attractive (see this article’s featured image).
Aesthetic: Here in Mexico, they have a compound word ‘gordi-buenas,’ literally put together from the words ‘fat’ and ‘hot,’ implying that they are one and the same. (NOTE: Gordi-buenas refers to women. I have never heard of Gordi-buenos.)
Kind: I often think that due to the humor and ridicule many people (not me) associate with their condition, fat people tend to be kinder than most human beings of ideal weight.
But they’re also dying a lot faster.
I had made a number of very specific claims in my statement – that fat was 1: dangerous, 2: debilitating, 3: easily avoidable, and 4: self-inflicted. I wanted to find out if these were really the case. On a scale of one to 10, how specious was I being? Was fat really dangerous? Was it really self-inflicted?
One of the most obvious and (to me) one of the saddest types of fat also turns out to be the most dangerous. It is the visceral menace that accumulates around your waistline: belly fat. Researchers describe this fat as a brand new active organ that you have unwittingly grown inside your own body – an organ that steadily pumps poison into the rest of your organs.
Central obesity increases a woman’s risk of heart disease five times, her risk of breast cancer by a third, and doubles her risk of gallstones. It also increases men’s risk of erectile dysfunction, and of something called ‘all-cause mortality.’ That literally means that being fat increases your chances of dying early from anything, period.
Not only is fat dangerous, it is living on the fucking edge much more than skiing or skydiving. Statistically, eating and inactivity can beat any extreme sport hands down.
A debilitating disease is one that drastically weakens your body. Like congestive heart failure (four times more likely in obese persons). Or degenerative (osteo) arthritis (five times more likely in overweight persons). Or 37 other horrible illnesses that fat women are more likely to experience, and 29 debilitating conditions that fat men are more likely to develop.
In fact, the most dangerous type of fat mentioned above (belly fat) is actually the easiest to get rid of because of its proximity to the liver (fat-burning being one of the liver’s main jobs). Unfortunately, this means making healthy lifestyle choices. Every. Fucking. Day. It means taking that shit out of your mouth and getting up.
Eat actual food. Not too much. Move around. How much easier could it be?
Genes influence human physiology, but single-gene forms of obesity are very rare. It turns out that in most people, genetic factors only make a very small contribution to their weight – a contribution that can be easily counteracted by positive lifestyle choices such as physical activity and low caloric intake.
Is it because audiences see fat people as being jolly? As being out of control? As failing at being sexy so being forced to develop humor as a backup plan? A glance at Rolling Stones’ list of the 50 Funniest People in the World shows a much higher percentage of funny fat performers per capita than serious celebrity lists (Louis CK, Lena Dunham, Zach Galifianakis, Ricky Gervais, Rebel Wilson, Mindy Kaling, Tracy Morgan, Melissa McCarthy, among many other household names).
But if you are fat and you disagree with this post, chances are you mean well. A recent study on the indelible link between sugar and obesity (high sugar consumption = 50% increased likelihood of obesity) also highlighted another interesting fact: fat people are often in denial about how much they eat. The study indicated that people with a higher Body Mass Index tended to underestimate the amount of food they had eaten.
Fat people don’t make me laugh, they make me sad, much in the same way that chain smokers or heroin abusers don’t make me laugh. So if this post is fat-shaming, it is so in the way that the hideous pictures on cigarette cartons are smoker-shaming.
Cigarettes kill people. Fat kills more people and faster.
Back in 2001, Surgeon General David Satcher announced that fat was poised to take over tobacco as the leading cause of preventable deaths. In the 15 years since that announcement was made, fat has given smoking a sound beating year after year in the arena of killing humans.
But Surgeon General David Satcher was skinny and handsome and therefore not to be trusted.
Because as everyone knows, all beautiful people are stupid and have terrible personalities.
or Sex Is a Dance, but Dance Is Not a Sex
Some people think that Good Dancer = Good Sex. I believe there is only a fragile, superficial relationship between dancing and sex that rarely translates into real world correlation. It is possible to be good at both dancing and sex, just as it is possible to be good at both bowling and collecting stamps, but they have little bearing on each other. Here’s why.
Dancing is a rhythm.
One, nonstop, continuous rhythm following a steady beat. Within the song, the movements may change; the tempo and the accents rarely do.
Sex is not a rhythm. Sex is rhythms.
Sex is continually changing, biologically-responsive rhythms that break and crash and slow and speed up and above all adapt to ever-shifting moods in a way that dancing never could.
Dancing is about how you look, not how you feel.
The best dancers are not those who feel great about themselves, but those who conform to a strict objective standard of how a certain dance should appear. White people and Asians are generally marginalized when they dance, not because they feel any less good but because they tend to look less good (more awkward).
Sex is not about how you look. Sex is about how you feel.
Some of the best-feeling sex may look something not unlike a rhumba of rattlesnakes slithering slickly against each other in a writhing, terrifying ball of slime and scales. Or like a passel of pigs rooting at their troughs to get at the last kernel of slop. Or like a rhumba of rattlesnakes swallowing a passel of pigs whole. Sex discards looks for feelings in a way that dancing could never understand.
Dancing that looks great is real.
Dancing that looks good is usually an indicator of an intense emotional/psychological connection between the partners.
Sex that looks great – and steamy and tantalizing and picture perfect – is usually fake.
The indicators of intense emotional/psychological connection between sexual partners have nothing to do with observing how they look together. Sexual connection may be intangible to any but the two (or more) people involved and can be all but undetectable to the outside world. Only you two can say for sure exactly how deeply connected you are. Sex finds the essence of its connection less in practiced-movements-performed-robotically-to-synchronous-perfection and more in the organic flow of actual connection.
Porn, on the other hand, is not about how you feel.
Porn is about how you look. Good dancers might not necessarily be very good in bed, but they make great porn stars.
PS: For the purposes of this article, don’t confuse dancing with grooving. Dancing involves steps and systems and choreographies and performances. Grooving just involves music for your body to interpret in the way it feels best, as well as, occasionally, alcohol. Grooving is not dancing at all. But grooving is a lot like sex.
or Wicked Game
I did a bad thing, and I felt bad about it. But I didn’t do it with bad intentions.
I was honest with the First Sister when we sat in my car late at night making out half drunk, and she knew exactly who I was.
I was honest with the Second Sister when the First One left to travel the world. She knew about me and her sister, and I told her we should just be friends. I don’t remember how that changed. Somewhere in between the piano and the sketchbook, our clothes found themselves forgotten on the floor, and our hands found themselves intertwined in each other’s hair. We bonded over everything, the lyrics, the music, the movement, and the moments, and then we drifted apart. She also knew exactly who I was.
I was honest with the Third Sister when the Second One fell in love, got pregnant, and got married to a beautiful man. She knew about me and her sister, and about me and her other sister, and I told her that I wouldn’t touch her because it might hurt the Second Sister or the First One.
She knew exactly who I was when she tackled me on a lazy afternoon, held me down and forced her tongue between my lips and my hand between her thighs. She knew exactly who I was when she took it upon herself to deliberately seduce me, then go straight back to her sister and inform her. And she knew exactly what she was doing when she showed up to my house a third time, pitch black and soaking wet, to seduce me again then go back to her sister, her own sister, and rub it in her face again.
I did a bad thing, and I felt bad about it for a long time. But then it occurred to me: Whereas that bad thing just makes me a horny dude who can’t say no to the tall, hot blondes in my life, what the fuck does it make her? What kind of a rotten, horrible, hateful, abusive person does something like that deliberately, premeditatedly, and repeatedly… to her own flesh and blood?
I did a bad thing, but I feel less bad about it.
or Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist/Sexist
This is me.
I am white, male, 30 years old, born and raised overseas. For better or worse, I’ve been a victim of racial and sexual discrimination my whole life.
In China, 1990s, old people call us “gwai lo” (white devils) and spit as we pass, while young people cluster around us because it’s cool to have a white friend. University students throw “American” parties where guests come as rednecks, rock stars, and other white racial stereotypes.
In Pakistan, 2000s, young men glare knives at us from their dark eyes, call us “bahan chodh” (sister fuckers) to our faces, and become spontaneously violent with the “foreigners” at sporting events with little provocation. I eventually have to leave the country because of the danger to white people of mob lynchings and beheadings.
In Mexico, 2010s, half the country resents and despises the color white, and half the country is enamored of it. No one is color blind. Both criminals and law enforcement categorically substitute economic profiling for racial profiling to target us for mugging, kidnapping, and extortion. The racial slur “gringo” (the g word) is thrown around playfully and haphazardly with connotations of stupid and origins as a chant that literally calls for all white people to leave the country immediately. (In Mexico’s defense, they are slightly behind most developed countries in the moral prejudice arc of the universe: African descendants are still commonly referred to as Little Negroes and conjoined twins as Siamese.)
In the sexist arena, in all of those countries, unattractive women shower us with unwanted attention, catcalling under their breath as they pass us, undressing us with pornographic eyes, and grabbing at our bodies in dimly-lit or crowded environments or whenever given the flimsiest excuse. Attractive and insecure women insult us as a way to capture our interest.
People mock us, celebrate us, maim us, smooch us, cheat us, lavish us, fancy us, shun us, include us, exclude us, all because of the color of our skin or the symmetry of our faces and bodies.
We have to choose words and actions carefully because people are constantly measuring us against the image in their heads of the ugly/awesome American or the tall, handsome, and douchebag stranger.
To me, all of this has always just been the ups and downs of real life, unsheltered and sometimes scathing in the vast, loveless wildernesses of Earth 2.0 – where everyone wants something and bases the way they treat you on how likely you are to provide them with it. If you’re rich, everyone wants to steal from you. If you’re sexy, everyone wants to fuck you. If you’re smart… no one gives a shit. If you’re white or black or green, some people kiss you for it and some people kill you for it. It all depends on where you are and who’s in charge there. The world is a big, small, mean place.
It was only when I became more familiar with the haughty posturing of privileged postmodern pop culture that I realized you were allowed to whine about it.