A Wink And A Squirt

"Sorry, this is the only porn I have."

"No, it's good," I say. "It's just … how is she doing that?"

Sitting on the couch with Luke, a man I've been having a non-relationship with for the past six months, we’re watching a woman fuck some guy on her kitchen counter and ejaculate every three minutes. Or maybe the image is just being looped. Regardless, even within one loop, her ejaculate could fill a whole bucket. I've never even squirted a teaspoon's worth, a droplet, a smattering. Until now, I thought female ejaculate was a myth.

"I'm starting to feel a little inadequate."

"No, no. This woman’s insane. I've seen women ejaculate before, but not like this."

"You have?"

I've considered leaving this non-relationship many times, but my thinking is this: why leave now if it's possible for him to get a woman to do this? I want to do this. I want him to get me to do this. And I know if anyone can, it's Luke. I know this because he's very skilled. I've never had so many orgasms in my life. And he doesn't even need to be inside me to get me off. That's how skilled he is. And why is he so skilled? Because he's married.

To be clear, he's been separated from his wife for three years. But what I also want to be clear is that I knew that wife. We hung out together. When she and Luke separated, I lost touch with both of them. Now three years later, she's on the other side of the country, pregnant with another man's child, and her husband is on this side, giving me multiple orgasms. Is this entirely contingent on the skills only a married man could possess? Or is it partly psychological? Is it because he doesn't want to commit and, as a result, I've lost all inhibitions? Or is it because I do want to commit and enjoy chasing him down and losing my self-respect in the process? In one instance, I feel as though all my sinuses have been cleared. In another, I feel as though my head were made of soft paste. One flick of his finger could put a dent in my cranium; one whack could cause my brain to collapse into itself.

I already have my shirt off, which I removed before the porn even started. This is something I do within a half-hour of being in his apartment. It's August and there's no air conditioning. Keeping my clothes on in a bid to be coy is not an option here. Besides, he's wearing his wife-beater; I figure wearing just my bra is its equivalent. Soon my pants will be off, and he'll follow suit. We both know that once the first layer of clothes is removed, we're in for the night.

Now the woman and man are fucking on the kitchen floor. She just squirted another bucketful. I'm starting to squirm in my seat. But not because I'm feeling inadequate.

With our pants off, I jump on top of him. Immediately I feel my underwear being pulled down on either side of my thighs. His fingers find their way inside me, and though I don't end up ejaculating, I come in record time. This I know because he counts it in his head.

"That only took you about ninety seconds. That's the quickest yet."

"You know, I've never come from just being fingered before."

"Really? But you come so easily. Ninety seconds, in fact."

"Yeah, with you I do."

"Don't guys know how to do it?"

"Apparently not."

"Well, don't you show them how to do it?"

"Why don't you show me how you do it, and then I can show them."

He shows me. It goes as follows: Insert the first two fingers 5 to 8 centimetres inside the vagina. Position the fingers at 12:15 and make a "come hither" motion.

I don't tell him I'm not interested in being fingered by any other guy. I don’t tell him he’s the only one I want. Instead we somehow veer into a conversation about parallel universes, complete with a documentary viewing. Then we have sex and I rim his asshole for the first time. Isn't this the stuff love is made of?

Draped over him naked an hour later in bed, I wonder how I can keep this man in my life without any emotional messiness. If I don't love him now, is it just a matter of time? The fact that he is capable of stimulating my brain and sex organ simultaneously is something to hold on to. It might even be something to bring home to meet the family. But there’s no point in mulling it over. He doesn’t even want to date, for fuck’s sake. I could back out of this completely, but, I’m ashamed to say, now that he's in my life, I can't picture it without him. But is it even possible to be just friends with someone whom you know is capable of making you come in a minute and a half?

I decide not to call him for a week. He doesn't call me either. I use this time to do a little research. I look up female ejaculate on the Internet. When women experience a powerful orgasm, some are able to squirt liquid from their urethral opening. Don't worry, it's not pee; it's a seminal liquid, not unlike the male ejaculate. The difference between male and female cum lies in the consistency and volume. Female cum is more like water (which doesn’t contain semen), and can range from a couple of drops to almost two cups. Women who experience ejaculation feel like they are about to urinate, but that's just the muscular exertions of their orgasm. Fuck it. I pick up the phone.

"Hi," I say, "I was just wondering, what would you do if I accidentally peed your bed?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean, if I peed instead of ejaculated?"

"I don't know. What are you trying to say?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you saying you want to come over?"

"Uh …"

"I'm not doing anything right now."

"Well ..."

An hour later, I find myself on his couch. How did this happen?

"I'm sorry I haven't called you," he begins, pouring us each the first shot of tequila. I start to take off my shirt. "I'm just worried that, I don't know, that we'll end up in a situation where …" For a moment, my shirt is stuck on my forehead, but luckily I free myself just in time to feel my heart get a good pummelling. "I'm worried that we'll end up in a situation where you find yourself in love with me."

Arms still outstretched overhead, shirt dangling off one of my wrists, I gape at him, the air I try to inhale gets stuck in my throat. I want to kill him. I want to die of shame. I want to bury my face between his legs and tell him it's all true. I want to simultaneously ring his neck and ride his bone. I want to spontaneously combust on his couch and burn his apartment down in the process.

"Or," he continues, "I don't know, where I find myself in love with you."

Finally the air reaches my lungs and allows me to breathe again. I drop my arms, letting the shirt fall where it may, but continue to gape. "You know, it's a really good thing you said that because …" Wait. Is it even possible that what he's saying is true? Is he really equally worried about falling in love with me? If so, then what exactly is the problem? What's wrong with falling in love with me? What's wrong with me falling in love with him? No. He's lying. He just tagged that on at the end of the sentence. If he really meant it, wouldn't he have put it at the beginning of the sentence?

I make a snap decision. "I can't sleep with you anymore."

"Oh. Well, you do what you gotta do."

"But I still want to be friends."

"Okay."

"Great."

"So, what are you in the mood for tonight? I have a documentary about leprosy.”

"Uh … maybe later. Do you have anything funny?"

And, just like that, we're friends. He's natural and unaffected. I'm close to a nervous breakdown, not unlike the one Bill Hicks is having on TV right now.

This calls for more tequila.

An hour later, we find ourselves both drunk and pants-less. "Luke," I say, taking his shoulders and squaring them off with mine. "I can't sit here and not want to fuck you." Pausing for dramatic effect, I reach behind me and unclasp my bra. "I want to fuck you, and that's where I stand." He puts his half-smoked cigarette out and then whips my bra off.

Okay, so tequila and friendship don't mix. Now I know.

As he rams me with his fingers, something feels different. More intense. Maybe a different part of my vagina is being stimulated. I can almost feel it in my stomach. My legs start to shake. A weird sound comes out of me, like a squeal, comparable to that of a pig. And then I start panting. My mouth is dry. My pussy clenches around his fingers like the Jaws of Life. He stops. I collapse under him. He gives me a couple of minutes to catch my breath.

"I think I hit your A-Spot," he says.

"What? I have an A-Spot?"

"It's just a little farther in than your G-Spot."

"Oh. Never heard of it."

"It's hard to find."

"Obviously."

I half-sit up and take a peek at him behind me. He's staring at my backside, beaming.

"You're not worried about falling in love with me, are you?" I ask.

"No."

A-Spot: Also known as the AFE Zone or Anterior Fomix Erogenous Zone. This is the female equivalent to the male prostate, known as "female degenerated prostate." It's located just above the cervix, at the innermost point of the vagina. In other words, between the cervix and the bladder. This is a patch of sensitive tissue, which causes women to lubricate and contract violently when stimulated.

I resolve not to see him for at least three months. I remember him saying once that time destroys everything. He might have been referring to his estranged wife. I'm not sure. At any rate, I can't bear to talk to him.

In the meantime, I manage to score myself a date with another man in my desperate attempt to move on.

"Do you remember that nude photo Burt Reynolds did for Playgirl in the ’80s?" my date asks over a goji berry smoothie at an organic, vegan, something-or-other, bullshit café. Thank God they serve beer. Organic, of course.

"The one where he's lying on a bear-skin rug?"

"That’s the one.”

“What about it?”

“Well, I was thinking of getting a painting done of myself like that and hanging it in the living room right next to the portrait of my dog."

As I sit across from my date, I try to be open-minded, but if this were Luke, he'd be talking about the history of Mexico or something remotely interesting like that, not the fridge magnet of Burt that inspired a horrible idea. He also wouldn't try to eat my face while kissing me.

I call Luke. All I want is a dose of normalcy. That's it, I swear. “So, what do you think? Do you think he was kidding?”

“I doubt it,” Luke says. “Why would he say it in the first place?”

“But then when I didn’t respond, he told me he was fucking with me.”

“I guess he could’ve been kidding, but it doesn’t sound like it.”

"Well, I don’t think I’ll go out with him again just in case you’re right."

I don’t need to question why I’m telling Luke about my unsuccessful date. The answer is obvious. But does it work? Of course not. Why would he be jealous of someone who matches his sunglasses with his shirt?

He invites me over. I accept without thinking about it and then later try to explain it to myself. Okay, it's true that I miss him, which is why I called in the first place, but if I go there, chances are I won't be able to control myself. So, I shouldn't go there. But don't I owe it to him to tell him in person that I don't want to see him? Yes, I believe I do. So, I'll just go and quickly explain that to him. That shouldn't take long. He probably won't even care. We'll share a couple of cigarettes, hug, and then I'll leave. Hopefully there won't be any tequila left. And hopefully I won't cry. Or take my clothes off.

How rarely things actually go as planned.

After a half-hour of awkward conversation, wherein I explain my need for distance, we have a drink and more than a couple of smokes. I'm touched by the fact that he's bummed and subdued. Maybe he cares about me more than I thought. I want to kiss him one last time. I lean in slowly and then bash my face into his. With his perfect tongue furled around mine, I make another snap decision: I'm fucking him, and that's all there is to it!

Again, with his glorious fingers prodding around inside me, something feels different. But I don't think it's my A-Spot this time. I'm not squealing like a pig or convulsing. Instead, I'm pounding the couch arm behind me, and I hear an odd never-before-heard swishing sound coming from my vagina. Then, something quite unexpected happens. Luke extracts his fingers and shows them to me. "Look."

"What?"

"Look at my fingers."

I squint, trying to see something. A spot of blood, perhaps. Maybe I just got my period, but big deal if I did. That wouldn't warrant such special attention, would it? He had been married for six years, surely he's seen menstrual blood before. He then takes my hand and places it on top of his. It's wet. He turns his hand to show that it's wet on the other side as well. "You did it," he says.

"Did what?"

"Ejaculated!"

Oh my God. Did I?

I lift my ass up and look underneath me. Lo and behold, there are three wet spots on the couch. Clear, not red.

"Holy shit! I didn't even notice."

"No?"

"I didn't feel like I had to pee at all!"

"I guess every woman's different."

"Take me to the bedroom," I say.

Once there, he repeats the process and again I ejaculate. Actually, to describe it more accurately, I squirt all over his leg. Not a bucketful, mind you, but a fair amount. And though I didn't notice (he had to point it out to me for the second time), I could feel friction, as though my vagina were immersed in water.

"Feel this," he says, replacing his fingers with mine. "When a woman ejaculates more than once, her pussy becomes completely engorged."

I poke at my vagina. It feels like a pincushion.

"Now try putting a finger inside." I comply and find I can't get my finger in past the tip. "Feel how tight that is?"

"Uh-huh," I say.

"See why it's a good thing you don't squirt like that woman in the porn?"

"Well," I say, removing my finger. "Got anything else I can poke?"

Giving my vagina time to recuperate, I focus on him. Turns out he does have something else I can poke.

It doesn't take long before I'm on my back and he's aggressively pounding into me. After only what feels like half a minute, I come. Again, I don't convulse. Or ejaculate, for that matter. But I do come, and never before has it been so quick. Thirty seconds, in fact. There's no doubt about it. This guy's a genius.

Since it's 4 a.m., I decide to stay the night. I offer to sleep on the wet side of the bed. I want to lie on top of my greatest sexual accomplishment to date. But as soon as I feel my cold, wet jiz against my skin, I change my mind and opt for a towel. He offers to take that side, but I can't help but feel its ownership.

As we begin to fall asleep, I ask, "I wonder why I've never ejaculated before. How much of that do you think was psychological?"

"Probably a big part of it."

“Interesting.”

He doesn’t want to commit and, as a result, I’ve lost all inhibitions. Or …

He kisses my forehead. I pass out.

The next morning, after eating breakfast and watching the leprosy documentary, we have sex one last time, but nothing out of the ordinary happens. I leave.

"Well, thank you," I say.

"For what?"

I don't answer. Or cry. Or take off my clothes in the doorway. I'm too numb for any of that. I simply give him a wink and walk away. As I step onto the streetcar, my swollen vagina helps me make yet another snap decision: From here on out, we’ll only sleep with divorced men.

Tammy Kenward is a freelance sex writer residing in Toronto, ON. Her essays have been published in NOW Magazine and currently appear in Clean Sheets, Inscribed.org and The Erotic Woman.

Check out Tammy's own site by visiting http://www.tammykenward.com. And don't miss her hot new sex column at http://www.shedoesthecity.com

Screwed Over