What It's Like to Be a Female Who Ejaculates

This was pre-Google, in 1996. There was very intentionally no Sex Ed
at Bedford High in Bedford, Ohio, and the fact that we all bought into
the mythical value of virginity had the unintended effect of
encouraging creative experimentation. Oral sex was okay. Getting
fingered. Basically anything besides s-e-x. By 16 years old, I would
become one of those girls who had had anal sex and still called
herself a virgin

***
All this experimentation started two years earlier with a boy named
Charlie. I'd thought I'd like the taste of an older boy's mouth,
cigarettes and metal and Listerine. The afternoon of our first "date,"
Charlie had gotten his tongue pierced. He wasn't supposed to be making
out, but we did it anyway, in his car in the parking lot. It felt sexy
and exciting to be liked by someone more "sophisticated," 16 to my 14.
He must really like me, I remember thinking, to be using his new
tongue ring before it was properly healed.
For days or weeks or months—I don't know, time stands still when
you're a teenage girl getting fingered—Charlie would pick me up in the
afternoons after work and bring me back to his house. While his
grandparents were away, we made out on the couch. I'd get naked and
we'd kiss. Sometimes I'd touch him through his clothes. When I did, he
felt enormous, engorged and insistent, and I'd become terribly
afraid—"dick shy," the boys my age would say.
Since Charlie was two years older than me, I trusted him. More and
more, I became comfortable lying next to him naked. He'd kiss me
everywhere, expecting nothing in return. We barely talked, always
getting right to business. He touched me, gently at first. I was
surprised to learn my body's responses. It was like he knew just what
to do. Slow or fast, he pushed his fingers inside of me, gently, then
harder.
One afternoon, as he was doing this, the living room began to spin.
The ordinary day crumpled into itself and, in one perfect moment,
everything centered on my body. As it was happening, Charlie told me
that I was having an orgasm.
***
Ejaculating with Rick was different than my earlier orgasms. In both
cases, prior to coming, there was the feeling of urgency. But instead
of pulling in, squirting felt like everything pushing out.
Perhaps unbelievably, it wasn't until my 30s that I masturbated for
the first time—not for an audience, but for myself. With my own hand
and a vibrator, I learned how to make myself squirt: not to impress a
guy, but to simply get off. I learned that I didn't need someone to
tell me what was happening, certainly not some boy.
When I did, it reminded me of the afternoon Rick and I broke into a
house that was under construction. Out of the hot Midwestern sun, and
a little like a church—there, among the fresh drywall and newly laid
carpeting, we left wet spots all over. Like the animals we were.

We Appreciate Every comment!!!!
follow us on twitter and like us on facebook