For about six months I have been on a quest for female ejaculation. I long for it flow forth from me with ease. I watch videos of other women doing it with a little, envious tear forming in the corner of my eye. I masturbate with the intent of finding that jewel within me which will allow me to achieve the most holy and baptismal of orgasms. I have studied the teachings of Internet gurus, I have purchased a vibrator strictly because of reviews from happy first-time squirters. I know the science, and I even know I’m capable!
Once upon a time–I think I was about thirteen–I was on the floor in my bedroom with my panties pulled down to my ankles. I remember the itch of the carpet under my bare back, the sight of my Barbie Doll collection on my dresser beyond my legs. My feet were lifted toward the ceiling, cotton panties stretched between them, so that I could better access my rosy cunt with the makeshift dildo I had created from a cylindrical magnet that had been a Christmas gift to me from some relative as part of a toy science kit.
I wasn’t a virgin, but my one time had left me hungry for more, and I enjoyed fucking myself regularly with whatever implements I could fashion, and my precocious mind was constantly discovering new ways to stimulate myself. I voraciously read any sexual text I could get my hands on. When I spent the night at my grandmother’s house I would burn through her collection of Harlequin paperbacks, rereading the steamiest scenes and doing my best to commit them to memory, the better to inspire the exploration of my own body.
This time, as I said, I was on my back, with legs raised, fucking myself hard with my magnetic toy, my young, inexperienced mind open and ready to accept any possibility. Then, without warning, hot white liquid gushed forth from between my legs as my body shook with an orgasm.
At first I thought I had peed myself. Although there was no one watching I was embarrassed, and any possible pleasure was pushed out of my mind. Curious, I dabbed at it with my finger, sitting cross-legged, my plump little teenaged body curling over itself to inspect the goo. I smelled it. It didn’t smell like piss. Gingerly, I stuck my tongue out and touched the tip to my finger…
It tasted good! Sweet and sour and salty at the same time, with a hint of acidity… I’d never tasted my own cum before, but I was certainly going to from here out.
I remember giggling to myself about the squirting as I dabbed at the carpet with a towel. It excited me, but I thought I probably shouldn’t try it again unless I was better prepared for a mess. The next time I laid down a towel. I slipped the dildo in and pumped hard. But it didn’t happen. Nor did it happen the time after that. Nor the time after that. Soon enough I met my first girlfriend and became caught up exploring her body – and then after her, my first experience with a dominant man presented enough lessons to challenge my growing sexuality. And eventually I forgot about my little quest.
Then, one day about six months ago, I was on the floor of my bedroom, so consumed with desire after a long, stressful day of work that I didn’t even make it to my bed before I dug a dildo out of my dresser drawer and shoved it into my jeans and up into my hot, wet cunt. I collapsed to my knees, kicked off my pants, then laid back on the floor, my feet kicking over my head, my panties stretched between my ankles, a collection of kitsch visible atop my bookshelf beyond. And I remembered that amazing, cleansing feeling that came with squirting and I pumped harder, changing my angle to better rub my G-spot with the nubs of the beautiful blue crystalline dildo. I came. I came hard–so hard I nearly screamed, but I didn’t squirt.
God help the man who helps me get there again. I’ll trap him between my thighs forever and never let him go.
