All Over

The first time I ever experienced squirting, I wasn’t the one doing it; I was in a sex club in Seoul, fingering a dreamily beautiful young woman who suddenly gushed all over my hand.  I stopped what I was doing out of pure surprise only to have the people around me prompt me to keep going.  By the time she was done, the whole floor around her and my dress were covered in her ejaculate.  Although I’d read and heard a LOT of accounts of squirting, I didn’t expect it to be that much fluid!  It was incredible – even though it’s totally a normal thing that a load of women do on the regular, I felt like I’d just witnessed a rare and colorful bird flying by.

I chalk this up to all the “How to Make Any Woman Squirt” articles that have popped up across magazines, websites, and YouTube videos in the past few years.  Although squirting has been a documented phenomenon for centuries, the way it’s been covered in mass media in the past five years – as something you “get” women to do if you’re a rock star lover – has made squirting feel like winning an impossible video game rather than just experiencing a cool thing that some women’s bodies do.

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Perhaps it’s just me, but it also seems that because of this, the pressure is on to learn how to squirt in order to please your partners – much like there’s pressure on young women to engage in anal sex and deep throating even if they’re not into it.  That being said, I’ve also read a lot of personal accounts of women squirting and their partners not being very sensitive about it (read: having an irrational freak out), which prompted them to feel bad about their bodies for ridiculous lengths of time… so maybe, like much of women’s sexuality, it’s a damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don’t thing.

As for me – I thought I’d never squirt because it’s just something that my body had never done.  I’m a super juicy girl; it takes very little arousal for me to become wet (like, soaking through my panties onto my pants wet), but I’d never full-on squirted… and then it happened in Malawi.  The Engineer was going down on me and pressing his fingers deep into my G-spot; when I came, it was all over his face and the sheets.  I laughed when he looked up, his smiling face dripping with my juices.  Luckily he laughed too, and when he came up to smear my own wetness on my face, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him fully before we showered and went out to the beach to let the sheets dry.  It hasn’t happened since, so maybe it’s a one-time thing for me.  At any rate, my personal feelings on squirting are this: It’s hot when it happens, but no woman should ever feel pressured to do it if she’s not into it or shamed if she does.  As Emily Nagoski says over and over and over in Come As You Are, we’re all normal, and squirting (or not) is a part of that.

 

Photo taken from Pixabay; credit: ariesa66.

 

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Signal

Coming back from the bathroom, I tuck a piece of red fabric into the breast pocket of his brand-new suit; it matches his tie perfectly.  It looks like a handkerchief with a small, neat triangle perfectly pointed up toward his face.  He looks down, then quizzically at me as if to say, “From whence did this matching handkerchief come?” And then it dawns on him.  “Are these your knickers?!” he asks.  I smile and slide into a seat next to him, caressing his leg, and whisper into his ear that it’s time to go home.  He raises his hand for the check, and we can’t get out of the restaurant fast enough.

 

I walk up to him in a crowded bar on New Year’s Eve, kiss him on the cheek, and press something into his hand.  “You have pockets, right?” I purr into his ear.  He nods in affirmation.  “Can you hold onto these for me?” I ask, walking away.  I turn my face over my shoulder and look back as he realizes what’s in his hand and, startled, blushes and shoves my panties into his pocket.

 

He slides my panties down and takes them gingerly off my legs, over my heels, in a public park at dusk; when he starts to lick me, I come almost immediately – something that hadn’t happened in over a decade.  He won’t give me my knickers back after I come, instead making me walk to and sit through dinner naked under my white sundress – my cunt swollen and wet most of the night, ready for when we get back to mine.

 

I’m prepping dinner at my kitchen counter; he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me. I lean back into his lips on my neck and press my ass back against him.  He slides his hands up my skirt to discover that I’m pantiless and takes that as an invitation to turn me around, push my skirt all the way up, pick me up, and fuck me on my kitchen counter (as I’d hoped he would) so we can work up an appetite.

 

For me, going commando is always a step toward some kind of sex – or at least a bomb of a hint that I’m interested in fucking.  I don’t particularly like being nude under my clothes; my thighs start to chafe a bit when I walk, and I find panties soooo comfortable.  But I love when my partners know I am – turning them on turns me on.  Whether it’s a tease at the beginning of the night or a signal at the end of a date that I’m ready to go, dropping my knickers gets both (all?) of us revved up and feisty and wanting more.

 

Dancing in Heels

I love watching the hips of someone who can really walk in heels – someone who knows it and owns it.  The swagger that comes with being comfortable walking on what are essentially mini-stilts – the command it gives a person as (s)he sidles across a crowded room – is palpable.  It’s mesmerizing.

The first time I truly recognized the power of heels, I was fifteen.  My closest friend and I dressed up for school one day in matching miniskirts and white vinyl knee high boots; walking the hallways and feeling the weight shift between my legs – feeling my hips switch – from the relatively short height of the heels, I felt powerful.  Feline, almost.  I felt like a young woman.

Fast forward twenty years: I own two pairs of high heels now, and they’re both strictly for dancing!  At some point between being a rebellious teenager who was trying to navigate the murky waters of identity and sexuality and becoming a confident woman who feels happiest when I’m most comfortable, I’ve ditched the heels for sneakers.

When I was working as a switch, I often had to wear heels for work; my clients would request specific colors, heights, or styles.  I’d use them to squish balls, stand taller against the St. Andrew’s cross, or give a strip tease, but I never felt quite comfortable moving in them.  I could put on a show and pretend, but I felt like a fraud – an awkward, clumsy girl who might topple over at any moment.  I always wondered if they could see through me… but likely not.  The illusion of desire and fantasy is strong.

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Dancing, however, is another story.  A dance instructor once told me that I should start blues dancing in heels; that it would change the way I moved.  That it would change my entire frame of mind.  She was right; once I tried it, I never looked back.  When I’m dancing in heels, I feel graceful, beautiful, balanced, and poised.  I feel sexy as fuck.  I can give smoldering, come-hither eyes to a partner across the dance floor who will then saunter over and put their hand in the small of my back without a word exchanged (this does happen sometimes, and it always feels like magic when it does).  I can spin fast in heels, several times in a row, loving how the silk lining in my skirt rustles against stockings stretched taut against the muscles in my legs.  I can dip and sway in heels, enjoying the attention they draw to my well-toned gams… and I feel most alive, sultry, and fully in my body when I do.

I just can’t walk in the damn things.

I guess that doesn’t matter though, because in the end, I can crawl in them… and I think I look pretty darn good on my knees in nothing but shiny black heels, cuffs, and a collar.

One Step Forward…

I grabbed his face and kissed him, my sweaty body sticking to his, knees bent and pressed deep into my couch cushions on the sides of his thighs.

“I need a break,” I said, and hopped off, turning on my heel to head toward the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, grabbing my hips and pulling me back down onto his lap.

“Yes!” I said, laughing, squirming, while he held me firmly in place.  I finally managed to wiggle down to the floor, where I threw myself forward, ready to take off – but he was quick.  He grabbed my biceps and held me there.  “Where are you going?” he asked with amusement.

“I have to pee!  Let me go!” I said, still laughing.  “Okay,” he said, briefly letting go of my arms for a moment.  As soon as I moved my arm forward onto the floor in front of me, however, he had grabbed my leg and dragged me back a few inches.

What ensued was me slowly making my way to the bathroom; I would crawl a foot forward and he would pull me back six inches.  I’d move, he’d drag.  I was no longer focused on my bladder – now we were playing a game.  The Texan is a foot taller than me and considerably heavier; the first time we wrestled, he was surprised at how long I could hold him down.  But now he was the one towering above me, letting me think I could almost make it before making sure I couldn’t.  And it was fucking hot.  What needed a respite before now re-lubricated at the struggle.  I wanted him to drag me, to pull me, to hold me down and immobilize me.  I strove to inch forward harder so he could pull me back just as hard.  It was exhausting, but it felt like much-needed relief in some way.

It triggered something in him that opened up to me that night.  In bed, in the dark, I held him tight; he told me some really personal things and asked me deep questions.  I felt more connected to him than I ever had.  It was like that struggle to move different directions had snapped us both into place next to each other, holding fast, at least for the night.

Back Words

For me, backs are without a doubt the sexiest body part.  Poets write longingly of a radiant smile, cherry lips, shining eyes, perfect skin; those things are lovely, but none of them catch my eye like a clear-cut scapula or beautiful lats, especially in women.  I love the roundness of breasts as much as the next guy; nice abs can make me sweat, and I appreciate dynamite gams… but when I see a woman with an open-backed shirt or dress, I stop in my tracks.

Muscular backs on men are hot*, but to me, muscular backs on women are a thousand times hotter.  Maybe it’s because most of our strongest muscles are in our legs, so we have to work for it.  Maybe it’s that women’s backs aren’t overtly sexualized by the media the way other body parts are, so there’s something tantalizing about them.  Maybe it’s waking up next to my lover and seeing the way the sun lights up the hills of her shoulders and the graceful slope into her lower back; or maybe it’s that I’m a dancer and I associate intimacy with strangers with having a hand placed squarely in the middle of my back, or mine in theirs.  These hands control my movements, subtly guiding my direction.

My strong back allows me to pick up partners who wrap their legs around me, and I love nothing more than being picked up myself (which is quite easy – I’m a small lady) and pinned against a wall.  The way a tongue feels gliding all the way down my spine makes me squirm in the best way possible, and I relish the feeling of a thuddy flogger hitting the space between my shoulders and the middle of my back over and over and over again until I’m sweating and breathing it all in in a heady subspace – then touched light as can be with a feather or run over with a wartenberg wheel ‘til I’m shivering and soaking wet.  I try to imagine what my partners see when they’re fucking me from behind, holding onto a shoulder with one hand and a hip with the other, and I love pressing down into the small of someone’s back as I’m pegging him or thrusting slowly into her with a strap-on.  Watching the ripples of someone’s back muscles as we move together makes me want to keep going past the point of exhaustion.  Most of all, I love how tiny my own back feels in the care of someone with big hands.  I feel secure.  Falling asleep with someone’s hand filling the small of my back feels reassuring.  It says: I’ll be here next to you when the sun comes up, and we’ll start our day together.

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*To a point; I’m turned off by the huge muscles of bodybuilders.

Intertwined

The first time I got a real haircut – more than a centimeter trim – was when I was thirteen years old.  I had the barber cut off eighteen inches of hair and asked my mom’s permission to dye it bright blonde.  I wanted to look drastically different as a way of physically separating these two phases of my life – childhood from adolescence.  I didn’t want to be seen as a child anymore.

I’ve always used my hair to mark transitions in my life.  When I entered high school, I dyed it vampire red with Manic Panic and really stuck out.  When I broke up with my boyfriend at the end of high school – a boyfriend who’d begged me for two years not to cut my hair – I chopped it off and gave it to him in an envelope.  Told him if he loved it so much, he could have it.  When I finally started transitioning into a mental and emotional phase of confidence and self-worth in my mid-twenties, I dyed it hair-color red to match all the red clothes I couldn’t stop buying that replaced the black ones.  I felt alive.  Renewed.  Bursting at the seams with erotic energy.  Around thirty, I stopped dying it completely after seventeen years of having done so because I started deeply and unapologetically loving my natural self.  When I leave Korea, I will once again cut it all off – repatriating is a scary and exciting and overwhelming prospect, and I want to go into it unencumbered – at least by long hair.

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I’ve used my hair for titillation – nothing like pulling a hair band out and letting it tumble down into the middle of my back on a first date or changing the style for a particular play scene.  I’ve had it cut intentionally short as an identity marker for other women to recognize me as a woman who’s attracted to women after being scoffed at for years walking into lesbian bars with my super long hair.  I’ve used it for pleasure, asking partner after partner to sink their fingers in, grab tight, and pull.  When someone snakes their fingers up the back of my head into my hair it sends tingles throughout my entire body and almost always makes me instantly wet.  I’ve used it to help deal with a broken heart and transition… and I’ve used it to entice partners to cuddle up close to me just to press their faces into my long locks and inhale (the shampoo I use, introduced to me by an ex-girlfriend, smells amazing).

My hair is intertwined with my identity.  Sometimes I get really fancy and spend twenty minutes putting it up or all day curling it; most days I’m lazy and throw it back in a loose bun.  It reflects my mood, my energy, phases I’m going through in life.  It’s a part of my emotional and sexual selves, and I’m very grateful for the choices I get to make regarding how I wish to change it.

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Momentary Perspectives

In the past year, I’ve come to really love my pubic hairafter having a partner (The Texan) who didn’t want me to shave it, ever.  It was as if having permission to let it growout – a permission that stemmed from desire – allowed me to experience how good it felt.  I love the way it feels physically when I push my fingers through it, how protective it feels, and how it’s come to be symbolic of a love that embraced a natural version of myself, just as I am.  For so many years, I’d shaved because I thought that was what was expected of me – I lived with the razor bumps and itchiness and never stopped to consider my own feelings.  It took a partner’s preference to make me reflect on my own.
I thought about writing a narrative piece for this, but when I think of pubic hair, several small and fleeting moments and memories pop into my head all at once, disjointed:
          a friend with benefits refusing to go down on me (that didn’t last long) because he thought shaved vulvas were pre-pubescent in appearance and it freaked him out;
          the first time I saw a shaved cock and balls and how much it freaked me out.  I didn’t say anything, but I was surprised and a little bit turned off.  Obviously not surprised anymore, but it’s still not my thing;
          a former partner who loved having her pubic hair tugged, just a little, while being eaten out, which was super hot;
          randomly finding The Texan’s pubic hairs all over my apartment and smiling every time, even weeks after he left;
          experiencing the different textures of the hair of different partners and relishing those differences
          running my fingers through the soft mound of hair that grows and grows when I travel (along with some pretty luxurious armpit hair, which I also really like growing out);  
          burying my face in a partner’s pubic hair after particularly sweaty sex to deeply inhale the scent of our fucking
Maybe that’s it.  Pubic hair catches the smell of us moving together in sync.  Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love it.  Or maybe it was finding one hidden behind my couch and suddenly remembering riding him, wave after wave of orgasm crashing down around me.  What was once a burden is now a deep well of pleasure, a replenishing source of desire.