Friday, October 19, 2012

Aint Nuthin' But A G Thang

I am not scientific. I still think of my IUD as a little person whom, upon being inserted into my "bagel" (cervix) using "tongs" (a speculum), stops pregnancy by knocking away sperm with plastic arms. Or a contraceptive crucifix. Both explanations are rooted in an overactive imagination rather than fact.

Therefore, my attempt to integrate an anatomical understanding of the vagina into this post is a stretch. Bare with me.

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This weekend, it happened. The flood. I've had ponds and pools before, most of the time gathered in the moist bellybutton of my partner. But this was something new. An eruption. A vaginal geyser. My first flood.

Obviously, "flood" isn't the correct term for the gushing of vaginal fluids. Folks today like to call it female ejaculation. The exact make up of female ejaculation is heavily debated. Up until the late 20th century, it was assumed to be some combination of urine and/or vaginal discharge. Then came the  "discovery" of the G-Spot (or Grafenberg spot). Although the exact location of the G-Spot has yet to be scientifically determined, the general consensus is that it is a bean-shaped bundle of spongy tissue, about 2-4 centimeters in length, which runs along the anterior vaginal wall. It is widely believed that the G-spot is where ejaculate is produced and expelled, a process that has given it the alternative title as the “female prostate”.

I knew all of this information prior to my own "flood". Hell, I have been trying to ejaculate for years. Cumming always seemed like a cool party trick—the grown-up equivalent to burping the ABC’s. There have been fingers, toys, cocks, and a variety of lubes, all utilized with the purpose of achieving G-Spot stimulation and female ejaculation. But the ejaculation never came. So imagine my disbelief when the floodgates broke this past weekend. I was terrified. I became convinced that something was wrong, or that I had peed, or that I had peed because something was wrong, or something was wrong so I peed to flush it out my system. All roads led to disease and urine. It is not a scenic route. 

In my defense, excess fluid can be a sign of a more serious condition, such as chlamydia, gonorrhea, or bacterial vaginosis (the latter is a regular, uninvited guest at my vag party). However, in all these cases, the fluid is often smelly and accompanied by itchiness. Female ejaculation doesn't itch and is considered to have a rather sweet aroma.

To calm my hypochondrical fears, I did what most 23-year-olds do following a bizarre sexual situation--I called my mom. She doesn't enjoy these phone calls. But, as I aptly pointed out, she's a doctor who deals with vagina's on a daily basis. What's one extra? Plus, I literally emerged from her genitals--face, feet, fists--my entire 8lb 7oz self was, at one point, inside of her vagina. The least she can do is listen to me talk about mine. She obliged. "It soaked through...right to the egg crate," I explained. Silence. "What does 'eggcrate' mean"? Poor lady thought egg crate was some hip, new sexual position, like tea-bagging or spread eagle. Once we got over the terminology hump, she calmed my fears: "When women get excited they sometimes ejaculate." There it was. I had read that information online and in books, heard it from friends and sex educators, and yet I only actually understood when it came from my mother. Funny how advice can depend upon the speaker.

There was something my mom couldn't fix--the embarrassment. It takes a lot for me to get embarrassed. But this was a lot of fluid. Plus, it was my first bone-sesh with this particular partner. Why my body chose to test out the flotation ability of the human penis with a new partner will always be a mystery. He was reassuring while he removed his vagina-covered sheets from the bed. Luckily, he has read this blog (ha!) so he was aware that sheet-changing wasn't usually involved in my sexual repertoire

Nonetheless, I was mortified. So I did what any normal person would do—I put my bra on his face like a bug. In my brain, brugging him was a good way to even-out the sexy-awkward playing fields. I'm realizing now that insisting he put my bra on his face is more embarrassing for me than for him.

I left a couple hours later, half-giggling, half-frowning, and 100% beet-red.

It's been five days since the incident. Embarrassment has slowly evolved into satisfaction. I had an incredible orgasm. I don't know how or why or what or where (good thing I know who), but it was an experience. Unlike my clitoral orgasms, this felt like a release. It was as though my vagina sighed while sinking into a bubble bath with unexpected jets. Relaxation. Stimulation. Joy.

In my opinion, it was well worth the mess. But next time I’m feeling juicy, I'll bring a towel. Just in case.

P.S. For more information, check out Tristan Taormino's The Secrets of Great G Spot Orgasms and Female Ejaculation

1 comment:

  1. I love these posts!! Its like something I would write if I had more wit - love it!!