Love & Sex

I Did It for Science: Female Ejaculation

Pin it


I Did It For Science by Grant Stoddard


To turn on the fountain of love.


State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.

Many people place female ejaculation in the same file as Sasquatch, the Loch Ness Monster and Chupacabra: titillating to think about, ultimately a crock of shit. It’s sort of a sexual urban legend: a woman’s ability to gush, shoot or drip ejaculate — not pee — as a result of G-spot stimulation. Yet according to many sex manuals and instructional vids, squirting can be readily learned, then regularly incorporated into mind-blowing sex with a partner. So until I conjure a tsunami d’amour from the crotch of my girlfriend, I’ll continue to feel like half a man. I never imagined that not having to buy rubber sheets from the incontinence aisle at the pharmacy would leave me feeling sexually inadequate.

Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).

DVD: New Sex Now (1)
Massage oil (cherry almond)
Book: The Big Bang

In this portion of your report, you must describe, step-by-step, what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.

Many of my experiments have put me in unfamiliar situations, but with female ejaculation I was really heading for (ahem) uncharted waters. I felt like Geraldo Rivera in 1986, opening Al Capone’s vault on live television: I was headed for a wondrous discovery — or professional suicide and a possible future on daytime television.

First, let me say that I am a believer in female ejaculation. I have seen it with my own eyes. Kind of. In September of 2000, I was traveling home from a sex party-type thing at Lisa Carver’s house. A couple named Lilly and Sven were giving me a ride from New Hampshire to Boston. En route to a funeral in Cheers country, they stopped by their house to change into suitable attire. As they dressed for mourning, Lilly sat me down in the living room and cheerfully put on a videotape of her and Sven fucking. In the ultimate scene, Sven helped Lilly produce an ejaculation so forceful that it hit the camera lens from five feet away and almost knocked it off the tripod. I was speechless. In porn, much trickery is employed to make vaginas appear to squirt — double the money shots, double the money, right? — but this was a couple’s home movie produced for their own edification. That was enough evidence for me.

Much smack has been talked about a woman’s ability to let her love flow. Some scientists have another name for female ejaculation: they call it pee. But in their new book The Big Bang, my esteemed colleagues Em and Lo note that female ejaculation was observed by the ancient Greeks, Japanese and Chinese. It’s even discussed in the Kama Sutra. I envisioned a time when the streets of Carthage, Sparta and Babylon were awash with unencumbered vaginal juices. (Apparently, squirting got a bad rap only in the eighteenth century, when it was deemed unladylike. So it’s apparently a lost art, like needlepoint or butter churning.) My further research indicated that many contemporary texts speak of the phenomenon. For example, in the Motley Crue memoir The Dirt, Tommy Lee refers to his ex-girlfriend Bullwinkle, who would keep the other band members entertained by squirting inordinate amounts of fluid across the group’s living room.

At this point, I think it’s important to address the reasons why one would want to soak the sheets in the first place. I called Lorelei, who was taken aback by my question. “Why?” she cried. “Because it’s fucking cool, that’s why!” Since female ejaculation usually, although not always, accompanies a G-spot orgasm, that appears to be the general consensus. When I quizzed other women about the accompanying physical sensations, I was told that it was a “different” kind of release, often more intense than a clitoral orgasm. “I never try to do it for anything but novel reasons,” said one friend. “Like for the fun of it, or because my lover wants to see. Personally, I just like it because it’s dirty in a very woman-power sort of way. And because I have a total juvenile fascination with what my body can do.”

After realizing that I wasn’t propositioning them, most of the women I spoke with had only vaguely heard of the phenomenon; they hadn’t expreienced it firsthand. Some of my guy friends, however, told tales for days. Kris, a Londoner, said that although he hadn’t slept with a squirter, his friend once had anal sex with a girl while employing a vibrator on her clitoris when the levee broke. Awestruck, I asked whether that was a regular occurrence, but apparently it was a one-night stand! (If I knew that people were having one-nighters in England involving sex toys, anal action and geysers of love juice, I’m not sure I would have left.) Another pal of mine, Dirk, waxed poetic about the composition of the ejaculate. “It’s water, or even thinner than water, like alcohol. I had a tiny cut on my finger, and it really stung when it got on me. It definitely wasn’t pee.” Dirk couldn’t remember "doing" anything different with his girl; he believes that some women do, and some just . . . don’t. (This is a sentiment shared by Em and Lo.)

My good friend Bing, however, is a goal-oriented dude. He claims to have made three formally continent girls let it all out, each for the first time. After I called bullshit on his bravado, he went through the trouble of bringing another girl home, then snapping a digital picture of the puddle they produced. (While I’d like to think that he just threw a pint of water on his comforter, I’m pretty sure that even Bing wouldn’t go that far. And before you ask — yes, he does have a Nerve Personals ad. Email me for details.) “There’s no mystery to it,” he assured me. “Just have tons of foreplay, like an hour or more, then go in, lean back and make sure you hit the sweet spot with your ridge.”

As I was stewing with indignation about being ultimately, finally sexually trumped by Bing, my editor slapped a DVD on my desk. According to its cover, New Sex Now contains secret, step-by-step techniques that will give any man the ability to "give any woman squirting orgasms every time” and thus "become a sexual god." This looked promising. The testimonials on the back cover had me racing to get out of the office and ruin my bedding. (“This has got to be illegal!” My whole body just feels out of control — and I just can’t stop cumming!”)

I called my girlfriend, Erica, and said she was in for a treat.

Quantify the effects of the experiment.

Before Erica and I began our session, we watched the DVD. Incidentally, it happens to be a laugh riot, far and away the most low-budget production I’ve ever witnessed. The host is Clint “Arte” (pron. Ar-tey) Arthur, a self-proclaimed sex guru from Marina del Rey, California. A tanned, handsome George Hamilton type, Arte stars in the hourlong production alongside the beautiful and enigmatic “Melody X.” Cue cheesy sex music and video graphics circa 1983. Erica and I squirmed on the sofa as a grinning Arte began to tell us how we’re doing it all wrong.

“Are you still having twentieth-century sex?” he asked us. An inordinate period of silence followed his question. The California breeze blew back his coiffed hair. Erica and I looked at each other. Were we? After several seconds, I felt compelled to say, “I think so.” Arte chuckled mockingly. “When I was younger, I had a lot of good sex, but great sex was the exception, not the rule. It made me feel like there was a mysterious void in sex . . . and in life.” I looked over at my girlfriend. At that moment, her void seemed more mysterious than I’d ever imagined.

Ponderously, Arte looked away from the camera. He recalled a time before New Sex. “When I was in my late twenties, I was in bed with my lover” , ew , “massaging the inside of her vagina with my fingers.” He formed his hand into a scoop and made a vague back-and-forth motion. “After a while, I began to feel contractions, then she started to get really wet. We both knew that she was on the edge of something neither of us had experienced before!”

Erica was transfixed.

“I kissed her,” Arte continued, “and assured her that she was safe. Soon, she had an orgasm so powerful it punctuated with an explosion of hot, wet pleasure!” Ersatz use of the word “punctuated” notwithstanding, we couldn’t help being simultaneously impressed and grossed out by Arte’s evangelical commitment to his brand of shagging.”With our juices mingling” — ew, ew — “we looked into each other’s eyes and felt a new level of intimacy and passion that was . . . ” — at that point, Arte looked toward the heavens in search of the precise word to describe this unprecedented feeling — ” . . . awesome!”

(A technical sidenote: The best feature of Arte’s straight-talk-to-the-camera demeanor was when he would adopt a David Letterman-style “dumb-guy” voice to relay a question he had been asked by a member of the public. “People come to me and say; ‘Heya Artaayy, I jus don’ gedditt! What in tarnation is you flappin’ yer gums about? Yuk yuk yuk!'”)

Switching gears, Arte gravely set down a bunch of rules:

     1. Don’t touch the vagina until sensual massage has reduced your partner to jelly.
     2. Cunnilingus is a distraction. Until you’ve mastered the digital rain dance, it should not even be attempted.
    3. Crucially, you must both be naked.

Arte says that clothes are what separate us from animals. New Sex is not civilized. Oh, no: New Sex is wild, feral. Arte asked us if tigers wore boxer shorts. He waited for an answer. “Ha ha ha, of course not!” he chuckled. (Sure, Arte, but a tiger doesn’t spend the better part of an hour pawing at a tigress’ G-spot neither. It’s pretty much in, out and start chasing dinner.)

Questionably pertinent animal-kingdom analogies aside, Arte made female ejaculation sound like a piece of cake. He implied that we’d be riding whitewater after our first go. I thought it would have been a great marketing technique if they’d packaged the DVD with a free tarp.

Before the movie cut to a single-shot view of Arte practicing what he preached, he gave us a little pep talk. “Be proud of yourself today, because you are courageous, open minded and have taken your first step on a journey!” Then, for the next twenty-five minutes, Arte bothered his lithe companion, Ms. X, with a variety of techniques that I duly noted. He said “buttocks” a lot. He encouraged men to say things like, “Oh, yeah,” and “you are so hot” and “I am so turned on right now.” This, we were told, helps intimacy. Apparently, a break in intimacy can disrupt the process. Two things Melody X did not do which would have improved this female-ejaculation video: a) said a few words about how she felt about the experience, or perhaps any words at all; and b) ejaculated. After all the buildup , the massaging, kissing, hugging and fingering , it didn’t happen! Erica and I felt a bit duped. It was like going to a freak show to see the Monkey Girl of Tongo, only to encounter a petite woman with some hair Elmer’s-glued to her forearms.

Undeterred, Erica and I went into the bedroom. Arte had suggested soft music and candlelight. My stereo had just broken, so we had to settle for the hum of my air conditioner and the angry-sounding shouts of my Chinese neighbors. The first job was to relax Erica with a sensual massage. I whipped out some good-smelling massage oil and started rubbing it into her stomach. I could hear Arte in my head: “Remember: Do not touch her vagina!

I know that what I’m about to say will seriously reduce my chances of being anyone’s first-choice life partner, but I don’t really like giving massages all that much. It makes my fingers ache, and it’s dull. I only enjoy paying inordinate amounts of attention to the good stuff. But that night, I was a man on a mission, more than prepared to do whatever it took to take the smug smile off of Bing’s face and put it on Erica’s.

Relaxed, seemingly turned on and with skin sporting more grease than a diner omelet, Erica indicated that it was time to put one of Arte’s dirty tricks to the test: kissing the feet. (Arte: “Now, I don’t have a foot fetish, but if those toes wanna be sucked, man, you know I’m gonna suck those toes!”) Her reaction: understated but favorable. (Arte: “Breathe on her vagina , hot breath on the vagina is a major turn-on.”) I hoisted Erica’s bum in the air and made like Rosie O’Donnell after scaling a flight of stairs. The verdict was even more favorable than I’d imagined. I wanted to go down on her badly. But Arte had predicted this, and he’d told me to resist the urge. He had also prophesied, correctly, that I might want my penis touched , that she might even want to touch it , but it was strictly forbidden. Holding out now would bring a better result in the end.

As instructed, I put Erica in a kind of one-armed bear hug while my other hand traveled below. First, I was to cup her coochie area without touching it, just letting the heat of my hand warm her like an overly familiar Reiki treatment. Then, Arte suggested making the Vulcan live-long-and-prosper hand shape. I was to massage both sides of the outer labia, then splay them and “fold” the inner ones. Vaginal origami, to be sure. In the heat of the moment, all this was a lot to remember, but the fun stuff felt close at hand.

Like watching The Man Show, G-spot stimulation can be uncomfortable for some but provide hours of amusement for others. As Em and Lo point out in their chapter on G-spot stimulation, some girls love it when you play with their chillingly named “urethral sponge,” some are unimpressed by it, and others would prefer that you rub wasabi in their eyes. The G is often bumpy and ridged; it sits slightly inside the front wall of the vag. Arte broke it down two times: “With your pointer or middle finger, you can either make a come-hither motion on the front wall, or simply apply pressure and slide in and out.” Erica and I opted for the come-hither. What followed was a lot of dialogue that won’t be making the pages of a Mills and Boone novel: “There?” “Harder?” “Like that?” “Clockwise?” “Another finger?” But in the interest of getting the party started right (and quickly), we went on like that until we had it down.

“Oooh, stop! I have to pee!” Erica cried, dismounting my finger and bolting into the bathroom. “No, I didn’t!” she said, chastened, a few seconds later. (Em and Lo write that the need to tinkle is a common feeling associated with G-spot stimulation.) We got back to business, and I immediately noticed that Erica’s facial expression was different than when I went down on her, or played with her G and clit simultaneously. She looked perplexed, with a furrowed brow and open mouth. She reminded me of those people who “receive the holy spirit” on televised evangelical masses. All she could murmur was, “Just like that!” and “Harder!” I took this as an encouraging sign. About ten minutes in, I began to feel vice-like contractions around my fingers. I figured that we’d have this all wrapped up in a jiffy.

Fifteen minutes later, I thought my arm was going to fall off. The bones in my fingers felt ready to fuse together permanently. Gritting my teeth, I focused on the crescendo of noises Erica was making.

I passed through the pain barrier at about twenty-seven minutes. Trying not to glance at the alarm clock, I wondered how long this was going to take. A female friend had told me that she could have a G-spot orgasm only after an hour of stimulation. I thought I’d never play guitar again. Yet I didn’t really care. To be honest, I don’t think I could have kept going if Erica didn’t seem to be on the cusp of something remarkable. For ten minutes, she assumed the posture of being halfway through an abdominal crunch, her face contorting with fantastical expressions. Her contractions continued; she was incredibly wet. If it takes all night, we are going to do this, I thought to myself, girding my loins, steeling myself.

Suddenly, Erica demanded that I stop. A tear trickled down her little face. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Had I broken our intimate bond of trust? Worse, had I broken her coochie?

“I am worried about your arm,” she said.

Not that Erica isn’t compassionate and kind, but this outpouring of emotion over a strained bicep seemed totally out of character. She was crying. “Don’t be silly!” I said, giving her a hug. I had conjured a fluid from her all right, but not the one I was after. Somehow, what I was doing down there had made her emotional. Nowhere had I read that was a byproduct of G-spot play.

Erica told me to stop using my fingers and have sex with her. I hesitated. Arte didn’t really give us any tips for bringing about squirting through intercourse. He mentioned that ejaculating inside her might bring about an ejaculatory response. Simultaneous ejaculation! But that roadmap was left frustratingly incomplete. A squirter friend told me that she couldn’t really let it all out when her vagina was accommodating a penis or dildo. But Bing told me that all his squirting acquaintences somehow manage it through fucking. I wondered if his rig bent the other way, or perhaps if he had some weird callus on it that made everything work. Undeterred, I folded Erica in half and leaned back as far as I could. The idea, as supported by my colleagues, was that the penis was to be angled toward the belly button with shallow strokes. After fifteen minutes, an understandably chafed Erica called time.

Summarize your findings. Don’t forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.

If my body could do something as mysterious as female ejaculation, you can bet that I’d be testing out it all the time. But I’m like that anyway. You know those people who can make farting noises under their armpits? I can do it under my neck and in my eye socket. How did I learn this? Christ only knows. I guess I just yearn to unlock the arcane potential of the human body. Although this experiment was technically a failure, both Erica and I felt that we were on the cusp of something different and potentially great. It was a tantalizing look at the possible.

After telling some squirter friends about what happened, they suggested that Erica practice alone, without the pressure of a nerdy, overzealous boyfriend expecting to be baptized with mystery fluid. That could put anybody off their stride. In any case, you can bet that she and I are going to revisit this experiment soon. We didn’t make it this time, but we’re both more than ready to believe the hype.

Do you have an idea for Grant’s next I Did It for Science? Let him know here.

 

© 2003 Grant Stoddard and Nerve.com, Inc.