Love & Sex

Testing the Waters

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Early into my sexual experience, when a friend-with-benefits type lovingly christened me "Swimming Pool," I realized I wasn't like the other girls.

"You mean that doesn't happen to everyone?" I asked incredulously.

"Not even close."

Over the years partners have given me various other mortifying noms de guerre: Puddles, Betsy Wetsy, The Nile. I'll admit, I'm a little enthusiastic. I leave a parting gift, a souvenir if you will: a telltale stain that reads, "I Slept with Jenn and All I Got Was This Crappy Wet Spot." Yes, it's a little embarrassing, but is it really that big of a deal?

I've never ceased to be amazed by how many men answer that question "Yes!" Each new response gave me a little more insight into the man's psyche. Something as minor as a little female ejaculate always had to turn into a whole song and dance, complete with props and choreography of Broadway caliber. A few of the responses:

Just as things got good, the lights were flipped on and out came the oversized beach towels.

Mr. Blue Cross Goo-Shield
As soon as my jeans were around my ankles, like clockwork, Goo-Shield would spring into action, as if setting up for a picnic. Just as things got good, the lights were flipped on and out came the oversized beach towels, carefully laid over any surface on which I might wind up spread-eagle. I had two main issues with Goo's towel-shield approach: aside from making me feel like my come was liquid leprosy, there's something fundamentally wrong with having sex on terrycloth depicting Garfield the cat eating a pan of lasagna. 

Of course, there were days when we ran out of towels (as meticulous as this guy was about his stupid sheets, he did not do laundry nearly enough). On these occasions, I was relegated to the bathroom floor where any remnants of our romp could be easily mopped up. What did I learn from this experience? Avoid anyone over twenty who still has Garfield and Power Rangers beach towels.

Mr. Innocent By-Stander
Mr. By-Stander was obviously not destined to be a physics major. His brilliant plan was to do everything, everything, standing up. I tried to argue the whole concept of gravity, but he, in the sophisticated language of high-school guys, countered that I would feel "it" dripping down my leg so I could take care of "it" before "it" got onto the carpet.


It had been years since I'd quit gymnastics, but necessity dictated that my flexibility return relatively quickly. Within a week I was able to balance on one leg while resting the other on his shoulder and supporting myself against the wall… all so he could put his finger in me.

Can you tell how much I enjoyed this?

Every time I let out so much as a whimper of satisfaction, he got all paranoid, stammering: "Are you coming? Is it dripping? Don't let it get on my floor! My mom cleans my room!"

We had sex only once — standing up, of course — and I'm fairly confident that I lost all circulation in my left leg. The relationship did not last long. I could manually manipulate myself without morphing into a contortionist. And more importantly, if a guy's mom was still cleaning his room, I didn't want to be in it.

Mr. "You Leakin' It, You Sleep In It"
Mr. Sleep-In-It was actually the most reasonable of the men as far as the sex part was concerned. There were no cartoon-laden towels, acrobatics or Oedipus complexes involved. As long as we were doing it, he didn't care who left what behind where. It was only in our post-coital state that he would grow noticeably malicious. It didn't matter whose side of the bed the wet spot was on, he made it exceedingly clear that anything that came out of me was my mess and I would sleep in it. Like a dog, I learned not to crap where I eat, so to speak. Thus, we had lots of sex in lots of places, none of which were our respective beds. In the end, this guy was too territorial to date for any extended period of time. Not everything in a relationship, down to the wet spots on a sheet, has to be classified as "yours" and "mine." 

Mr. MC Hammer (a.k.a., "You Can't Touch This")
While I thought past partners were picky, Mr. Hammer (who was in his forties) took things to a whole new level. With the Hammer, any genitalia-to-sheet contact was strictly forbidden. As soon as it happened once, he never let it happen again. After my first (and only) "bedwetting" incident with him, Hammer devised an arsenal of positions (complete with illustrations for my edification) to keep my crotch — and any potential of it staining his sheets — at bay. Doggy-style, girl-on-top, reverse cowgirl, pile-driver, him standing while I lie on my back with my rump hanging off the side of the bed… it didn't matter what we did as long as I did not commit the one cardinal sin and let my wet nether-regions so much as graze his beloved bedding. While I appreciated his ingenuity, I never understood what made this man so fanatical about his sheets; they were only 200-threadcount and not even that cute. I later learned what the issue was. The sheets belonged to someone else: his live-in girlfriend.  

In the heat of the moment, I have found, most guys (and girls) will see it as a turn-on.

After having dealt with this situation for years now, this is the advice I can offer to other females who have an issue with getting a little more slippery when wet. First, always utilize the Jedi mind trick. If you don't act as if your excessive lube job is a problem, your partner might not see it as a problem either. Second, never bring up the situation out of context. In the heat of the moment, I have found, most guys (and girls) will see it as a turn-on. Saying something about how wet he is getting you, how really, really, really wet he's getting you, excites him — even motivates him to perform better. Telling someone over dinner — of, say, a piping hot bowl of clam chowder — not so much. And even though you'd be lying, there's nothing wrong with acting like it's the first time it's happened; many men see the ability to make a woman come excessively as a notch on their proverbial bedpost. If a partner can't handle your extra credit or makes you feel embarrassed in any way, that person is not worth your time. Save your breath and your moisture.  

And for you little Dutch boys at the dam, there are things you can do to deal with the leaky ladies in your life. First, take into account that in the wide world of sexual oddities, this is relatively harmless. Take it as a gift that you're with a girl you can make come, and do not make her feel like some sort of offensive mutant or like she's done something wrong. (Unless she's into that, in which case call her a bad girl and spank away!) If you can't get past a wet spot on your sheets, view it as an opportunity to try new things — new positions, sex in different places, etc. Ingenuity and creativity can bring a wealth of enjoyment, and being with a girl who makes it rain on you can actually be even more fun. 

Après le déluge, moi: after years of hits and misses in my own personal dunk-tank, I'm fortunate enough to be married to a guy who couldn't care less that I'm the wet-spot-leaver in the relationship. And though it's taken me many years and a variety of partners, I've finally learned that it's nothing to be embarrassed about or ashamed of. I'm a grown woman, I get wet like a grown woman, and I have sex like a grown woman. That's that.

Thus, I urge you, Wet Girls of America, stand tall! Lift your noble chins! Find someone worthy of your sweetness and get rid of those partners who are too immature to handle you. Let them sleep with someone with a similar junior-high mentality — that's where all the dry humping goes on anyway.  


Jennifer Rhodes is an oft-fired, rogue high-school teacher, an amateur pole dancer and writer pursuing her MFA in creative nonfiction at Antioch University, Los Angeles. When not sharing too much personal information through her stories, breaking up fights in school hallways or dangling upside down, Jenn can be found spoiling her dog and writing love letters to Lil Wayne.