Female Orgasms and “The Squirt.”

Clearly he’s never given a woman one.

The stupidity never ceases to amaze me. Every time I think I’ve seen it all, some dipshit comes along and proves me wrong. I guess stupid truly knows no bounds.

I can remember when I was much younger than I am today and I heard about women having orgasms. I can also remember hearing, and eventually seeing, a woman “squirt.” The first time I ever saw a woman squirt was in some porno video. Back then I wondered, “Is that fucking real? Or is it staged? Or god-forbid, is she peeing?”

Turns out the “squirt” is real. 2006 was the year that I found that out firsthand. I met a woman, I’ll call her “Cindy.” Cindy was a “squirter.” I didn’t know that until I took her home after having a couple of drinks at the local bar with her. We ended up in bed and as I’m penetrating her, she happens to mention that she may or may not squirt. Turns out she squirted. And then she squirted again. She squirted enough times that the sheets and the mattress were soaked. According to her, my dick was hitting her “just right.”

The first couple of times we had sex and she squirted, I’m not going to lie, it was an ego boost. I was “the man.” I could make this woman soak the bed just by thrusting in her.

After a couple of weeks though, the novelty of the “squirt” wore off, at least for me. I got tired of having to change my sheets every single time we had sex. I got tired of using towels to hopefully absorb some of her juice and spare my mattress. The towels weren’t enough and I was running out of them unless I wanted to wash a load of towels every time we had sex.

I also had to strip the bed down and let the mattress air dry. I don’t know now and I didn’t know then, but I didn’t want to take a chance on the mattress developing mold or mildew. Sleep was pretty much not an option as the majority of the bed was one big “wet spot.”

Cindy and I parted ways a couple of months later and my bed and my dick breathed a sigh of relief. Fucking a woman who squirts tends to mess with her natural lubricant and any artificial lubricant that you might use. It’s sort of like fucking in a pool or a hot tub but without the excitement of those particular water environments. There’s been times in my life where instead of premature ejaculation, I would have to worry about not coming. Having a woman squirt and shake and rattle and roll fucks up the rhythm and it can fuck up the sensitivity, at least for my cock, and then me coming is pretty much not going to happen.

It wasn’t until 2019 that I encountered another squirter, or at least one who squirted regularly. She loved what I could do to her body and I guess that our parts lined up perfectly to get her to squirt from penetration. Same thing happened as before. Soaked sheets, soaked towels, soaked mattress. Same loss of sensitivity and lack of ejaculations for me as well.

Now when I meet a woman who claims that she’s a “squirter,” I take pause. Do I really want to go through the mess and hassle of that again? Now I would be inclined to want to sleep with her at her own place or maybe a hotel/motel or something. That way I don’t have to clean up the mess and air shit out, that’s someone else’s problem.

The guy in the screen shot is naive or is a rank amateur at best. Saying that the female orgasm is a myth is false. Never mind squirting, which is another phenomenon altogether, but I have felt women orgasm. I’ve felt it on my hands, my face, and on my cock. I think it would be extremely hard to fake an actual orgasm. The throbbing and pulsing isn’t something that I think you can control. A woman may fake groans, moans, and even thrashing around, but that throb that happens inside her body? I don’t think she could fake that.

The look of ecstasy and longing in her eyes, the smile on her face, and at least in my experience, the giggling and laughing that usually accompany an orgasm is pretty hard to fake as well.

The female orgasm isn’t a myth, it’s real. So is squirting. Be careful who you listen to and what you read. There’s a lot of nonsense and bullshit out there.

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Failing? Or Failure?

I saw this tweet/poll the other day and of course, I answered it. I remember more the girls I have slept with than the girls that I have failed to sleep with. In more recent times, there’s only been one woman that I “failed” to sleep with that sticks out in my mind, and that was Sheila. The only reason that she sticks out to me is because she hit all of my physical buttons. She was short, petite, in shape, and didn’t have any children. However, her red flags were more than I could deal with, especially when all I wanted to do was bang. I’m reasonably certain that I could have banged her if I had put more time and energy into pursuing her, but the ROI wasn’t worth it to me.

Did I “fail?” If by failing you mean, I didn’t get what I wanted which was to have sex with her, then yes, I failed. But does that make me a failure? No.

This may come as a surprise to some of you out there, but I fail at something, sometimes many somethings, several times a day. I fuck shit up constantly, I don’t always get whatever it was that I was after, I fail and I get up, dust myself off and I go at it again. I learn from my failings and I learn to improvise, adapt, and overcome. Sometimes I learn that whatever it was that I was after wasn’t worth the price of admission. Sometimes I’m lazy and I just can’t be bothered because I don’t really want it that bad. Sometimes things are totally out of my control and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it but admit defeat and do a tactical withdrawal and either go at it from a different direction or just let it go entirely.

Every woman that I have had any form of relationship with, I have learned something. Every woman that I didn’t have a relationship in one form or another, I learned something. I’m always failing and I’m always learning. But I’m not a failure.

It’s okay to fail. It’s okay to try something and fuck it up. It’s okay to not get what you were going after. It happens. It’s not okay to just give up and consider that somehow it’s you that is completely the problem. Giving up is failure. Failure is when you assume it’s something about you and you can do nothing about it. It becomes omnipresent, static, and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s not about you, it is you.

Guys bitching that they can’t get laid because they are short are failures. They are making something that is completely out of their control their issue. Might as well just give up. If only you were taller, that would fix everything. Except it doesn’t. And women in general don’t give a fuck about your height. Not nearly as much as you do.

I’m not throwing shade at this guy for his comment to that poll. The truth is, I happen to really like this guy as far as being internet acquaintances goes. I’m also not going to try to read his mind. Why he focuses on his losses is anyone’s guess but his. He’s the only one that truly knows why he chooses to focus on the ones that got away versus the ones that he succeeded with. Does he think he is a failure? Hard to say for sure, but it appears that way to me. His last line “But I can still see the faces of all the attractive girls I’ve approached that I ultimately wasn’t good enough for,” tells me enough. I don’t know his situation, I don’t know the context, the nuance, and the details of his situation. In short, I don’t know enough about him to come to a solid decision as to what is going on here. It’s mostly a wild guess on my part but his tweet stood out to me. I like his honesty and personally, regardless of what he thinks or doesn’t think of himself, I don’t consider him a failure. Whatever he’s doing isn’t working is all. Maybe it’s time for him to try something different. Whether that be approaching women differently in different venues, or even moving to another town, city, state, or country. He has options whether he can see them or not. And if he doesn’t have options, it’s on him to create options for himself. I’m sure he’ll do just fine in the long run.

How does he know “he wasn’t good enough for them?” Because he didn’t have sex with them? Maybe it wasn’t about him. Maybe she (or they) had boyfriends, were married, in a relationship that they were happy with, on their periods, just broke up with somebody, were lesbians, or just weren’t interested at the time. God knows what and why women do what they do. They don’t know and we definitely don’t know, so who cares? Maybe they like guys from another race. I’ve had that happen to me. Met a gal years ago that I found hot and wanted to bang. Turns out she liked guys from another race. If I had been of that race I would have been in. Instead I wasn’t and that was that. It wasn’t personal and it wasn’t about me. She liked what she liked. It’s funny, but women have preferences and have “types,” just like we do.

The truth is, one woman, when it comes to the physical mechanics of sex, feels pretty much like the next one. There’s no such thing as bad pussy, just some better than others. This is why I didn’t put a lot of energy, time, or effort into pursuing Sheila. I know that she would feel pretty much like the next one or the one before her when I would have been up inside her. It was the price I would have had to pay in order to get to that sex that turned me away. Don’t get me wrong, if she would have been DTF the night I went out with her, I would have had sex with her, she was that hot to me. All of the logistical bullshit that I would have had to deal with in order to get her there on date #2 or more was more than I wanted to deal with though. So I simply reached out to her, got a sort of non-committal text from her, told her “Ah, okay,” and then left it in her court to see where it would go. Turns out it went nowhere, and that’s okay by me because there’s always another woman right around the corner.

Would I bang her today if she reached out to me? Probably not. Not unless she was willing to do most, if not all of the heavy lifting to make it happen. I have other options so there’s no sense in crying over spilled milk or a missed opportunity.

You ultimately have to decide if you have failed or if you are a failure. One is a lesson and it’s really the only way that we learn and sometimes we learn quick from it. The other one is a state of being where you have little to no control over it and it is usually a static state and part of your personality or your identity. Failing is okay and you’re going to fail, with whatever you do, especially in the beginning. The other is an identity complex and has more to do with your ego than anything else. One you can learn from, the other allows you to be a victim. The choice is yours. Choose wisely.

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Desire

Desire.

It’s one of my most favorite words in the dictionary. The word evokes so many things for me. From breasts dripping with sweat, the smell of sex, hot breath on your neck, nails scratching blood trails down your back, to eyes rolling in the back of your head orgasms, to her pussy grinding against my hand, my face, my crotch.

Desire is a dive bar that serves cheap booze and the smell of stale cigarettes is in the air. It’s the smell of sweat and the heat of bodies packed together, grinding, grazing, pushing and pulling towards one another. Desire is a beer bottle sliding on a guitar neck as the band plays the blues. Desire is the devil tempting me.

To quote Ronnie James Dio on Heaven and Hell: “There’s a big black shape looking up at me. He says I know where you ought to be! Come with me and I’ll give you, Desire. But first, you’ve got to burn, burn, burn, burn in fire!”

Desire is when she will drive two hours each way to come and fuck you. When she will get out of her car, throw herself against you, put her tongue in your mouth and you can taste the coffee and her need for you, and when she wraps her arms tightly around you and throws a leg around yours for good measure.

Desire is her walking through your door, climbing the stairs while stripping out of her shirt, dropping it on the staircase, unclasping her bra, and asking you, “Where’s your bedroom?” All while she hasn’t missed a step or a stride. Desire is the sweat in her hair as you pull it and the sweat on her breasts as you lick them.

Desire is her putting her arms around you while you are cooking bacon at the stove and she unbuttons your pants and sticks her hands down inside and grabs your cock and starts stroking you.

Desire is when you turn around and she drops to her knees in front of you, pulls your cock out of your pants and begins to suck. Desire is seeing her drooling while she is sucking your cock at the stove. Desire is when she pulls you from the stove and you absently turn it off so you don’t burn the house down and she is stripping, walking backwards to the bedroom as you pull your shirt off.

Desire is when you pull her pants and her panties down in one smooth fluid motion and she grinds her ass against your crotch and the juice from her pussy drips down onto the floor because she is so wet.

Desire is when she is breathless and can only whisper, “Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

Desire is when you are straddling her and she is gripping your cock and guiding you inside of her and she doesn’t care that you aren’t wearing a condom and she doesn’t care if you come inside her. That’s how bad she wants you.

Desire is when you come inside her and she screams and groans as you come and she comes too.

Desire is forbidden, taboo. Desire is carnal and naughty and earthly and smelly and messy and sweaty. Desire is salivating and salty and silly and funny sometimes too.

Desire is hot and exciting and wordless and breathless and sometimes it can be wrong but it feels so right and you do it and you want to keep doing it and when you’re done you want to do it again. Desire can move mountains and destroy civilizations. Desire is all that is holy and all that is sacrilege. Desire is heaven and hell.

Desire is biting and choking and bloody and sweet and tender sometimes.

Desire is about feeling and emotions. Desire is what is always tickling at the back of your mind.

Desire is a connection.

Desire is not a thesis. Desire is not an essay. Desire isn’t a set of variables that can be controlled for, not really. Desire isn’t an algorithm. Desire isn’t a computer simulation or a program. Desire isn’t a course on gumroad.

Desire isn’t logical or about logic. Desire isn’t contrived in a vacuum or in a laboratory setting. Desire isn’t rational. Desire isn’t about investment.

Desire just IS.

Desire is a fire. A burning. A need. A longing. A hunger.

Desire isn’t an equation to be solved for.

You can whisper desire. You can beg with desire. Desire will make you shudder and bring you to your knees.

You can write poetry about it. You can write and sing songs about it. You can play an instrument to it and harness it.

You can’t bottle it and put stock and credit into it.

Desire is the devil on your shoulder whispering to you to do all the things you want to do.

Desire is delicious.

Desire cannot be held in your hand and quantified and labeled and put in a jar on your shelf.

Desire cannot be negotiated. Desire cannot be “worked on.”

Desire cannot be controlled for and owned.

Desire is evocative. Desire isn’t sanitized and boring.

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