There was a magnetism about Ethan* that was impossible to resist. We met for lunch one warm September afternoon, having spent all summer messaging on a dating app. I was instantly seduced by his brown tousled hair and chiselled features, coupled with the fact that he spoke three languages. He was easy to be around — it was as if we’d known each other for ages. Lunch turned into dinner and then into a kiss goodnight on a busy street corner. I could’ve had sex with him right there and then. Little did I know that the sex we’d eventually have would bring me an exhilarating waterfall of pleasure.
The following weekend, I invited Ethan over to my flat. I’d chilled a bottle of wine, lit candles, and had music playing. We were sitting on the sofa making small talk when he leaned in to kiss me on the lips, his beard softly tickling my chin. He was an excellent kisser, passionately exploring my mouth with his. Soon, with our lips still locked, he pulled me onto his lap so that I was straddling him in a kneeling position, his hard cock pressing against my crotch.
When I got up to take off my jeans, he did the same, eyeing me lustfully as I stripped down to my lace lingerie. As I stood before him, he slowly pulled down my knickers, licking and flicking my clit with his tongue. I could feel myself getting even wetter than I already was. Then he playfully pushed me down so that I was on all fours on the sofa, plunging himself inside me doggy style. It’s my favourite position and I quickly felt an orgasm rise. But seconds before I was about to climax, Ethan stopped, replacing his swollen penis with his finger as he continued to vigorously penetrate me from behind.
Suddenly, an explosion of hot liquid ran down my thighs. I was bucking and howling, unable to wrap my head around what Ethan was doing. Had he found my G-spot? The sensation was out of this world. It felt like the biggest release, as if every bit of pent-up energy was gushing out of my body. At some point I thought he must have come because the sofa was damp. But then I realised it wasn’t just damp — it was soaked. And not because of him… but because of me.
Immediately, I jumped up to inspect what appeared to be an enormous puddle seeping into the fabric of my sofa. “You squirted,” Ethan explained, sensing my confusion.
“But I’ve never squirted before in my life,” I told him. “That was unbelievable.”
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Over the next four months, every time Ethan and I had sex I insisted he make me squirt, which I learned is a rapid ejection of urine, along with other fluids, from the bladder. It only worked when he fingered me from behind. Once, while standing, I heard the liquid hit the hardwood floor as I got off. It was probably one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had. Then one day Ethan ghosted me and I never heard from him again.
Now I wonder if I’ll ever experience the phenomenon with future lovers — or on my own while masturbating, something I have yet to try (the logistics don’t make it very easy!). I do hope so, though, as squirting, I’ve discovered, is a magical elixir that I don’t want to live without.
*Name has been changed
