At the claustrophobic clinic in Sherman Oaks, I drew the blood of porn stars so they could stay on the payroll. One sweltering morning, after James Deen, Ron Jeremy and Bella Donna left with their HIV-negative test results, a sly brunette walked in. From her paperwork I knew she was called “Ashley.”
Ashley handed me her urine sample, eyeballed my cleavage, and sat down in my plastic orange chair where I secured a thick, red tourniquet around her slim upper arm. I asked her if she had ever passed out while giving blood. She shook her head of damaged, wavy hair and gave me a look that reminded me of a stoned Juliette Lewis. I commented on her juicy veins, and she gave my maroon scrubs and blue tennis sneakers a onceover. While we watched the clear plastic vials blacken with her fresh blood, I could tell she smelled my hustler DNA beneath my clinical garb—we sex workers always detect one another—so I wasn’t exactly surprised, or offended, when she started chatting me up about doing a “show.”
“What kind of show?” I asked. She described the couple she saw about once a month. She had sex with the wife while her husband looked on. This time the couple asked her to bring another girl along for tomorrow night’s session.
“The wife, Susan’s an ejaculator,” she said. This caught my attention. Despite my tenure in sex work, I had never been hired to make a woman squirt before.
“How many times in one night?” I wondered.
“Just once—but for about two hours,” Ashley said. She told me that for the show we would be paid four hundred bucks each— twice a week’s wages at the clinic where I worked part-time. The money was compelling enough—but mostly, I was driven by the curiosity to see something I had never seen another woman’s body do. Like a slutty girl scout, I wanted badges and gold starts for the erotic lessons I carried out on clients.
As usual, I would find it was worth it.
Female ejaculation has long been a controversial topic, often associated with things that are bad or gross or uncontrollable or requiring bleach to clean. But the confusion surrounding squirting simply points to the lack of research about the topic (and the sexual pleasure of women, more generally): there has never been a major study on female ejaculation. This poses a problem for someone who might want to make someone squirt: how do you make something happen, when no one really knows exactly what it is?
Experts advise to stimulate the G-spot. “Pressure on this area will invariably produce a desire to pee,” one wrote, which may explain why so many people, including doctors, have assumed that female ejaculation was urine, pure and simple. (In the 1980s, some doctors even prescribed pelvic-strengthening exercises to help women stop peeing during sex.) Other medical researchers —and informal researchers like myself—have discovered that the fluid is not urine at all: it’s neither clear nor yellow; it’s more like watered-down milk, sweeter than it is salty; it contains glucose and PSA fluid (proteins produced by prostate cells) and likely derives from the Skene Glands (on the anterior wall of the vagina, by the lower part of the urethra), named after Scottish gynecologist, Alexander Skene, who wrote about female ejaculation in a Western medical journal as early as 1880.
Little is proven however, and the only thing that’s truly certain is to come prepared. Recent studies report that women usually squirt about a teaspoon, but in some instances, rolling orgasms are possible, and they can squirt in large quantities. Plastic sheets or towels may be necessary.
The next night, after my shift at the clinic, Ashley showed up with a pair of pink booty shorts and a matching sparkly top for me to borrow. She drove us deep into the Valley where the couple’s remote McMansion was tucked away in a gated community. Past the front gates, the road wound up and around a mountain where the air smelled like horses. Bunnies raced across the street to avoid her shitty Honda Civic. She pushed a code to another private gate and parked in a large circular driveway. Ashley tapped on the front door and Susan’s husband, an overly tanned man in white terry cloth shorts, answered. He stuck his coffee-flavored tongue down my throat in lieu of an explanation of why he had hired us to make his wife’s pussy gush. He grabbed Ashley’s hand and led us up a winding staircase that ended in a candlelit master bedroom where towels covered the floor in front of a lit fireplace. Susan, a well-preserved blonde in her late 40’s, lounged in a soft beige chair and sipped white wine. They all shared a joint. I got undressed and sat on the floor.
“Make love to her,” Susan’s husband commanded. Susan was shaved except for a delicate strawberry-blonde landing strip that showed every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Come here,” she said.
Ashley took off her clothes and crawled towards Susan. I untied Susan’s aqua blue negligee and moved my head between her legs, close to Ashley’s so she could show me how to use my fingers and mouth. While Susan moved her hips towards us and began to relax into her rhythm, it began to feel like we were dancing to her music. Susan moaned and moved our heads gently and as she squirmed more urgently, my desire to make her squirt became more intense. “Watch this,” Ashley whispered and then it happened: Susan shot fluid onto the soft white towels beneath her and she gasped.
Watching Susan was like winning a tennis doubles match: a great effort requiring good timing and rhythm, coordination, attentiveness and quick fingers. As we worked together to serve Susan for the next hour, I felt overwhelmed with a sense of accomplishment and awe. I’d made many a horn dog come before, but I’d never seen this type of gracefully wild vulnerability from a woman. Seeing a woman ejaculate is like watching a dancer express human beauty— similar to what I’d call David Foster Wallace’s “sensuous epiphany,” a peak-like a sudden awareness at how glorious having a body is, how pleasurable and amazing and alive to touch a body and watch a sexy person obtain bliss.
The only way to get better at making a woman squirt is to practice again and again until it’s a beautiful, down the line slice with speed and skill. After that night, the couple became my regulars and paid my Hollywood rent for nearly two years. I showed up alone or with Ashley and made Susan squirt for two hours when I was between boyfriends or short on rent. Whether it was an act of extreme generosity that Susan’s husband hired Ashley and I to roll up our sleeves and tend to Susan’s orgasm or pure selfishness that he preferred to pay us instead doing the job, the best part was that I learned about female ejaculation. For, as I learned how to make Susan’s pussy squirt, I learned about all pussies.
The biggest secret about squirting? Anybody can make it happen.