G had undone something. Gone past a barrier I didn’t know existed and suddenly the dam broke. Warm sticky liquid gushes out of me, like out of a vigorously shaken bottle of soda. I gasp breathless, panicked in mind and pleasured in body. What the hell is happening? My body is the force of a river in peak monsoon: bursting and flooding every surface it is in contact with.
Am I dying? Is this normal? Did I just pee all over G? Has he noticed? G locks eyes with me as I pull him into the shower. It is the most awkward unsexy shower I’ve ever had, as I try to wash off these treacherous fluids while being in denial that he has noticed. In my panic I lock him in the bathroom, while I desperately try to get rid of all evidence of the flash flood by stripping the bed. This is my second time with him. I had attributed the first time, which also featured a release that felt like an out-of-body experience, to my involuntary abstinence and strong imagination.
G tries to talk to me about it, but my embarrassment gets in the way. He says it was hot. A compliment. I don’t fully believe him. As he continues to discuss my strange reaction, I decide to shut him up by kissing him and let our bodies do the rest.
As soon as my front door closes and I’m alone, I locate my phone to consult ChatGPT and Google Aunty. Article 1 tells me I may have squirted. ChatGPT tells me I may have sexual incontinence. A sexual wellness influencer’s reel that magically turns up on my feed tells me that it could just be levels of an orgasm.
I have more questions and almost open another link when I remember that the more questions I ask, the more likely it is for the algorithm to laser focus on sending me tips for climaxing or fixing my sexual incontinence, which is likely to send me down a spiral no one needs. Instead, I open my freezer and douse my yearning for answers in ice-cream.
“I do not know what the pinnacle is, I do not know what it means or where to find it or how to acquire it…what is a pinnacle?” Francesca Bridgerton asks Penelope of Lady Whistledown fame in desperation. I cackle at this exchange with a girlfriend while we binge watch the latest season of Bridgerton. It is relatable because most women I know are still in the Regency era.
In our 20s we could just about admit that we had sex and enjoyed it. There was a fear of being labelled as sex-obsessed if details of the act were shared. Girls from good families didn’t discuss sex, we discussed being in love with our boyfriends. Orgasms were discussed in euphemisms, if at all. Isn’t it tragic that the female body remains a mystery to so many of us who possess one?
