Regardless of my feelings about what others think about squirting I had to accept the fact that I squirt. (I say, “Hello, my name is Slip, and I’m a squirter.” All together now, as a group, reply, “Hello Slip.”) So I got a copy of Squirt Salon which is hosted by Dr. Suzy Block (who presents sex in a fun relaxed way — I just love Suzy’s Weimar Love) and features Deborah Sundahl (the expert on female ejaculation). But I haven’t been able to watch it — not yet.
It took me this long to discuss my own squirting; I’m certainly not ready to watch others do it, much less drink it. Sacred it may be, but I’m not ready to be at that alter drinking my own divine fluids — and hubby? Hell, he grosses out when I talk about his own sacred fluid.
Funny how men are both proud of and disgusted by their own wads, isn’t it?
But really I’m no better. Indoctrinated by the culture in which I live I accept his own love juices, but freak at wetting my own sheets with my own. I happily gulp his sticky seed, but I blanch at tasting my own running rapture. There’s a twisted irony.
His come is no better, cleaner, safer, or sexier than my come. I know that in my head, but I’ve been taught a different reaction. Body fluids are not sacred here in this country — far from it. They are dirty, bad and shameful. Most especially female fluids. “Never trust anything that bleeds for seven days and lives.”
This is not just about our fluids. Women are less-than in our culture (damn near everywhere from what I see and read).
Being a woman I know all about how being treated inferior by the culture at large affects me. I know intellectually that being less-than means I must make certain accommodations, develop a tolerance if you will, of Master’s bullshit. But sometimes I hate it. Especially when it makes me think less of myself, of my sisters, than I do of men. Liquid orgasms included.
Which is precisely why I must watch the DVD. I’m going to have to accept this part of me, even if I have no desire to enter into a squirting contest.