One New Year I met a fencer. I was very young, and knew nothing about sex. But that night I was in a particular mood so I came, far too early, probably when she was undressing or something. But rather than curl up and die with embarrassment, I decided to be brave and joyful. And most importantly, to just keep going, to be as affectionate and loving as I could for as long as I could.
At some point that night, she ejaculated. I didn’t know anything at all about female ejaculation at the time. I didn’t do anything technical. I didn’t even know about her G spot, far less stimulate it. I was bracingly unfamiliar with the Skene Glands, the female prostate.
It’s different now of course. Porn has got hold of it. As has that loathsome man, The Technical Lover. You can watch videos showing how to induce it in your woman. There’s lots of books. Something traditionally thought of as sacred has become something in one’s repertoire. It’s unbearably sad. The UK Government even chose to ban depiction of it in 2014, as they wrongly thought that female ejaculate was urine.
A society always gets what it believes. We don’t believe in magic, or the sacred, or that each one of us is intimate with everything, but we do believe in expertise. And so, everything sexual can become the object of that expertise.
I remember massaging a client anally, and she ejaculated, and said “How did you do that?” as if it was a trick. But perhaps it’s easier to believe in expertise than to believe that a woman’s body is a miracle, not a set of buttons. A miracle. Whole and entire.
It shouldn’t be necessary to say this, but it is. The thing which is unbearably sad is that this -like the presence or absence of pubic hair, it has become one more way to shame women. It’s one more thing that you’re expected to do, one more thing to feel inadequate about.
You could say that Primal Woman holds up the world. If we can’t see her in each woman, then we might all fall into oblivion. Think about that, Technical man.