Waterworks

The squirting orgasm, much sought after by many men (and until last night, myself included) as the ultimate demonstration of a woman’s pleasure. What it is though? According to WebMD, What Is a Squirting Orgasm: Squirting refers to fluid expelled from the vagina during orgasm. Not all people with vaginas squirt during orgasm, and those who do may only squirt some of the time.

Now that I have the definition out of the way, lets talk about what it means for me. I’ve witnessed it on an adult themed booze cruise in front of a crowd, I’ve tasted it’s salty sweetness on my tongue at the Fuckfest swingers party we went to the other year, and it is spectacular and a natural wonder to be celebrated. What it is not, is something I have ever been able to elicit from Her, in the many years I’ve loved her and whose sun I circle, and the one who for me, makes every moment worth living with her like there was no tomorrow.

And so last night at ‘the club’ when that beautiful black man lay with my lady, and within 4 seconds (yes I said 4 seconds) of fingering her, elicited a sopping wet sound the like of which generally occurs after hot ‘n heavy fucking (which they did later), I was surprised, and I was then immediately impressed that she was so ready. After all we had literally just met the guy. Then mere moments later when he started to slap his palm against her sopping lips and droplets of Her splattered over my face where I sat up by her head I realized she wasn’t just ready for sex, she had squirted.

She had squirted, in seconds under the ministrations of another, where in all my years of trying to be the best lover I could be, had never even come remotely close. Like, it wasn’t on the table, we weren’t thinking about, it just wasn’t something she was inclined to do. It was something other women did, but surely after all this time with me and all I could do for her, it just wasn’t something for Her. But it then suddenly it was, but not with me.

So yeah, that was a bucket of cold water on my poor little fragile cuck ego. I knew I was being a fool, just wasn’t sure exactly how but I knew it, and so I compartmentalized it. Hey kudos to all the previous train wrecks, I’ve learned to keep my shit cool until I can reflect on it later. So I was able to bring myself back up to maybe 90% of where I was only moments earlier, but I felt it churning in my gut, eating at me. However, I was able to ignore it. I watched this skilful lover pound his cock into her and take her away on a journey that only a strange and new man can, and I loved it. I loved it because the first huge cuck hurdle for me was embracing that I could never take her where these men can and do. I don’t need to go about that, if you’re a cuck you know what I mean.

I watched him manoeuvre her and thought, nice move dude, or, Oh, she’s really liking that! She held my gaze as she moaned with pleasure, and gripped my hand tightly when she couldn’t moan any more. It was a spectacular fucking, and I loved it, and so did she. My gut however, wouldn’t stop telling me I had a big problem brewing and I was going to have to face it.

I had every intention of going back to the room and giving her butterfly kisses as she drifted off into a contented sleep, for she had already told me her body was tired and sore and she didn’t think she was going to unlock me. I loved that btw, and she knew it. She knew the cage was ruthlessly denying me already, and her decision would only heighten the angst and bring me a mental fucking equal to what she’d just enjoyed herself in the physical.

However, she innocently asked how my night had been. The dam broke and I told her how poorly I felt about myself as a lover. As I spoke, the repressed feelings burst forth and I said I felt like I couldn’t go on in this lifestyle, that my ego couldn’t take it. “I have a hand!” I proclaimed, twisting it and wriggling my fingers in the air in front of me for her to see. “His looked no different, why was he able to give you that which I never could?!”

I talked of how I had come to embrace that other men had different cocks than mine, and abilities I either didn’t have or were just different than mine. I embrace it because while she has experienced the prowess of a true sexual Olympian, a lot of her escapades have been amazing simply because they were different. I’m good with that. Hey, there’s always someone better. Writing, singing, fighting, fucking…it’s just how it is and I’m soooo OK with that.

This was different. My hand was similar to his, what I could see him doing looked no different than anything I’d ever done or seen done, yet he’d brought her to a place I nor any other ever had, and thus foolishly thought I was safe from facing the truth of life in regards to this one thing. A thing that had meant nothing to me before, that wasn’t even on my radar, until it was in my face (literally). In the end, I had to accept that there really is always someone better, in ALL things.

I never once spoke loudly last night, I’ve long ago learned to keep my emotions in check when talking about lifestyle feelings, but I spoke honestly and she listened and comforted me like the amazing person she always is. We ordered late night pizza (it was so damn good), drank some beer and went to bed holding each other.

In the morning the angst had passed. I regretted saying anything at all now that I could see clearly, but I had. She was glad I shared my feelings because she was then able to help me work through them. We talked about it on the way home, and how this was just one of many more hurdles to come. There will be always be more. We are too inexperienced and naive to predict what they will be, but this lifestyle has taught us that they will come. The trick is to navigate them together, and always remember how much that amazing person loves you that has joined you on this journey unlike any other.

And to acknowledge just how much, regardless of my struggle, I really enjoyed watching that beautiful black man work his magic on my girl.