Female Ejacultaion as a Passive Experience


After nearly ten years of vigorously pursuing knowledge about female ejaculation, I finally experienced it myself. Why now, after all this time? Since there is no scientific consensus on female ejaculation I can’t be totally sure, but as I explained in my last post there were a few conditions of this particular sexual experience that I believe were integral components:

  • emotional intimacy
  • comfort/relaxation
  • smoking weed/being high
  • getting fucked/penetration
  • passivity

This post explores the role of passivity in my experience ejaculating.

To recap, when I first squirted I was getting fucked missionary position by a man on his couch. But it didn’t begin that way. It began with the much more common scenario of me trying to get out of having sex.

Those who know me well know that my desire to talk about sex is far greater than my desire to have sex. To those who don’t know me well, this often comes as a disappointment. I am acutely aware of this disappointment and the weight of it brings me such turmoil due to my nature of needing to please others, but more so due to my need to be seen as authentic. If I talk about sex and then don’t have it, it kind of looks like I’m not “walking the walk,” right?

I find myself in this situation regularly, and almost just as regularly there is an additional element of the fragility of the male ego. Maybe I feel like there is so much at stake in sexual consent because there seems to be so much gained by giving a girl an orgasm.

Nevertheless, I’ve come up with several strategies for dealing with this situation when it comes about, and I used one of these strategies the night I ejaculated for the first time. Here’s what happened:

He wanted to have sex. I didn’t want to have sex. I was too tired. As a compromise, I proposed that I would pretend like I was asleep and he could pretend to violate me, like in one of those sleeping porn videos. Though I think he was a little disappointed by my reticence to participate, we both got turned on by this idea and assumed position on the couch. I secretly believed I would actually just fall asleep by the time anything really got going and put a halt to the whole game, but I was wrong.

I was in some sort of partial sleep state. Combined with the marijuana, this lent to the kind of consciousness one is in during a massage–my mind and body weren’t separate. I was both fully in my body and totally out of body as I laid on my side and he peeled my panties down and started to fuck me from behind.

I maintained this fuzzy limpness as he flipped me over onto my back and fucked me hard. Had I been fully awake and active, this would have been the point when I would have started rubbing my pussy and trying to orgasm. But I did nothing because we were playing this sleeping game (was it a game? I wasn’t acting…).

Then it happened–I ejaculated. Not so much a squirt but a little splash, breaking on his lower abdomen with the intensity of a Noxzema commercial.


FEMALE EJACULATION! I finally did it!

This  image has nothing to do with the fact that I EJACULATED FOR THE FIRST TIME!

This image has nothing to do with the fact that I EJACULATED FOR THE FIRST TIME!

After nearly 10 years of occupying my mind with female ejaculation, I finally experienced it through my body! Here’s the bare-bones rundown of what happened:

I was having sex with a man on his couch in the dark. He was on top of me and I was on my back. Suddenly there was a splash of fluid on his lower abdomen. We simultaneously questioned what it was and realized what it was. We continued having sex until he came. Afterwords, we turned on the light and saw a wet spot on the couch that looked to measure about 5″ in diameter.

Here is a more detailed account of my experience:

The ejaculation came as a surprise. I wasn’t trying to ejaculate. I wasn’t even trying to have an orgasm. I didn’t feel the “squirt” of the fluid coming out of my urethra. I didn’t “push” and I didn’t feel any convulsions. It was only in retrospect that I recognized that the directional force of the fluid was coming from me. The fluid was warm. I could feel it dripping off of his body onto mine.

It wasn’t an orgasm, and I didn’t have an orgasm during this sexual experience. When I orgasm, I almost always need to chill out and recover after. I can’t continue having sex, I can’t really talk or touch or be touched, and I usually need to lay there and zone out in silence for at least a minute or two. Female ejaculation didn’t have the same effect as an orgasm. I didn’t need to rest. It didn’t deplete me the way that an orgasm does.

Although it is very cool to finally experience something I have only seen and heard about for 10 years, my first time ejaculating is most fascinating to me on an intellectual level. For example, why now? There’s so much to consider! In the coming days I’ll be writing a series of posts about my first experience with female ejaculation and the variables that I believe contributed to my ability to have this experience. These include:

  • Female ejaculation and emotional intimacy
  • Female ejaculation and relaxation/comfort
  • Female ejaculation and smoking marijuana
  • Female ejaculation and getting fucked/penetration
  • Female ejaculation as a passive experience

Stay tuned. And why not treat yourself to a pussy hat pin? :)

Phase II (#nofilter)


Sometimes I just start scheming and I can’t stop. Scheming rarely takes place in the realm of anything actionable, as was the extraordinary case of Friendship AssHoles. It usually happens on a much more personal, large-scale, and thus abstract level.

Right now I’m trying to convince myself to use Betty Nanos as my pen-name when I terminate Jane Fader and exploit her relics to support my next life. I’m also exploring ideas about how I might charge people to read me on Twitter, or collect my tweets into some sort of book and sell it. I’ve requested my archive from Twitter so many times. Where is it?

I’m literally thinking about all of this right now and for the first time. The ideas are flowing through my pencil onto the paper.

All I have to do is lock my Twitter account, lay low for a few days, and change my username. I can go undercover. I’ll come up with some entity and make Jane Fader one of the founders. Or maybe credit her as an executive producer doing contract work for a giant factory that pumps out micro-local celebrities on a conveyer belt in poor working conditions.

Unbound, I will transform into the corporation that I was born to be and sell the fuck out of Friendship AssHoles. This will fund Pussy Pendants: Phase II.

I Am Still Not Fully Assimilated to Seattle


At the beach with a group of friends, including a woman from Detroit who I’ve been eager to meet for months.

It’s a family trip to the beach in the traditional Seattle sense of family–a cooperative of parents and their 12 year-old daughter, a dream interpreter, and a peripheral web of their friends who live creatively.

We drove ten-deep in the the painted conversion van that belongs to the art collective–twelve including the dogs. I was on the floor in the way back with my dog and three others who passed the time by discussing new dietary restrictions and playing acoustic guitar. I was the only one in the van who was uncomfortable enough to declare “I’m going to kill myself” before the drive was over.

We arrived at the lake and walked down a long path to our own private beach. The little girl–who is so self-possessed I only use this phrase only for your convenience–presented me with a berry that she apparently had just picked. “Jane, this is for you.” Didn’t this kid’s parents teach her that berries are poisonous? But her mother–the woman from Detroit–urged me to enjoy the berry: “It’s like an afro explosion.”

I slip my dog a rawhide chew treat while we set up our blankets and chairs, causing a small flurry of concern to erupt amongst the group. “Norman! What did you get into?” A battery of reactions sets off in my head like a machine gun:

  • I failed to offer the other dog a chew treat. >>>
  • I feed Norman the type of chew treats that independent pet stores refuse to carry. >>>
  • The other dog may not be allowed to have rawhide chew treats. >>>
  • By giving rawhide chews to Norman I look like a bad dog owner. >>>
  • I look like a bad person.

I offer to give the other dog a rawhide. The woman from Detroit says she brought some chew treats, too, they’re just in her bag still.

I walk off to smoke a cigarette and get distracted by a watermelon rind and some beer cans I need to take pictures of.  Time flies.

“Jane, what are you doing?” the little girl calls to me. I scurry back to the group and sit behind the girl. “Oh, I’m just taking photos. Pics with my phone. Because I can’t learn how to use a real camera. And also I don’t have a real camera.”

An announcement: “Everyone! John brought a lovely spread for us from Met Market.” It looks like enough to feed two people who need something between lunch and dinner. Where were the Doritos and Oreos I brought? I poked around the bags surrounding our set-up but found nothing.

One of the parents extended a thing of raspberries to me and I took two. These raspberries were so good I decided that when my food stamp card gets refilled, that I would treat myself to some beautiful, organic fruits and vegetables. Because I deserve it. And this is the way things should taste.

I already decided that there wasn’t enough “spread” for everyone, and I didn’t feel like I had a right to what was there. I continued poking around for the junk food I brought. Was it in the cooler? No Doritos, no Oreos–just an extensive variety of kombucha, chia seed juice, and smoothie drinks gasping for air under a six-pack of Budweiser 22 oz. cans (my other contribution).

The group passes around a thing of smoked salmon while someone shows off the cool rocks she found on the shore. I was suddenly hit with the realization that I was so ashamed of taking my garbage pictures that I convinced a 12 year-old that I am totally negligible.

A week later I get my food stamps but don’t buy the fruit.

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You’ve probably seen me hinting around about my latest enterprise, Pussy Pendants. Pussy Pendants are shiny silver pendant necklaces with a subtle vaginal image that hangs right above your heart. I make them by hand and I must say: I’m pretty damn proud!

Since everyone loves pussy, this necklace has been an uplifting conversation-starter (as well as compliment magnet!) ever since I started wearing it. If you or anyone you know enjoys positive attention or radical craft aesthetics, try rocking a Pussy Pendant or gifting one for someone else to rock!

Normally Pussy Pendants are $17.95, but you can get one for only $9.99 when you use the code ILOVEU on Etsy. Don’t beat around the bush–the coupon is only good throughout the rest of July!

And don’t worry–I’ve got some more camgirl chronicles coming your way soon enough…

Now go get that pussy!