The Night I Discovered What My Body Could Do

I’ve been touching myself since adolescence. At first I carried an enormous amount of guilt, the kind they drill into your head from girlhood about what a woman should or shouldn’t do with her own body. But the years went by and the guilt wore away, like a stain that rinses itself out over time. In its place was something else: pleasure, clean and without asking anyone’s permission.

I always enjoyed touching myself. Spreading my legs for myself, with no audience, with no one telling me what was right. Sliding my fingers inside me, or anything I had within reach that would do the trick, and letting myself be carried away by the rhythm of my own breathing. It was my private ritual, the only space where I didn’t have to answer to anyone.

I did it at night, almost always, when the house was asleep and I could hear my own pulse. I learned to know my body better than any lover who came after. I knew exactly where to press, how long to wait, how to breathe to stretch the moment out right before the end. That silent education, learned alone and in the dark, was the foundation for everything that came later.

The first time I heard about squirting, it was like discovering there was a secret room in a house I thought I knew by heart.

I was a curious girl who was just beginning to understand that I liked both men and women. I spent whole nights watching videos of other girls spraying stream after stream of their fluids, fascinated, with a mix of envy and desire I didn’t know how to name. I want to do that, I thought. I need to know what it feels like.

I remember it perfectly: a Saturday night, the house silent. I took my laptop and locked myself in my room. I looked up information, techniques, tips. Most of it said the same thing—patience, pressure on the right spot, don’t give up too soon—so I spread a towel over the bed just in case, settled back against the pillow, and prepared to try.

It took time. Almost half an hour touching myself, fingers buried deep, searching for that place everyone talked about as if it were a myth. At one point I thought about giving up, thought maybe my body wasn’t built for that. And then just when I was almost ready to stop, something changed.

A different kind of pressure, urgent, rising from within.

The squirt came out. I almost soaked the computer.

I stayed there, legs open, watching several streams fall onto the towel, trembling through an orgasm I enjoyed until the very last second. It was a physical revelation, almost scandalous. Lucky for me, it would be the first, but nowhere near the last.

***

A few years later I had one of my first serious boyfriends. His name was Tobías and he lived with that constant anxiety of people who are far away: we went weeks without seeing each other and everything held together by texts and video calls. One night the subject of sending each other photos and videos came up, the sort of thing you do when desire has nowhere to land.

He asked me for a video. He wanted to see me touching myself, he said, in that low voice he used when he was really turned on.

I agreed happily. Not to please him, but because the idea of performing for a camera, of knowing myself watched even from a distance, turned me on in a way I hadn’t expected. So I got to work on recording the hottest material I could.

I started with my fingers, slowly, looking into the lens as if it were him. But I wanted more. I took the handle of a hairbrush that was on the bedside table and started sliding it into myself slowly, like it was a cock, feeling the smooth plastic open its way in. This is going to get good, I thought, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh at my own boldness.

Then I had the idea to change positions. I leaned my torso and breasts against the bed and planted my legs firmly on the floor, offering my ass to the camera as the absolute star of the shot. It was an indecent pose, shameless, and that was exactly what I was after.

I kept going with the back-and-forth motion of my improvised dildo. The arousal started climbing up my back, along my thighs, until my legs were shaking without my being able to control them. It wasn’t just an orgasm announcing itself. It was one of those big ones, the kind that sweep everything away.

The streams spilled onto the floor in a provocative squirt, accompanied by my own moans, which escaped louder than I intended. When I finished the show and sat back up, still flushed, I looked at the puddle I’d left on the tiles. I smiled. I was finally able to squirt without effort, like learning to ride a bike and never forgetting how.

I sent the video to Tobías. His reply took barely a minute to arrive, and it was three words typed with trembling hands. That night I understood I had a power, and that I was only just beginning to use it.

***

More years passed. More lovers passed. And with each one I discovered how easy it was for me to become a fountain, how little my body needed to overflow.

There was one in particular, Damián, who made my squirting into his personal sport. The first time it happened, we were doing sixty-nine. I was sitting on his face, he had his mouth and fingers working me without mercy, and before I knew it I’d already filled his mouth with jets. His whole face was soaked.

He didn’t just not complain. He laughed, proud, his lips shining, as if he’d just won something.

—Again —he said, and went right back to burying his tongue.

From that night on, he made it a habit. Every time we fucked, he fingered me relentlessly, determined not to stop until I was a spring. He had big hands and infinite patience, and if he still had energy left, he was capable of sliding them into me over and over again until he dragged five squirts out of me in a single night.

He could get rough. I clung to him after every orgasm, nails dug into his back, because my legs stopped responding and I felt like I’d come apart if I didn’t hold on to something.

He had learned to read my body almost better than I had. He knew the exact instant my breathing changed, that second when I stopped moaning and held my breath, and right there he would speed up instead of easing off. It was as if he knew the map of my nerve endings by heart. I surrendered to that certainty of his, trusting him, knowing he would always take me one step beyond where I thought my limit was.

—Don’t let go —he’d whisper in my ear—. I’m not done with you yet.

And I didn’t want him to be done.

Once we did it in his own bed. Usually we fucked in motels, in that neutral ground where no one has to think about the sheets. But that night was different. That night, in the middle of everything, he grabbed my neck and squeezed just enough, choking me lightly, controlled, never going too far.

The gesture made my orgasm hurry, made everything concentrate into one point on the verge of exploding. I held my breath, felt my pulse hammering at my temples, and when he loosened his hand I let out a long, broken moan that emptied me completely.

I had soaked his sheets, his arm, half the mattress. A glorious mess.

I looked at him, still gasping, expecting him to make a face over the wreckage. But Damián was there, stretched out beside me, grinning from ear to ear, looking at what he had caused like someone admiring his own work.

—You’re going to have to sleep on the wet side —I said, laughing.

—Worth every inch —he replied.

***

Sometimes I think about that sixteen-year-old girl locked in a room on a Saturday night, following the instructions in a video with a towel on the bed and her heart racing. She had no idea what she was starting. She didn’t know that that first stream onto the towel was only the prologue to a story that would last for years, with different names and different beds, but always the same protagonist discovering what she was capable of.

For me, squirting is the most honest way to give pleasure material form. It can’t be faked, can’t be acted, can’t be hidden. Either it happens or it doesn’t, and when it does, it soaks everything, no apologies. It’s my body shouting the truth.

I like that shameless honesty. In a time when everything is simulated, when you learn to perform desire to please others, my body refuses to lie. I can’t fake a squirt the way you fake a moan; either I gush for real or nothing happens at all. And that impossibility of deceiving, far from making me uncomfortable, feels to me like the most liberating thing sex has ever given me.

As I write this, I confess, I’ve got the handle of that same brush from that afternoon inside me, remembering, letting memory do its work. Some fantasies don’t need inventing. You just have to close your eyes, open your legs, and go back to that first night when I understood that my body kept a liquid secret, and that I had been born to let it go.

I’m happy to be able to have them one after another. Happy I didn’t give up that endless half hour. Happy, above all, to have learned never to feel even a shred of guilt again.