The class was divided into three parts: lecture, live demo, and practice playtime.
The lecture was a PowerPoint. It defined squirting, reviewed techniques, and included time for Q&A. Nerd that I was, I took copious notes, Harriet the Spy style.
Despite listening to a lecture for half an hour about the topic, I still couldn’t figure out if it was pee. From what I could determine, the fluid that came out of a woman while squirting came from the bladder but wasn’t exactly urine. It was secreted from some gland that I couldn’t remember the name of and a woman could empty her bladder and still squirt. It wasn’t similar to urine in smell or color. Despite this, no one had specifically said, “No. It isn’t pee.”
After the PowerPoint portion ended, Thomas was going to demonstrate the squirting techniques on his partner Luly.
Without saying anything, just by the way she had walked into the room—shoulders back, head up—it was clear that she was fierce. She looked like someone who would have worked at the Dominatrix Den. She was a buxom babe with wild, curly hair that framed her face and demanded attention, kind of like Luly herself. She was wearing a corset on top and lacy underwear on the bottom; nothing like the granny panties I was wearing.
Thomas rolled out a white massage table covered in disposable, absorbent pads, like the kind used to train puppies. The whole setup looked sterile and uncomfortable. Given the luxe design of La Casa, I was expecting it to be sexier.
The puppy pads were throwing me off. I imagined a couple in the bedroom, passionately making love, when one of them stopped to grab the puppy pads.
Sex was messy, and I liked that. In my own life, I think I’d prefer to soak the sheets, but I could appreciate how clean and sterile La Casa was. Despite frequent sex parties, it was probably more sanitary than my own apartment.
Luly took off her clothes, climbed on the table, and lay down.
The class crowded around the massage table, Luly naked and resting in the middle. She didn’t feign modesty or pleasure.
Thomas instructed everyone to start touching their partners, to become familiar with their bodies and genitals. He wanted to heighten the sexual energy in the room.
As the couples started massaging and groping each other, I stood there with my hands folded across my chest.
Noticing me, Thomas said, “If you’re alone, touch yourself.”
I wasn’t sure where to look so I closed my eyes and slid my hand down my leg. I wanted to enjoy it, but I was feeling self-conscious about my single status.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one. The second single man I had chatted with came over and whispered in my ear, a little too loudly, asking if I wanted to be his partner.
I didn’t. It seemed weirder to fake intimacy than just accept that I was alone.
I said, “No thanks.” Still, he hovered for several minutes as I continued to ignore him.
“Squirting isn’t necessarily an orgasm,” Thomas explained, touching Luly’s thighs.
“Both feel pleasurable, but not necessarily the same,” Luly chimed in, her voice crisp and clear.
That was news to me. I’d always assumed that squirting was a powerful orgasm, like the top tier of orgasms. He was going to make her squirt first and then make her squirt and orgasm at the same time to demonstrate the differences.
He started stimulating her, inserting his fingers into her pussy in the proper position, hitting her G-spot. She didn’t seem too aroused; in fact, she looked a little bored.
“I’m going to externally stimulate Luly a little more,” he said, rubbing her clitoris and nipples.
Her face flushed as she started showing more visible signs of arousal.
“Now I’m going to head back in internally and make her squirt,” he said as he placed his fingers back in her pussy. Sure enough, a few moments later a spray of fluid gushed from her vagina onto the puppy pads. The fluid was white and milky, and, as promised, didn’t smell or look like urine.
As spectators, we weren’t sure what to do. It felt like the time I had accidentally watched American Pie with my parents: I didn’t want to move or breathe the wrong way. I looked down at the floor and pretended to pick some lint off my top.
“Let’s give Luly a round of applause!” Thomas said.
We applauded politely, as Thomas removed the puppy pad and replaced it with another one.
“Do you need a second or should we continue the demo?” he asked, turning toward Luly.
“Continue the demo,” Luly said, wiping sweat from her brow.
Thomas grabbed a large instrument from the bottom of the massage table. It was a Hitachi Magic Wand, and I knew that meant things were about to get serious.
“Now let me show you squirting with an orgasm,” he said.
He positioned the vibrator against her clitoris, rubbing her thighs and getting her ready for round two. He rotated between stimulating her internally and rubbing her clit.
This time around she seemed anything but bored. Her face contorted, and she started moaning and screaming. We were instructed to move outside of the “splash zone.” It took only a few minutes before she sprayed the entire table with fluid. The puppy pads were soaked and some liquid splashed onto the floor.
It was the first time I had ever seen another female orgasm live. I had watched plenty of porn but watching Luly was a totally different experience. It was both arousing and intimate.
This time we all clapped without being prompted. It seemed odd but it would have been even weirder to just stand there and not acknowledge anything.
We took a break so Luly could clean up. The next part was for couple’s only. They were going to practice the techniques. I desperately wanted to stay but wasn’t allowed because I was partner-less. This was technically a couple’s class so they were trying to protect against voyeurs.
I had made an agreement with myself at the beginning of the Coitus Chronicles that it wasn’t going to be scholarly. This had to be experiential; otherwise it was all phony. Sitting on the sidelines taking notes without trying things was disrespectful. If I did that, I was Busybody Bettie, someone who could easily extract herself from any stigmas by using the excuse “I’m here because I’m writing a book.”
No. I wasn’t going to do that. I needed to come back to class, this time with a partner.
I returned to the Playlab a few months later with Corwin. I had seen him only once since the Tantra exercise, at a cookout where I told him about the Playlab. He was always curious about sexual things, so he offered to go with me. He had already seen me naked, so it didn’t seem like too big of a leap to make.
He joined me at La Casa for the next class.
We watched the lecture and demo together.
After they asked all the single people to leave, I was over the moon that I got to stay this time. It felt like I was a member of a secret club of evolved, next-level sex-ers.
I high-fived Corwin.
“Go ahead and start to undress,” Thomas instructed.
Corwin had already seen me in my birthday suit but no one else in the room had. I did my best to not feel self-conscious and laid down on a puppy pad.
My stomach started growling, even though I had eaten before class.
I heard Thomas giving instructions but I couldn’t listen; my heart was beating too loudly in my head. Corwin was clasping his hands and trying to look cool but I could feel his nervous energy as well.
I couldn’t relax. I still wasn’t comfortable with public displays of sexuality. Not to mention, Corwin and I weren’t lovers. The more I thought about it, it was an astronomical, Grand Canyon–sized leap to go from a privately shared Tantra exercise to learning to squirt in public. I wasn’t ready, might never be ready, to be in a room where other people could see me maybe/maybe-not pee all over a puppy pad.
I sat up abruptly, the blood rushing to my face, and whispered to Corwin, “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Yeah, it’s a little much, huh?” he whispered back.
; I didn’t want to make it awkward by leaving but if there was one lesson I had truly gotten from all my explorations, it was that you never had to do things you didn’t want to do.
“Let’s leave.”
“Of course,” he said.
We got up and I quickly dressed, thanked Thomas for the class, and told him we were going to try the technique at home. Whether I wanted to be or not, I was still a lady-in-the-streets, freak-in-the-sheets kind of gal.
“Wanna go get ice cream?” I asked, turning to Corwin.
“Hell yes, that’s the best idea we’ve had all day.”
“Agreed,” I said, dragging him by the hand toward the ice cream store around the corner.
I wasn’t fully done with squirting. I resolved to try it.
At home.
Behind closed doors.
Without puppy pads.
With my next boyfriend. If there ever was one.
* It’s also possible to make yourself squirt, but this was a partner-focused class.
EVERYONE TOLD ME NOT TO DO IT AND I DID IT ANYWAY
Exes are a bad idea.
I knew this.
I told all my friends this when they hooked up with their exes.
And yet . . .
I hadn’t seen or talked to Simon in eight-or-so months when we decided to try the friend thing. He commented on one of my Facebook statuses which resulted in me sliding into his DMs and now we were meeting up as just friends.
After all, couldn’t two adults who enjoyed each other’s company be friends?
We met for dinner and coffee at a Whole Foods. Nothing could be more platonic than eating under fluorescent lights with a bunch of screaming toddlers.
On the day of, I arrived fifteen minutes early and paced a block away before finally heading toward our meeting spot.
I saw him standing by the flowers, looking handsome in a tan button-down shirt. My stomach clenched and the pit of nerves in my belly turned into a sick feeling.
You can do this, I thought walking through the front doors. You’re just going to act like you would with any other friend.
I walked up and gave him a cautious hug.
“Hey! So good to see you,” I said too enthusiastically.
“You too!” he said, matching the fakeness in my own tone.
We both ordered medium coffees, grabbed dinner from the buffet, and sat on a bench, side-by-side, as we had done many times before. Luckily, the smell of BBQ tofu wafting from the next table over killed any romantic ambiance.
“So, how’s your job and stuff?” I asked.
“Good, good, got a real nine-to-five now and everything. How’s yours?”
He seemed as nervous as I was: we were both talking too fast and trying too hard to act normal.
After we had covered all the basics, he asked, “How’s the book coming along?”
I avoided looking at him, pushing my rice around the to-go container with my fork.
What he meant was, “Have you written a chapter about me yet?” He knew it was inevitable after being the one to break the dry spell.
“Oh yeah, good, good . . .” was all I could manage to say.
He looked me squarely in the face and said, “Listen, I knew there was a chance you were going to write about me. I was in a bad place and I was a jackass. So, write the story how you need to. You don’t have to protect me.”
I scanned his eyes, assessing the sincerity of his statement. I was moved by the gesture. The sick feeling in my stomach went away, replaced by gratitude.
“We both know I’m going to,” I said.
His face softened in response.
“You gotta stop trying to protect everyone. And for the love of God, stop thinking so damn much, my dear.”
I laughed. We were infamous for our overthinking. It was probably the death of all of our relationships.
After that, we both relaxed and caught up on all the crazy stuff that had happened in the past several months, though I carefully left out my dating life.
Coffee turned into dessert and dessert turned into a walk. Conversation was easy, like it had always been. I was glad we were hanging out; I had missed him.
“That was fun,” he texted me after I left.
“Agreed, let’s do it again sometime.”
Sometime came a month later and then again a few weeks after that. We weren’t contacting each other regularly, but we weren’t avoiding each other as vigilantly as we had been. It was sporadic. Random drinks. Coffee in the park.
It was all friendly until one night we got drunk on sake and someone grabbed someone’s hand.
Someone kissed someone.
Before I knew it, we were doing the Cupid Shuffle all over again. To the right, to the right, to the right back to where we left off.
A few weeks later we went to the museum to celebrate his birthday.
I was déjà vu-ing in front of the Picassos to the date we’d had almost a year ago.
We sat down on a bench, and he brushed his lips across mine. I ran my fingers over the scar on this face.
We spent three hours meandering around the museum, debating the merits of Rauschenberg and admiring the Van Goghs before deciding to get dinner.
After eating, we stood on the sidewalk, sheltered from the rain, and kissed in a way we hadn’t kissed each other in a long time. It was deep, sensual, and caring. Our bodies were responding with heat and desire.
As his tongue grazed mine, I slid my hand up his back, underneath his shirt, rubbing his skin with need and desire.
He leaned over and kissed my neck. “God, I want to be inside of you,” he whispered.
Less than five minutes later, we were in a cab back to his apartment. He pulled off my shirt the minute we walked in the door. We were both fully naked before we had even hit his bedroom, clothes strewn all over his apartment for his roommate to find.
Our bodies rocked in sync until we both came.
Afterward, he reached for me and I went to him, soaking in the warmth of his body.
As we lay there, talking and holding each other, I could feel my heart beating a little too fast.
I was playing with fire. We still hadn’t clarified what we were doing. We didn’t contact each other every day. We didn’t see each other every week. I had no idea if he was dating other people. I wasn’t even sure if we were dating.
A week later he invited me over for dinner. He met me at the train station and walked me to his house where I was greeted with the smell of roasted chicken and potatoes. He’d spent all day getting ingredients from various farmers’ markets. Fresh rosemary and basil. Artisan chocolate and whiskey for dessert. Because I was looking for clues about what he and I were, it seemed like a good sign.
We cooked together, both of us taking turns reading the recipe and seasoning the potatoes.
When dinner was done cooking, we sat down on the couch, ready to eat.
“How’s your love life? Any new prospects?” he asked, casually, scooping some potatoes on to his fork.
I raised by eyebrows in confusion; talk about sending mixed signals.
“It’s fine. How’s yours?” I said in a tone that attempted to convey that this wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.
“Well, there was this one friend of mine, Angie. We tried to hook up and it was a disaster. It was sitcom-level awkward,” he said, laughing, making it clear that he was telling me because he thought I’d appreciate the joke of how catastrophic it had all been.
Maybe I was being an ol’ stick in the mud, but I didn’t see the humor.
He pulled out his phone, “It was such a wreck that it warranted an email to my dad,” he said, passing it to me so I could read the “hilarity.”
Goddamnit, Simon.
I stood up, grabbed my plate, and headed toward the kitchen to start cleaning the pots and pans. With my back to him, I placed my plate in the dishwasher. I was silent for a long time before I said, “I don’t really want to read that. And I definitely, definitely
don’t want to know about girls you fucked, or tried to fuck, or are trying to fuck.”
“I think you’re overreacting. I mean, I wouldn’t be upset if you told me about one of your lovers,” he replied.
What the fuck, man.
“Well, you and I are different,” I said.
“Okay, of course. I just thought, you know, because we’re friends, we could talk about this stuff. Like, I told all my other friends about the debacle with Angie.”
So, we were doing this. Pretending like we had zero history and we were just two people who hooked up when we were drunk.
When I didn’t say anything, he filled the silence by digging a deeper hole.
“Olive, I love your company. I get hard thinking about you. But one of the biggest problems I have with our friendship is that I can’t talk to you honestly about myself without hurting your feelings,” he replied.
One of my biggest problems was that we were sleeping together, and he was still referring to it as a friendship.
“We don’t make sense in a relationship,” I said to save face, despite the fact that earlier that morning I was considering the possibility of getting back together. “But we aren’t friends; we’re exes. And goddamnit, Simon, I’m a person and I have an ego. Do you understand how confusing this all is for me?” I said making a sweeping gesture toward the chocolate and the rest of the meal on the stove.
He looked around as if he’d just realized how I’d interpret this whole night.
I sighed heavily.
Right then and there I made a choice. I wasn’t doing this.
Old me might have put up with this crap and rationalized, Well, technically we aren’t in a relationship, and I didn’t ask him for clarity, so I don’t have any right to be mad.
But I was mad. I wasn’t going to stand there and pretend like we were hookup buddies and that having sex with him wasn’t meaningful for me. I wasn’t going to let him invalidate my feelings so that he could say and do whatever he wanted.
The Coitus Chronicles Page 18