WET WISHES COME TRUE

I’ve got some ground-breaking news for you. I know I have a tendency to get carried away but I do believe that my achievement could be the pivotal shift in human consciousness that mystics have been talking about for millenia...

You’ve probably heard the story of the hundredth monkey where research scientists on an island in Japan observed that the newly-learned behaviour of washing sweet potatoes gradually spread throughout the primates of the island and when it had reached a critical mass, transferred through some paranormal phenomenon, to the monkey inhabitants of all the other islands and they all began washing their potatoes. Being a Pollyanna type (and a bit of a hippy) I’ve always loved this story, even though Wikipedia – font of all knowledge - states that the ‘scientific conclusion’ has since been disproved. Finding this out smacks of the disappointment I felt when I discovered, aged eight, that Father Christmas didn’t really exist.

As usual, I’ve digressed a tad, but the point I was trying to make was this: now that I’ve done it, maybe all the women in the world will suddenly, miraculously be able to do it too! Perhaps it took so long, and seemed so difficult because I was the hundredth monkey, just waiting to pop.

“Has all that tantric fandango finally caused delusional disorder?” I hear you asking.

“Has Kavida perhaps become enlightened?” others of you may be wondering...but no, neither of these things are so, although according to my tantra teacher, enlightenment is within my grasp (if only I could give up those remaining two vices). But anyway, I am happy to share with you that after a long quest on which I journeyed through various states of enthusiasm, desire, effort and resignation, I have...yes...wait for it...ejaculated!

Those of you who have followed my blogs loyally will remember that a couple of years ago I attended the female ejaculation seminar given by Deborah Sundahl. I got home filled with motivation and hope and resolutely set-to, ‘sensitising’ my G-spot with regular massage and ‘loving my prostate back to life’. I have to admit, It was a rather dull project – in fact it regularly put my boyfriend at the time to sleep with boredom – but I perservered.

I visited a professional. Yes, that’s right – a man whose profession is indeed making women ejaculate in his very own ‘temple’ in West London. It’s a tough job but someone’s gotta do it, eh? I turned out to be one of his apparently rare failures and left the temple utterly mortified. Bless him, he did try to soften the blow by telling me that my “spongy sack” (the whole experience was all a bit anatomical, I have to say) wasn’t even filling up with liquid. That would need “a bit of work”. Oh, and that I “wasn’t really relaxed in my vagina and would need healing there”, but it was all “totally doable”. You would think this prognosis might have given me the confidence to continue, perhaps even to book another visit to the expert, but sadly it had the opposite effect. It was rather like that sinking feeling you get when your mechanic gives you the list of what needs fixing in order for your car to get through the MOT and you wonder whether or not the car’s actually worth it. I started to imagine that maybe I was some kind of freak, that my vagina was anatomically incorrect, and that I might as well give up right now, if it was going to be that hard to even get the old spongy sack to fill up with liquid....

I must admit I felt a trifle fraudulent. How could I call myself a Tantric Goddess when I couldn’t produce a bit of amrita for God’s sake? Then I began to tell myself that it was all a load of fuss about nothing and that made me feel better. I gave myself a good talking to and reassured myself that I can climax till kingdom come, orgasms feel good, I should thank my lucky stars that I am orgasmic and certainly stop fixating on the absence of ejaculation, especially when my sex life is obviously rich and rewarding in every way imagineable... I put it on hold for a while and didn’t even think about my prostate for over a year.

Then, last month our sexy friend Gem came round to make raw chocolate mousse for our Sensual Soiree and we got chatting about her own journey on the squirting trail. As you probably know I have a fabulous new partner whom I referred to as ‘H’ in my last blog. At the time he wanted his true identity kept secret, having led a very private life until bumping into me. But let’s face it, if you’re dating a celebrity goddess you can’t expect to stay undercover for very long. After much negotiation and many months in the tantric fast lane, he is finally agreeing to be written about. His name is Roland and he’s either very brave or very foolish...

Ro, like me has a great appetite for life in general and, also like me is particularly fascinated with the ins and outs, as it were, of sexuality. When Ro heard Gem waxing lyrical about the joys of squirting and saw a shadow of disappointment drift across my face (after all, its rare for me to not be able to join in a conversation) he became a man on a mission.

A couple of nights later I found myself pinned to the bed (Roland can be very forceful when he’s made up his mind to do something. I like that in a guy) with a lot of intensively-focused activity going on below. He hadn’t been asked to do lots of sensitive prostate massage for weeks on end, which I’m sure contributed to the fact that he seemed very keen to get started on the job at hand.

I kept insisting that I needed a piss. I also kept trying to sit up and get to the loo. This was a mistake. Roland does not like to be deterred when he’s nearing any goal and he set to work even more fervently, shoving my head back down on the pillow and telling me to “just fucking pee if you need to!” He also told me I needed to let go of control. One thing a control freak hates being told is that they’re a control freak.

“Fuck you” I thought, “I’m NOT a control freak! You’re a control freak! Right, I’m going to piss in your hand then...”.

The whole thing seemed to have turned into some kind of battle, but being a Leo and also incredibly stubborn, I wasn’t going to be defeated. Resigned to the fact that there was no way I was going to be allowed off the bed until any kind of liquid even remotely resembling ejaculate had been released, I surrendered and stopped resisting. I pushed down, instead of contracting upwards, which is the normal muscular movement that happens when approaching orgasm and simply willed it to happen with all my might. Ro’s hand on my neck, pinning my body to the bed with great force was an added erotic feature. I’m always grateful for Roland’s strength and masculinity – a man who never wavers until he gets the job done. This is one of the factors that makes it practical for us to work together (you couldn’t have guessed that I’m a fanatical perfectionist, right?) and certainly the reason I’m now able to claim that I’m a fully paid-up member of the squirting club.

I wouldn’t want you to imagine Roland like some kind of brutish, sexual bully who pins women to beds on a regular basis. Nothing could be further from the truth. He doesn’t like to brag, and hardly anyone knows that he is a fine acoustic guitarist whose musicality and artistic finesse translates neatly over to his sensitive and skillful lovemaking. But every so often, a woman like me needs the kind of man who will masterfully render you incapable of moving, using whatever methods are necessary and then proceed to encourage (dominate) you until you give in. And (lucky old me) Roland is blessed with an equal balance of yin and yang.

Eureka! I felt my erstwhile neglected prostate pulsating and releasing its nectar of the gods. I sat up in astonishment and marvelled at the amazing gush of clear liquid pouring from my yoni, forming a puddle below.

I shall try to find words to describe the experience. The actual squirt itself has got nothing on orgasm and in itself is a bit of an anti-climax (a weak pun I know), but it’s the post-ejaculation bliss I’m most excited to tell you about...

It was as if years’ worth of tension had been released. Softly glowing, golden light filled my womb. A thousand tiny fairies were flying about in there, sending electrical charges from their wands which snaked into and caressed the deepest crevices of my pelvis.

This was a kind of sartori – bliss descended upon both of us and we spooned together without moving a muscle, lost in ecstatic reverie, falling into an unintentional, yet deeply healing meditation.

This was what they’d been banging on about – I had finally found the holy grail.

I didn’t dare try again right away, although I was tempted. I was a bit worried I might run out - although apparently once you get going you can squirt all night, gallons and gallons of the stuff, but that sounds like way too much laundry for my liking.

After rising, I floated about the house, with a sense of immense power and profound calm, my pelvis softly vibrating and still glowing. I felt like shouting from the rooftops, sending out a group text and posting it on my Facebook wall.

So, those of you who haven’t quite made it yet – don’t give up. The end result is really worth it, I promise. But if you’re still struggling down the road, I might spare Roland for a few hours. He rides a Harley and can get anywhere fast...