The last bridge of June I did the obligatory round of talks at the Malpensante Festival. And I say mandatory, because the reasons that led me were strictly professional.
In this case, the talk “The female straw” between Juanita Kremer, the renowned ‘Gallinita’; Jimena Durán Hasbún, an actress, and the journalist and writer Marta Orrantia. But more than the talk (in which if nothing was said about female straw, the female ability to straw was demonstrated), I was interested in a question from the public. A good man in his 60s (and I say “good man” because before asking, he thanked him by saying that “after these things you realize you don’t know anything”), asked about female ejaculation, whether it was a myth , that if it was true. To which Marta replied “
A few months ago I resumed a relationship with a misnamed fuck buddy. True: the guy wanted to be my buddy, my friend; but we got along so well (I owe him a deep knowledge of my G-spot and his virtues) that, after a while, sex completely overshadowed the friendship. A few months ago, however, he called me and I dutifully answered his call (for mating, I knew) by the grace of good times. I arrived at his house at nine at night and, as was customary, he took me straight to bed from the door and in bed we began to talk: why had we stopped talking, how well we had a good time together Why didn’t I undress a little, while he kissed my neck, my breasts, how beautiful I was.
But he didn’t want me to touch him: it was one of those nights when the male proposes, disposed and ready just to please. He would take care of everything and he got to work to make me enjoy. Let’s get to work: with one he massaged my vulva, with the other, skilfully, he opened the narrow path between my buttocks until he also penetrated me from behind, while with his tongue he traveled the extension that separated one hand from the other. Grabbed as it was (from all sides), I let him continue until he was done. And I’m done. I ended up clutching the sheets, yelling that would shock the loudest neighbor and with a complete blank mind, while he looked horrified at the result of his laborious feat. He would soon understand the reasons for his horror. he opened the narrow path between my buttocks until he also penetrated me from behind, while with his tongue he traveled the extension that separated one hand from the other. Grabbed as she was (on all sides), I let him continue until he was done.
And I’m done. I ended up clutching the sheets, yelling that would shock the loudest neighbor and with a complete blank mind, while he looked horrified at the result of his laborious feat. He would soon understand the reasons for his horror. he opened the narrow path between my buttocks until he also penetrated me from behind, while with his tongue he traveled the extension that separated one hand from the other. Grabbed as she was (on all sides), I let him continue until he was done. And I’m done. I ended up clutching the sheets, yelling that would shock the loudest neighbor and with a complete blank mind, while he looked horrified at the result of his laborious feat. He would soon understand the reasons for his horror. while he looked horrified at the result of his hard feat. He would soon understand the reasons for his horror. while he looked horrified at the result of his hard feat. He would soon understand the reasons for his horror.
Breathing hard, I let go of the sheet and lowered my hand. There it was: an unlikely puddle, just too liquid to be mine; a liquid too clear to be his. “It’s yours,” he told me. “Didn’t you notice?” It was mine. He smelled like me. “It rang and everything,” he protested. Pause. Rewind (let’s leave the sex scene for now).
As far as I can remember, the only time I’ve urinated in front of a man (or several at the same time) was when I was five years old: at a soccer game with my brother and his friends in which I had managed to sneak in due to my remarkable skills as a defender. : from a very young age she knew how to dodge blows (the advantages of having two brothers), she was small, agile and very loud. The first and last game that I played as a single member of the female gender and in which I found out that these types of events, in addition to being natural spaces for kicking balls and falling off, were also natural spaces for urinating in a group: behind a wall that bordered the field.
And since they all came back very happy, in a fit of curiosity, stupidity or feminist instinct—she never envy, in any case, that Freud rolls in his grave and says otherwise—I followed them. I dropped my pants I hiked up my skirt, spread my legs and urinated standing up. The result of such a risky experiment? Skirt, pants and crotch completely pissed and me, suspended on the bench (yes, red card for failing to comply with the rules of common sense), convinced that I would never try to successfully get out of twists that involve peeing. And I haven’t.
Not even that night with my friend. The mysterious liquid smelled like me—it wasn’t semen—but it wasn’t urine. So with the peace of mind of fulfilled pleasure, I set out to continue. But he had already cringed.
