The following is an excerpt from my new novel, The Wrong Planet, available now at www.amazon.com/author/gsrichter.
Ingrid’s Diary—October 13th, 20xx
It was while masturbating fully naked—as always—on a Tuesday morning, before a final exam on the subject of Death and Dying in Finland, that I first learned a dark and terrible secret.
Another poll had recently been taken, another consensus reached: Some of my friends’ boyfriends could make them squirt during sex. No boy had ever made me squirt. Not even Trent, whom I miss so badly even though we are still, as they say, doing it. Although less and less frequently these days, and with less and less vigor, the orgasms always weaker and somehow sad. But anyway. On that Tuesday morning before the exam, naked in bed with the windows and curtains open, as I achieved the orgasm necessary to prepare me to get an A+, thinking about a boy I’d seen on campus reading Schopenhauer under a tree, I squirted all over my hand.
It was hot and not nearly as viscous as I’d assumed female ejaculate would be. With mixed triumph and trepidation, I beheld my hand, glistening in the fresh light; I lifted it up to my nose. It smelled like piss.
And rightly so, because it was piss. In the midst of a self-induced orgasm (the best kind if we’re being frank here) I had lost control of my bladder for an instant and pissed on my own hand. And thus, the truth of the lie women tell their boyfriends, each other, and themselves, which I had long suspected but never dared voice for fear of being ridiculed, ostracized even, was revealed to me in all of its mundane, depressingly physiological glory:
FEMALE EJACULATION IS A MYTH.