What would you assume about a woman who was still holding her V-card long past the age where you stop saying “V-card”? I’ll stop you right there; I know quite a few possibilities off the top of my head, because after Summer revealed that I’d punched hers, we had quite the little brainstorming sesh, and she encouraged me to be as thorough and as potentially offensive as I dared. She’s asexual. She’s a nun. She’s a basket case. She’s terminally picky. She’s got vaginismus. She’s got AIDS. She’s got the Cat People disease. The only one she’d cop to was a bit of social anxiety, but nowhere near as crippling an amount as you’d assume it would take. I’m ashamed to admit that I kept quite a close eye on her for the next few weeks, but, seeing no evidence of some crippling personal handicap, I was obliged to accept the Occam’s Razor explanation that the opportunity had simply never come up. Why would that surprise you? Luck is a bell curve, and some people have to land in those unenviable sigmas to the right. Lots of people think, even if they’d never say so, that a woman could always find a man willing to fuck her if she wanted, but not so; men seem to underrate their own choosiness, at least as much as women overrate it.
What do you think a woman like that could really teach you? Sound like a stupid question? It’s what she didn’t know that ended up being most instructive. She was no dummy, and she was no one’s idea of a sheltered girl either – she’d sat through sex ed, she’d watched pornos, she’d read sex advice columns, she’d had frank talks with her girlfriends. But there’s all sorts of quirky little details about sex that only come through experience, that you take for granted until a fresh perspective draws your attention to them. Just one example. After the third or fourth time we’d fucked she piped up timidly and asked me why I was still hard. Hadn’t I cum yet? I didn’t know what else to do but reach in her, pull a glob out and flick it at her; probably not the most mature thing in the world. She was unfazed and asked well, was I going to cum any more? I thought she was trying to hint that she wanted to go again, but that wasn’t it. And it all dawned on her in the next minute or two, watching my cock slowly deflate. “So that’s how it always goes?” she asked. I didn’t really catch her drift, and she had to spell it out. She had this idea in her head that a boner was literally the penis filling up with cum, and during orgasm it all got emptied out like a tube of toothpaste. I pressed her a bit on this and found out that the source of this misconception was watching sex scenes in Game of Thrones and whatnot, where the guy makes a nut noise and gets right up a second later, immediately flaccid, because you can’t show real boners on TV, it’s obscene. So when we were done and my boner hadn’t gone down yet, she was confused. It sounds so silly but legitimately, how would you know? It makes sense in a third-grade kind of way.
But by far her biggest surprise was precum, and how she found out about that was kind of an accident. I’d never been a huge precummer. It had happened often enough when I was a teen but more or less stopped in my twenties. However, the day was kind of out of the ordinary. I’d been sort of idly jacking off that morning before work, and I’d gotten, I’d say, 80% of the way there when I got a text from her asking if I was free after work. She didn’t say she wanted to fuck that night, but I figured I should put a pin in it just in case. I got teased for a bit before we went out to dinner, if “tease” is the right word for her unzipping my pants, getting my entire dick out and rubbing herself all along it right there in the vestibule of her apartment building. (She’d really been feeling herself after getting over that first hump, so to speak, and seemed determined to make up for lost time.) We went to a Peruvian restaurant, ate ceviche and aji chicken, walked around the lake by her apartment burning a J while I not so discreetly grabbed her butt beneath her skirt. By this point, having been edged so much, I’m all in a lather. My brain feels foggy, soaked in narcotic sex. I’m the closest I’ve been to cumming in my pants since age 15. We got back to her apartment, my pants came down, she wrapped her fingers around and gave it a fingery squeeze like she was checking the ripeness of a piece of fruit. I violently suppressed a premature orgasm, and before I knew it, I started leaking like a broken faucet.
The whole vibe in the room went aslant. She was fixated on the head of my cock like a cat watching a wriggling bug trapped in the window screen. I froze, helplessly watching as one shiny gob after another oozed out and landed on my bare legs. The room was so silent I could hear each splotch. Was the expression on her face consternation? Horror? Did she think I had a virulent strain of dick disease? I waited for her to ask me what was going on, but she didn’t utter a word. Slowly, gingerly, she ran her finger underneath my cleft. She gathered some on her fingertips. She pressed them together and made slow circles. Magnetically, robotically, as if she had no say in the matter, she hovered to the head of my cock and touched the very tip of her tongue to this mystery fluid. That one taste sent her into a frenzy. She inhaled my dick, letting some precum spill onto the back of her tongue like she was tasting wine. She was clearly as hornt up as she had ever been in her life. It was enthralling, almost scary to watch.
I didn’t have a chance to explain precum till afterward, and she was onboard to say the least. She told me, in shallow-breath spurts, how sexy she found it on a conceptual level. She was wild about every part of it – the taste, the texture, the way it beaded and slid down the little groove in the glans, but most particularly the fact that she knew I was super excited when the precum showed itself. She said it was like the little slit on the head of my cock was a tiny little pussy, and just like a pussy it got wet when it was happy. It was astounding to her that she should just be finding out about precum. She didn’t know how people weren’t just obsessed with it. Her enthusiasm was infectious.
What else could I do? I determined to get better at precumming. A happy accident now and then simply would not cut the mustard – I needed to do it consistently, I needed to feed her obsession. The human body is a wondrous machine and responds well to all manner of physical and psychological habituation. It’s built to learn. I practiced, I experimented, both by myself and together with her. It became a fun little shared project for us. I tried different approaches to masturbating, touching myself there, there, or there; light touch, hard touch; short strokes, long, medium; do this for about this long, stop for about this long. New toys, new techniques. I paid attention to my mental state too, to my sensations, to my thoughts; I tried out different music, scents, mental images; I figured out which states of mind tended to stopper-up the precum and which ones could help get it streaming. We browsed guides on meditation, self-hypnosis, tantra. It was like learning to jerk off, to fool around, to fuck, all over again. In a sense we were both newly deflowered.
The big breakthrough came during the experiments with prostate stimulation. From our incognito-tab research we knew that precum came from that general part of the anatomy, and we’d read some great testimonials about prostate play. Regrettably, butt stuff just don’t do anything for me. It wasn’t unpleasant, it was just kind of there; the fireworks we expected wouldn’t arrive, just couldn’t seem to find the right spot, to the point where I briefly wondered if I was born without one. Then later, during an unrelated experiment completely out of the blue, I found a certain spot on my perineum (in layman’s terms, the gooch, the grundle, the scruttocks) where I could take care of business very well from the outside. I’d press real hard on this one spot, stroke back and forth a few times, maybe make a few small circles around it – they call that thing the male G-spot, but I never appreciated how accurate a metaphor that was. Very soon I was a regular Old Faithful. I mentally referred to that as my Precum Button.
The more I practiced, the easier it got. I could start the damn thing weeping practically on command. The Precum Button got more and more sensitive to the point where a light caress worked. She got comfortable enough to request it, knowing I could easily supply. And the more I gave her, the more she wanted, and that feral little sparkle in her eye when I produced was all the reinforcement I needed. A couple more weeks of that and the whole thing became second nature. All the little maneuvers were routinized to the point where I didn’t need to think about any of it anymore. The precum was on a low boil all the time, with less and less heat required to get it to spill over.
She was delighted, of course, but things any slightly-more-than chaste kiss would start my unit drooling like Pavlov’s dog. The smell of her, the thought of her, the ping of the phone when I thought she might be trying to talk to me – as often as not it’d make a dark sticky blot on the front of my boxer-briefs, all too likely to bleed through to my pants, if they were thin enough, and eventually without even that qualifier. More and more I woke up with a clear sweet-smelling pool having formed in my sleep. I became adept at tearing off strips of toilet paper and wrapping them turban-style around the head of my cock to stop the leakage, like I was on the man-rag or something, and if I was embarrassed sometimes, that I’d forget one of my little hats was there when I went to meet up with her, it would dissipate quickly enough when she saw it and went whale-eyed and her voice would drop several semitones as she asked, “Awwwwww…did I make your pants messy?”
We did have to stop seeing each other eventually. Who the hell knows where I’d’ve ended up otherwise? I’m picturing myself in one of those fetish videos where I’m just confined to a bed, unable to do anything more than leak, hooked up to a machine collecting the clear stuff in bottles. Very uncharitable, I know. I was more than a willing participant.
Why we broke up isn’t really germane to the story. Amicable? Eh, enough. But it did kind of alarm me that once she wasn’t around anymore, the constancy and intensity of my precum flow didn’t go anywhere right away as I’d expected it to. My frustrated body was producing and producing desperately, like the milk of a mother when she starts weaning. I was a genuine freak of nature, changing TP hats practically every hour, and I could’ve been imagining it, but at several points I got legitimately lightheaded from loss of fluid and glucose. My body and my mind, my physical responses and hormonal balance, were too well worn into this groove and I couldn’t just climb out. I suffered for weeks. My co-workers noticed something. I nearly got caught with stained pants on several occasions. There was something poetic in the thought that my cock was doing the weeping for her loss that I couldn’t. But what was taught can be forgotten, and my precum volume eventually did return to pre-meeting-her levels.
I haven’t ever tried to get it to come back. Got no reason to. Sometimes I miss it. I feel pangs. Now and again the euphoric heat I felt when I poured it all out for her will leap through the years and flash me out of nowhere, strong as ever. It wasn’t just sexy, it was a primal expression of…something I haven’t figured out yet. But I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything, because I know I could train my body to do it again if I ever had to. If I was ever properly motivated. I did it once, didn’t I? We’re fabulous machines, built to grow, learn, adapt, and as constricting as they may sometimes feel, our habits, our routines, our yen for inertia are all properly understood as tools to help us grow, like the stakes and twine supporting a growing plant. It’s never done. It’s all up in the air.