that's it, i'm on a quest to squirt

it's my sacred feminine right

a fittingly wet photo of me for Sheila

Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to squirt. Or at least wondered how.

And if you’re a man, don’t tell me you haven’t fantasised about the day you finally make a woman squirt. It might never come—because, let’s be honest, no one really seems to know how—but the hope continues to live on inside of you.

To me, it’s always felt like something I’ve been putting off—because learning how to do it means admitting I don’t already know. And I talk about sex for a living, which makes that admission feel somewhat humbling.

I’ve grown into the role of a modern Carrie Bradshaw, both within the Australian media and within my friendship circles. I write about my sex life and the sex lives I see play out around me. I often put myself—and sometimes my relationship—on the line, for a good story; especially, when it challenges a sexual taboo I feel personally impacted by.

I think that, for now at least, that’s what I’m here to do: experience sexual things we’re all a bit afraid of, and write about them. Or talk about them at dinner parties. Someone has to do it—for the sake of education, and de-stigmatising patriarchal ideas of female pleasure. And I’m happy for that person to be me.

But the truth is: there are still things I haven’t experienced. And one of them is squirting.

I’m honestly kind of embarrassed to admit it—because it feels almost… norm-core? Like, I’ve gifted threesomes to lovers, taken my boyfriend to a sex party, been spanked by a woman in latex in a dungeon, flirted with a famous porn star, been the other woman, had an affair with my boss… but I’ve never squirted. How tragic. I’m squirming in my seat just saying it out loud.

Women do it online all the time. OnlyFans creators, amateur porn stars, professional porn stars—squirting all over the place like it’s no big deal. It plays the role of extreme female pleasure, the orgasmic finale in a scene—whether it’s with another performer or solo. And to be honest, it’s a turn-on. It’s the most visual representation of female ejaculation we ever see. It’s visual proof that a woman is into it—and that’s always done it for me.

But while I see it as a beautiful cinematic display of female pleasure, men treat it like this trophy they’d like to add to their treasured glass cabinet of sexual accolades.
“I made her squirt, bro.” As if it’s the ultimate stamp of approval on their sexual résumé. Another excuse to jack off over the size and impact of their own penis.

And I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. Or the opportunity.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been putting it off. Because subconsciously, I haven’t wanted to add another achievement to someone else’s scoreboard. I’m still new to the world of non-performative orgasms, and honestly? I want to enjoy that for a little while longer before I start adding new items to the menu.

Squirting has always felt like something that might bring more responsibility than pleasure. Because the moment you tell a guy—or a girl—that you can squirt, they’ll expect you to. And if you don’t? You risk bruising their sexual ego. And we all know how uncomfortable that can be.

But if it’s just for me—will I like it? Will it bring real pleasure, or is it simply another visual vehicle for the male gaze?

There’s only one way to find out. I’m going to teach myself how to squirt.

It’s not about impressing my boyfriend, or elevating my sexual repertoire. It’s that squirting is another corner of the female sexual experience that we’re ashamed to admit not knowing about—both the actual thing itself, and how to do it.

I’ve literally never heard a girlfriend talk about squirting unless it was to gloat that she “accidentally” did it one night, and her male lover was “overjoyed”. Squirting is always spoken about as something that’s been done for and with a man.

But historically, squirting was for us. For women. It was symbol of erotic power, of spiritual connection, of emotional release. It’s not an invention of the porn industry. But over time, the patriarchy did what it does best: turned something sacred into something sexual (for themselves), then into something shameful (for us).

Squirting dates back to ancient Eastern texts. It’s been debated by Greek philosophers, and worshipped in some spiritual scriptures as a powerful release of feminine energy. In Tantra, for example, female ejaculation—or amrita, meaning “nectar of the gods”—was believed to be a sacred fluid, associated with spiritual awakening and divine feminine power.

It’s something that's always been there, a part of our sexual makeup we’ve been guarded from—yet another element of our bodies we know next to nothing about.

I’m sure many of you reading this article think that squirting is the same as peeing—just during sex. And you’re not alone! It’s the most common myth I hear about female ejaculation, actually. And the science doesn’t do much to help debunk it. Some studies show that female ejaculate can contain trace amounts of urine—because the urethra is involved—but that’s not the full story. It’s also made up of fluid from the Skene’s glands (sometimes called the female prostate), which release during arousal and orgasm. It’s not pee—it’s its own distinct form of release.

So then, how does it work? I want to know that too.

Watching videos of women squirting doesn’t reveal much about the how. From what I can tell, women can squirt from both internal and external stimulation—sometimes a combination of the two. The external touch is usually fast and intense, as is the internal. And there definitely seems to be an art to it. The women I’ve seen squirting on camera seem to know it’s coming. Which means: they know how to do it.

And that’s good news for me.

I did a quick Google, and according to a step-by-step guide I found, the key ingredients to squirting are:

• Finding the G-spot

• Being in the right position

• And—perhaps most importantly—“letting go”

Here’s how I think you squirt, based on everything I’ve read and watched so far:

Most guides recommend starting with deep relaxation—both mental and physical—because squirting isn’t about force, it’s about release. You stimulate the G-spot using a “come here” motion with your fingers, about two inches inside the vagina, pressing up toward the belly. The area should feel spongy or ridged. You build arousal gradually, and when the sensation intensifies, rather than clenching or holding it in, you push out—as if you were peeing.

One guide put it like this: “The urge to pee is the signal that you’re doing it right.” Which makes sense, because most of us are hardwired to tighten in that moment—not release. So squirting often requires unlearning the instinct to hold back, and instead learning to trust your body to let go.

It’s part technique, part mindset. And like most forms of pleasure, the more pressure you place on yourself to achieve it, the more elusive it becomes.

I think I’ll need to start with the mindset part. Because if I’m honest, there’s a part of me that feels hesitant to even embark on this. I’m not sure if that hesitation comes from the general shame of being a sexual woman who speaks about it openly—or from the quieter, more personal shame of not knowing it all already. Maybe it’s both.

I think also, as I get older, I’m becoming more and more aware of the shame cast on me by other women. It seems that the longer I go on talking about sex, the more I hear the whispers—sometimes behind my back, sometimes right to my face. That they’d “never be able to do what I do.” That I’m “so brave.” That I should “think about how I’m viewed by others.”

I’d be lying if I said those comments didn’t land. They scratch at my instinct to pull back. To soften. To behave. To be more demure, more passive. More palatable.

And so, yes. I’m sure I’ll ask myself—at some point, fingers deep, G-spot in sight, maybe even positioning my boyfriend just right—Do I really need to learn how to squirt?
Is this self-indulgent? Or is it actually important?

But for the record, and you as my witness: I think it is important.
Not because squirting will change my life—but because it symbolises my right to explore my body without apology. To want to learn about the parts I wasn’t told about. To feel their potential power. And if I end up soaking the sheets in the process? Even better.

We deserve to be messy out loud.

Hey, quick side note. I’d love for you to follow me on Instagram. I share all of my other work on there, including my fortnightly sex column. Come and connect. My DMs are always open.