I’m a Squirter – Filthy, funny poetry with Kate Spencer

(lighthearted music) (bumping upbeat music) Holy fuck, I’m a squirter. How did I not know this? Sex has always been my friend, never a chore nor a bore, but neither my good self, and I’m very good, nor any of my previous lovers, 40, has ever made me spurt no matter how big a penis he or she would insert. I thought I was alert and in tune with this body of mine. You could bet I’d be wet in a heartbeat, but with this new information, I have a fascination. Holy fuck, I’m a squirter. I thought it was only in porn. No one ever warned me I could be this moist as my lover foists a fist inside. Splash mountain is ready to ride. My vaginal fountain, my gash making a splash, water feature in lady garden. Lover’s cock hardens. He’s even more aroused when he’s soused, doused with whatever the fuck these floodgates have opened. You probably expect me to scream as a stream of who-knows-what gushes, but there’s a kind of hush, silent straining as it’s raining down a biblical flood. Blood vessels burst, muscles clench, I drench the sheets with female ejaculate ruining my previously immaculate bed. Cascading waterfall, boyfriend having a ball slapping his geezer against my gushing geyser. Monsoon season begins, but what is the reason I’ve never discovered this before? Holy fuck, I’m a squirter! And what a palaver. So dominant is he with my prominent spot named G, and you cry at foreplay, “Bring on the sex towels!” We’ll foul things up. Still, I seep through the crumpled heap. For easier cleanup, we bought sheets designed for kids who piss themselves at night. It’s all right. Now they get saturated, my fella infatuated with my fanny. He has a canny knack with his fingers in my crack, hands that activates the Skene’s gland. So well-versed is he in my anatomy, it’s his fault he’s immersed and I’m guaranteed to gush, cheeks flush, it’s fucking lush. Apart from the mopping of the sopping bed clothes, a whopping mess from orgasms, multiple. Not just one almighty sploosh letting loose the juice, but over and over and over, and honestly I get dehydrated, but my appetite won’t be sated, and we forego cuddles to clear up puddles, pools, lakes of drool. Now, to end my poem, I think a random ’90s British trivia link. Someone call the Guinness Book of Records, I need adjudicator Norris McWhirter, because holy fuck, I think I’m a record-breaking squirter. (upbeat music)

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