GIRL 36
SQUIRT GUN GIRL
In The Hundred Girls Project, there are only two I considered
mean-spirited and one who was evil (in "The Exorcist" demonic sense of
the word - See Girl 59, Dead Rat Girl). Squirt Gun Girl was one of the
destructive women, but oddly enough, her main target was herself.
Once again, I was hit on by a pictureless woman. When will I learn?
Nothing good has come from a woman too timid to post a profile. She
can't even imagine being honest enough to tell the world that she wants
to date. It's one thing to have a profile and then hide it, but to be
as unrevealing as Squirt Gun Girl is cowardly.
But, the fact that I was bored contributed to the disaster. I was
commuting 150 miles a day. For those three hours, I amused myself by
chatting away on the cell phone. A lot of my phone work was just that -
work, but when I could, I would talk to a female I was trying to date.
Very rarely did I talk to women I was already dating, with the
exceptions of Girls 6 and 29, both whom I considered girlfriends. So,
when there was no one to talk to, I ended up chatting with females who
wanted to date me.
One thing I learned from this experience is that people who are
seriously looking for a relationship partner do not spend a lot of time
on email nor on the phone. The vast bulk of the famous internet dating site's profiles are
posted by people who think they want romance, but are too busy for it
or frightened of what it requires. Getting a love relationship started
is work, a labor of love, certainly, but labor nonetheless. But even I
was subject to this problem. There were people I just wanted on email.
Others I just wanted to talk to on the phone. I tell myself that it was
my clairvoyance kicking in, that the people who just wanted a phone
relationships were the ones I related to by only using the phone.
Squirt Gun Girl was an example. It is hard to imagine that I would want
to see her in person. What appealed to me was helping Squirt Gun Girl
with her life's problems. And there were plenty, including an abusive
live-in boyfriend who loved transsexuals and downloaded porn on the
family computer. This character would print full size color photos of
chicks-with-dicks and put them in places where he knew Squirt Gun
Girl's teen age daughter would find them, like the silverware drawer.
Come on, you don't hear stories like that every day! Furthermore, Mr.
Chick-With-Dick Lover kept a handgun ready and waved it in Squirt Gun
Girl's face whenever they fought, which was hard and often, usually
about issues of his jealousy. I asked if there were makeup sex, and the
answer was, no, there wasn't. Was there sex at all between them, I
asked. Not much, she replied. I wondered privately if there were
something going on between the live-in boyfriend and the daughter, but
I kept it to myself. Squirt Gun Girl also had work problems, which I
tried to help her with. But to no avail.
I was pretty much done with her, and was about to toss her dossier in
the DISAVOWED file, where the almost-dated and not-quites go. But then
she requested to come over to the Snake Ranch. She insisted. It was a
Saturday afternoon, and I wasn't doing anything, so I agreed to it.
I'd asked about what she looked like. I probably wasn't listening when
she said she was "bottom heavy." When she walked in, she was shorter
than five feet and probably weighed 180. From what passed for a waist
up, she was a size 14. From the waist down, nothing off a rack would
fit. She had huge buttocks and massive thighs, and it was the stuff of
a circus sideshow.
I didn't want to be ungentlemanly. I couldn't just ask her to leave the
minutes she got in from an hour long drive. I opened a bottle of wine,
intending just to have a drink and leave it at that. But eventually,
she begged me to fuck her.
It wasn't that I was being mean to her, but I simply could not get an
erection for her. Her physical presence just kept me from feeling at
all sexual. But then, it wasn't fair to leave her unsatisfied. I gave
her oral sex, her large body spread-eagled on my bed.
"I have to tell you something," she said, after I'd been sucking on her clit for a few minutes. That's a scary statement.
"What?"
"I'm a squirter."
Female ejaculation. My grad school thesis partner had a girlfriend who was a squirter. She would ruin mattresses when she came. He couldn't buy enough towels. He loved it, it made him feel like he satisfied her. I'd seen it in porno flicks. In some, it looked like male ejaculate. In others, it was much less viscous, watery even. In those, it looked like urine. I'd asked a nurse friend of mine, what is it when a female ejaculates? She'd said that in some females, there is an emission from the G-spot, a sort of unformed prostrate gland, that makes fluid to facilitate sperm swimming in the vagina. She said in others, the orgasm reflex causes loss of bladder function. So, I said, for some women you get cum, and from others you get piss? That's right, she'd smiled.
I shrugged and kept licking.
"I mean it," Squirt Gun Girl said, her hands on my head, trying to pull me away from her writhing body. "I really shoot when I cum."
It occurred to me that there was karma here. All my life post-puberty, I had wanted the girl to swallow my cum. It was the gigantic high school struggle - find a swallower. I take that back, hell, in high school it was all I could do to get a girl to touch the damned penis, much less kiss it, tongue it, or even suck it for more than three seconds. For her to take care of the cock long enough for it to cum at all would have been like a three million dollar lottery win, and if after that, she swallowed - let me tell you, that's what marriages at age 18 are all about. I would have had a lot more divorces in my past had there been more swallowers in my past. Of course, had my parents generation been more liberal about blowjobs, I wouldn't even be here, but that's another story.
Having prayed all my life for a swallower, and having found it in Girl 6, Alayna; then Girl 14, Piano Girl; 15, Psycho Girl; 20, Jackrabbit Girl; lovely 29, Separated Mom Girl; and 31, Fragrance Girl, I would be a hypocrite were I to either spit Girl 36's cum or pull my face away. I, Reluctant Playboy Author Boy, am a sexual warrior, I thought. I ain't fraid o' no girl-cum.
"It's okay," I said to Squirt Gun Girl. "I'm a swallower."
"Oh, my God," she sighed, "I just love you." First time a woman ever said that to me when I was in the midst of a soft-cock attack.
Just then she clenched, and a warm stream of liquid burst into my mouth. I sealed my lips around her pussy and sucked, and it was a four-swallow load. Warm and very watery, it had a familiar taste. It tasted like -
Piss. Urine. Squirt Gun Girl had just pissed in my mouth, and like an idiot, I had not just sucked it in, but swallowed it as well.
Almost immediately I began to feel sick, my stomach churning. I left the room and tried to catch my breath, all thewhile hoping the karmic debt to the god of cum swallowing was fulfilled.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said.
This entry would thankfully have ended here if not for what happened later that night. The tinkle-sucking episode happened in the early evening. It was one of those awful "pack-your-bag" first dates, and the original plan was to go out to dinner, but one look at Squirt Gun Girl made me believe that eating leftovers in the house was much more appropriate than going out in public with this specimen.
So after dinner, I told Squirt Gun Girl that I was tired, and I went to sleep. Until 3 am, when the buzzer began beeping insistently. What the hell was that? I got up, and walked to the front of the condo. I was on the third floor behind a front entryway door that was always locked. Visitors had to buzz from the outside porch to get into the hallway. I remembered all the things that Squirt Gun Girl had said about her pistol-waving live-in boyfriend, and only then did it occur to me that this guy may have gotten jealous and somehow figured out where she was. Shacked up with me.
I had half a mind to just throw her out on the street. What the hell was she thinking doing this if it meant getting put in the emergency room? Was I part of some bigger trailer trash boy-girl perpetual fistfight? I stared at the buzzer and thought, hell with it. It wasn't worth the time to dial 911 and explain all this crap to the cops.
I went back to bed. At eight in the morning, I told Squirt Gun Girl to disappear.
As the month rolled on, she kept incessantly calling and emailing. I locked out her phone number and changed my email address.
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