In the 20+ years of happy marriage with my wife Ellen, only once had we done anything out-of-the-ordinary, sexually speaking. Looking back, I suppose we seem a conservative couple almost to the point of prudishness. Ellen doesn't really like to talk about sex. The one time we had deviated from the straight and narrow took place last year on the spur of the moment. I chronicled this experience in my account "The Five Sketches," changing only the names to protect my wife and our mutual friend whom we had not seen for 20 years, and will probably not see again. That single event was such a shock to us that we had still not discussed it. It was deeply, and mutually, fulfilling, but we had never openly considered following up on the experience or expanding in that direction. Consciously and deliberately going about to set such things in motion just is not part of our makeup.
Two weeks ago, Ellen and I accepted a dinner invitation from a couple we did not know very well, Will and Anne, as sort of tag-alongs with another couple who are quite good friends with both Will and Anne, and Ellen and I. The couple we went with was Jim and Susan. Once again, these are not real names, but the events are most real indeed, and I'm starting to wonder how often this sort of thing happens in American life! But I'm getting ahead of myself...
We all hit it off very well, had a fine meal and lots of good wine. We were all rather formal in our dress that night, and all the women looked lovely. My Ellen wore a red velvet top and a long black skirt and high heels. Our hostess, Anne, wore a long yellow silk dress with spaghetti straps. Her breasts were small enough so that they needed no support. She was lithe and charming, her hair as blond as her little gown. She was like a little fairy compared to my black-maned and voluptuous wife. Ellen and I had about 10 years on our host and hostess, but they were both cultured and civil people and we found them good company.
Jim was not feeling too well that night and he and Susan left right after desert, which Jim declined to sample and I think that the mere sight of us enjoying this rich dish brought Jim to the edge of endurance, digestively speaking. They were out the door in minutes. I remember it was barely 9:30.
Ellen and I like to dance, and so does Anne, but Will was your typical tough guy who would rather eat a carton of thumb tacks than be caught dead on a dance floor. But the music they were playing that night (Ella Fitzgerald and Sinatra ballads) inspired Ellen and I to a couple of slow dances while Anne watched enviously, playfully cajoling Will to join her in a spin. It must have been the wine, because by the time the second song ended and we decided to rejoin our hosts so as not to be rude, Anne had the resigned Will on his feet and heading our way. The four of us danced to another song. When it was over I asked Anne if she would like to dance. She accepted, and without even asking, and enjoying himself in spite of himself, Will simply took my Ellen in his arms and the four of us swayed languidly to Sinatra singing "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning." I dance a lot, but almost never with anyone but Ellen, and it was very exciting to feel Anne in my arms. She was compliant and a good dancer. Looking over, I noted Will was a little stilted but Ellen was enjoying her dance with him just the same.
The atmosphere changed subtly after the music stopped and we were sipping wine and chatting again. The ladies were glowing, and it was not just the wine. They looked good, they were appreciated, they knew it, they enjoyed the dancing, and everyone was most relaxed.
There were two small leather sofas in the room, one pulled in front of the other to facilitate conversation, with Anne cuddling up to Will on one, Ellen and I on the other. The conversations took many turns, if I recall correctly, starting from current films and winding its way to books to medicine to doctors to medical practitioners we know, to Anne's strange chiropractor. What follows is as best as I can recount it.
"He thinks that all psychological releases are accompanied by a discharge of some kind," Anne explained. "And the appearance of a discharge is one way he knows he's getting results."
Will grimaced. "Discharge? Like what?"
"Anything," Anne explained. "Tears, sweat, bleeding, that sort of thing. He says that fluids correspond to emotions and that if there is an emotional release then there has to be a fluid somehow associated with it."
We pondered this lightly. Ellen sipped at her wine and noted that women and men were psychologically very different and that there seemed to be more fluids associated with women's emotions than men's. "We cry easier, so more tears; we sometimes pee when we laugh too hard, we have periods..."
"God knows there are emotions aplenty associated with THAT," Will observed, to a playful elbow in the ribs by Anne.
"But seriously, though," Anne said, "that's true about women." She was thoughtful for a few seconds. "But sex is really emotional, especially for women, and we don't, well... you know..."
"What?" Will didn't get it. Anne looked at him with annoyance.
"You know," she repeated. Will didn't know.
"You know. Shoot out fluid." She said it, and then she blushed, all rosy in the lamplight.
I looked at Ellen, who was staring straight ahead looking like the cat who ate the canary. I knew what she was thinking. I started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Anne said, self-consciously. I headed that off fast.
"Oh no, it's not you. Or what you said. Generally, that's true that women don't, you know, shoot fluid." Everyone laughed at how stupid that sounded, "shoot fluid."
"Well, anyway," Anne said, resigned. "It's too bad we can't do that, ejaculate, like men, because it looks like fun." Ellen looked a side-glance at me, leaned forward to pick up her wine from the coffee table between our two sofas and raised her glass in a little toast to Anne.
"It is."
I should have seen it coming, after she let that one drop, but I didn't. I thought that would be the end of it but Anne wouldn't let that one go. And Will, starting to flag a bit from the wine, certainly perked up a notch or two.
"Ellen." Anne said carefully. "What do you mean, 'it is'?" Ellen looked at me, smiling, and after a few seconds I had to laugh. Shaking my head at a curious Anne and a confused Will I finally said, "Yes, it's true. Ellen ejaculates."
Will squirmed in his seat, tugged at his ear, and said, "Anyone want more wine?" We all did, and Will was off to the kitchen leaving a baffled Anne, mouth agape and eyes wide, trying to come to terms with Ellen's claim.
"Wow," she said, a little dazed. "I guess I heard of that before but I never knew anyone..."
"I think lots of women do, actually," Ellen said.
"I don't."
"You can, if you want."
So there I sat, while Ellen filled Anne in on the wonders of female ejaculation (politely sparing our new hostess the most graphic details), feeling a little uncomfortable and ignored for not the last time that evening, when back came Will with a bottle of red wine. He poured us all a half glass and sat down next to Anne.
"So," I said to Will, "I guess we're on our own."
Will rolled his eyes. "Jesus. I was listening in from the kitchen. Knowing Anne, they'll be gabbing about this all night." At that the ladies' talk abruptly ceased.
Scowling, Anne turned to Will. "You know, Will, this should be something that interests you, too."
"Really?", he said. "Why's that?"
"Because it would be enjoyable for you, too."
"How do you figure?"
