She Floods the Page

Female Ejaculate as Sacred Mess

The first time it happened, I thought I’d broken her.

My hands were soaked. The sheets beneath her hips, ruined. Her thighs slick and trembling like they were still confessing. I sat back, dazed, a little afraid—was this right? Had I gone too far?

No one warned me the divine would look like this.

It wasn’t just the act—it was the audacity. The audacity of her body to pour like that. Loud, visible, undeniable. Female ejaculate. The phrase alone used to make me nervous, as if naming it summoned something feral. Something wet and uncontrollable. Something not meant to be seen, let alone worshipped.

But gods don’t ask permission to spill.

Liquid Is Language

She didn’t apologize. That mattered more than anything.

She saw the look on my face—half-wild reverence, half-panic—and grinned. “You did that,” she said, voice still rippling like the aftershock. “That was yours.”

But it wasn’t mine. Not really. It was hers, wholly. Her release, her storm. I’d just been lucky enough to midwife it.

It made me think of every time I’d been too loud, too messy, too tender in my own sex. The first time I came from being pegged, I cried. Not from pain, but from the way it undid me. It was a surrender I’d never been taught was allowed.

Just like no one tells us that wetness—copious, gushing, soaking-wet wetness—isn’t just normal. It’s holy.

Female Ejaculate Is Not Excess

We’re trained to treat it like something gone wrong. Like a misfire or a fluke. Porn rarely gets it right. Science tries to classify it into tiny boxes. Friends whisper about it like it’s a magic trick that only some women can do.

But every time I write about it, women message me in secret.

“I thought I was broken.”
“I didn’t know it was okay to make that kind of mess.”
“I’ve been hiding it my whole life.”

The mess is the miracle.

There is power in the overflow. In the way her body refuses containment. In how it rewrites what we think we know about “female pleasure.” It isn’t dainty. It isn’t quiet. It doesn’t wait to be asked.

And that, more than anything, is why it’s feared.

The Page As Bed, As Baptism

When I write women who gush—like Lina, who came so hard on Alaric’s mouth she bit the pillow to stay present—I’m not exaggerating. I’m telling the truth that got rinsed out of most literature. The truth of limbs shaking, of thighs glistening, of hands slipping on hips too wet to grip.

Mess isn’t shameful. It’s revelatory.

Writing about female ejaculate has become an act of devotion for me. A ritual. The body says what words cannot. I chase it on the page the way I chase it in bed—not as an end goal, but as a language. A knowing. A yes that cannot be revoked.

Sacred Stains, Kept Unwashed

I don’t always change the sheets.

Not right away.

I let them dry. I let the smell of her linger. I let the visual echo stay in the room, so I remember: she trusted me enough to spill.

What’s sacred isn’t tidy. It ruins things. It leaves behind evidence. So when she floods the page, I don’t clean it up. I press my mouth to the parchment. I write her again. I make a home for her overflow.

And in doing so, I become a little more whole, too.