I almost didn’t share this one.
I’m in menopause. For a while, everything down there felt dry, closed, done.
The first time my body actually let go, I wasn’t expecting it.
I was in the middle of an Orgasmic Meditation practice with my partner Alex. Fifteen minutes, featherlight touch, no agenda, just being.
I used to co-lead the London branch of this practice, and even I wasn’t prepared for what happened.
Even that light a touch was too much for me that day.
The most powerful stroke wasn’t on the clitoris at all. It was off it. Hovering. Waiting. Holding still.
Then my body responded. Not the porn version, not a gush across the room.
A shimmer. A trickle.
A slow, quiet letting go, at an age I’d been quietly told this was finished.
Then my mind arrived, right on schedule. Oh god, am I peeing? This is wrong. What if he thinks it’s gross?
That’s what happens when you’ve spent decades being taught to shut this down before you’ve even had the chance to feel it.
Part One: What the fluid actually is
Let’s start with what it isn’t.
It isn’t urine, and this isn’t folklore, it’s been confirmed in a lab.
The structure behind it has a real anatomical name and a real, tangled history.
Dutch anatomist Regnier de Graaf described a “female prostate” as far back as 1672. Alexander Skene identified the paraurethral glands in the 1880s, the ones still called Skene’s glands.
Aristotle wrote about a version of this around 300 BC.
It has been discovered and then quietly dropped, over and over, for two thousand years.
The scientist who actually nailed it down was Milan Zaviacic, working in Slovakia through the 1980s and 90s, largely ignored in the West because most of his work was published in Slovak journals.
He found prostate-specific antigen and prostatic acid phosphatase in the fluid, the same markers male prostate fluid carries, plus glucose and fructose.
Not urine. A real secretion, from a real gland.
Worth being precise here, because three words get used for this and they’re not all the same thing. Squirting is a larger gush, usually urine. A 2015 study out of Paris, using bladder scans and dye markers, found the fluid released during squirting matched urine chemically in most of the women tested, sometimes with a small trace of prostatic fluid mixed in. It can genuinely feel like you’re peeing, because most of the time, you are.
Female ejaculation is a different response entirely: a much smaller amount, whitish, thicker, and that’s the fluid carrying the PSA, from the gland this whole section is about. In tantric tradition it’s called amrita, the sacred nectar, and that word was always pointing at this fluid specifically, the real ejaculate, never at squirting.
It took until 2001 for the Federative International Committee on Anatomical Terminology to officially recognise the term “female prostate,” settling an argument that had run, on and off, for centuries.
Here’s what I’m actually seeing in the women who come to me, once they understand this.
The shame drops out almost immediately, once there’s suddenly a real, named, studied structure standing where the confusion used to be.
Part Two: The anatomy underneath it, mapped properly for the first time
There’s a second piece of this that only became science-backed recently, and it changes what “clitoral” touch actually means.
In 2022, researchers at Amsterdam UMC, led by Dr. Ju Young Lee, used a CT scanning method precise to a thousandth of a millimetre to trace the dorsal nerve of the clitoris through the pelvis of two donors.
What they found overturned what every anatomy textbook had been teaching.
The nerve doesn’t narrow and taper as it approaches the clitoris, the way everyone assumed. It branches outward, tree-like, reaching into the hood and the surrounding skin.
The clitoris carries up to fifteen times the nerve density of the penis, and the whole structure is at least twice the size most textbooks still draw it.
Dr. Lee called it “the starting point of clitoris science.”
There are twenty times more published papers on the glans of the penis than the glans of the clitoris. Twenty times.
One detail I can’t stop thinking about: the two donors in that study were both postmenopausal.
The most precise map we have of this anatomy came from exactly the bodies so many women have been told to stop expecting anything from.
The crura, the legs of the clitoris, the vestibular bulbs, run well past the visible part, out into that branching nerve network.
Most people have never learned to touch any of it with real precision.
Part Three: What actually made it possible
None of that anatomy on its own explains why it happened for me that day.
The science tells you what’s there. It doesn’t tell you how to reach it.
What actually made it possible was that I guided him.
Out loud. In the moment. “Softer.” “Off the clit.” “Wait, right there.”
Not once, a whole stream of small corrections, and he took every one without flinching, without needing to defend himself, without turning it into a conversation about whether he was doing it right.
That’s the actual skill nobody teaches, on either side.
Most people either stay silent and hope their partner finds it by accident, or they say something and watch their partner shut down.
The giving and the receiving are both skills, and neither one is instinctive.
It’s the same skill I teach inside the Dyad, just running through the body instead of through words.
One person communicates something real and specific. The other receives it without needing to fix it, defend it, or perform being fine about it.
“Softer” is a communication. So is staying still enough to actually hear it.
Part Four: The practice, if you want to try
Try this. I call it Scrumptious Stroking.
You can do it anywhere on your body. One point of contact, any part, and you say yes. Every stroke that lands as scrumptious gets a yes, out loud or in your own head. The ones that don’t, you let go quiet.
Narrow it to the clitoris and you’re doing what my friend Lauren Harkness calls Peaking, a term I still credit her for, from the years we spent together in Orgasmic Meditation. Hers is a solo practice, always. Scrumptious Stroking can be solo too, but it doesn’t have to stay that way.
On your own first, always. Up-strokes. Down-strokes. Sometimes hovering just off the skin without landing at all.
Map it like a clock too. Twelve regions across the glans, twelve o’clock toward your belly. Each one feels completely different. For most women, one o’clock carries the most sensation.
There’s a technique that layers on top of the map, how I hold my fingers, the exact pressure on a downstroke, that changes what you find there. That’s its own piece. Coming soon.
No goal, no rush. You’re not chasing a finish line, you’re learning to ride the wave.
That’s the training.
The yes, said over and over, until your body believes you mean it.
There’s a real mechanism behind why this matters. Orgasm triggers a surge of prolactin, the hormone that tells your body arousal is over, and the surge from intercourse runs roughly four times higher than the surge from solo touch. That’s the actual chemistry behind the crash you feel afterwards.
Arousal itself isn’t a genital event. It’s a whole-nervous-system event. Brain-imaging research out of Rutgers, led by Barry Komisaruk, shows this kind of stimulation lighting up the hypothalamus, the amygdala, the hippocampus, deep motor regions, right up into the brainstem, the same wide network involved in orgasm itself. Some of that signal travels through the vagus nerve, a pathway that carries sensation up the body without ever passing through the spinal cord.
Stay in the build, in what researchers call the plateau phase, before you cross that threshold, and the switch never gets thrown. The charge stays live across that whole network instead of collapsing into one release.
I do Peaking every day, Lauren’s practice, solo, my own hand, nobody watching, in the middle of the day, sometimes before I’ve had breakfast.
Here’s what women ask me, over and over, in my DMs and on calls: “I climaxed with my partner, but I felt so tired afterwards. Why is that?”
Chase it every time and the charge builds, tips, spends itself in one hit. Then it’s gone, and that exact tiredness afterwards is the prolactin surge doing its job, switching your arousal back off. Same mechanism, whether it happened with a partner or on your own.
Ride the wave instead and none of that happens. The charge builds the same way, but instead of tipping it over, I stay right there, at the edge, breathing into it.
It doesn’t drain out of me. It moves up, through my belly, my chest, out into my hands.
I walk around with it for the rest of the day.
The energy I’ve built doing this daily is honestly incredible. More alive in my body. More present in a room. More turned on by nothing in particular, just by being in my own skin.
I teach your body to say YES to touch.
Solo first, always. Once it’s yours, alone, in your own hand, it becomes something you can hand to another person too, the way I handed Scrumptious Stroking to Alex.
He wasn’t gifted at this. I could tell him exactly where to go, and he could actually hear it.
I teach the full version, solo and partnered, on the clit and everywhere else, when we work together.
Part Five: What this has to do with your own age, or stage, or history
The most precise map of this anatomy that science has ever produced came from two postmenopausal women.
If you’ve quietly filed some part of your body under over and done, the science doesn’t support that filing system.
Neither does mine.
Still following the breadcrumbs.
Juliette