Like all aspects of sexual experience, what we’ve come to know as “squirting” is nothing new. Its prominence in conversations around sexuality might have you believing that it’s suddenly become a universal—or universally fraught—experience. And yet, the function itself is still shrouded in misinformation and misunderstanding.
While the sentiment around squirting may differ between geographies and cultures, it’s rarely offered a straightforward narrative. In Nigeria, for example, a viral discussion on the subject recently peaked, highlighting how squirting occupies an uneasy place in sexual discourse: a punchline on social media for some (often reduced to jokes about “flooded mattresses”), a badge of so-called sexual prowess for others, and a mark of humiliation or pride depending on a partner’s reaction. In all, the subject is rarely discussed with much nuance or care. It has become meme-ified and mystified, yet many people remain unsure about what squirting actually is or how it works.
While not everyone who squirts identifies as a woman, cultural reactions to squirting are often entwined with perceptions of female sexuality and expectations around how women’s pleasure appears—with much of the discussion hinging on cis-heteronormative frameworks.
In places where formal sex education is minimal, porn and peer mythology often become the default curriculum. Nigeria—the site of recent viral conversation—is hardly alone in this. Many locations across the globe experience simultaneously similar and unique attitudes to squirting—shaped by misinformation and widespread assumptions. Elsewhere, in countries including Japan and Iceland, academic research on “female ejaculation” is more prominent, but cultural discussions of sexual pleasure are still limited.
Across cultures, many people struggle to treat squirting as a neutral part of sexual expression. Squirting is treated as something universally desirable until it isn’t—until it’s (wrongly) deemed inconvenient, embarrassing, or physically disruptive—or until it’s (misguidedly) expected by default. What do our attitudes around squirting reveal about deeper cultural assumptions around pleasure and control? And what can more honest conversations about bodies, consent, and care look like in practice?
Medical misunderstanding
Globally, squirting occupies a strange space of contradiction: hyper-visible online (both in porn and in discourse around sex) but frequently misunderstood in practice. “It’s not a trick or a performance,” says Birna Gustafsson, a sex educator, researcher, and lecturer at the University of Iceland. “For many [people], it’s an involuntary physiological response that happens without a clear understanding of what their body is doing.”
This gap between education and reality can turn the bedroom into a site of perceived performance. When it comes to what’s actually happening in the body, Dr. Eleonora Fedonenko explains, “The pelvic area becomes engorged with blood during sexual arousal and during the maximum level of stimulation, the pelvic floor muscles surrounding the urethra squeeze the fluid out.”
“But that fluid is not from just one source, and that's where the confusion starts,” she continues. “It contains secretions from the Skene's glands and diluted urine from the bladder, and the amount will vary greatly from person to person.”
“The Skene's glands are located in the front wall of the vagina close to the lower end of the urethra and are sometimes referred to by doctors as the female prostate,” (due to the fact that prostate specific antigen (PSA) is produced here). “[The glands] fill with fluid [which is] expelled at orgasm in certain individuals,” usually a smaller amount of thicker, milky fluid.
Crucially, Dr. Fedonenko adds that “squirting and female ejaculation are two different things. Female ejaculation produces only a small amount of fluid from the Skene's glands, [compared] to squirting, which produces a larger amount of fluid, mainly from the bladder,” in addition to that from the Skene’s glands.
Yet despite these distinctions, squirting is still frequently collapsed into a single, misleading notion of “female ejaculation.”
Porn accelerates that collapse. Because it is a visual medium, subtle physiological responses are less visible than exaggerated, forceful release, which then becomes shorthand for “real” orgasm. Over time, that spectacle teaches viewers to equate female pleasure with visible fluid, flattening the ways different bodies experience pleasure into a single expectation. But even if this expectation is seemingly widely desired, off-camera squirting is (paradoxically) not always well received.
The distribution of shame
As a result of the seemingly never-ending conversation around “whether squirting is just peeing,” squirting can also be misconstrued as something dirty, embarrassing, or shameful.
Several studies, including a widely cited ultrasound and dye-based experiment conducted by Japanese researchers, mapped out what is actually going on physiologically when someone squirts. Blue dye, introduced into participants’ bladders before arousal, was present in the expelled fluid, indicating that squirting fluid is a combination of diluted urine mixed with secretions released during sexual stimulation—as Dr. Fedonenko outlines.
That finding is often simplified—conflating squirting and peeing—but Gustafsson cautions against that framing. “Yes, there can be urine present,” she explains, “but that doesn’t mean squirting is the same as urination. The bladder isn’t a passive container—it responds to arousal.”
For Bolanle, a Nigerian woman who squirts, her partners’ reactions have rarely been about the sensation itself. “Men like it because it feels like evidence of hard work,” she says. “But the problem is what comes after.” She describes partners who recoiled—turning away, spitting if fluid got in their mouths, or quietly bristling at the practical aftermath. Other conversations have seen (specifically) men reckoning with their own reaction—discomfort, surprise, unpreparedness, or embarrassment . “It’s the panic after,” she says. With her current partner, things only changed after they talked about it. He bought a waterproof blanket. They planned ahead. “My body didn’t change,” she told me. “The conversation did.”
For those who don’t squirt, the stigma can appear in reverse. Egoamaka, a 24-year-old woman in Lagos, says disclosing the fact that she doesn’t squirt often shifts the tone of sex entirely. “Men treat it like a challenge,” she told me. “They get aggressive and say they’re ‘trying to make me squirt.’” What is framed as enthusiasm quickly becomes pressure. She explains that she won’t respond to unrealistic expectations, adding, "And if they don’t listen, I leave.”
The geography of accountability
Whether it’s the silent awkwardness directed at someone who squirts or the pressure aimed at someone who doesn’t, what remains consistent is that the power and focus hinges on perception rather than pleasure.
That response, however, is not universal. In parts of East Africa, particularly Rwanda and Uganda, squirting can be framed differently. Through kunyaza, a centuries-old sexual practice, this kind of fluid release is neither accidental nor excessive but anticipated and cultivated. It is understood as the outcome of attentiveness.
Within the kunyaza framework, men are taught a deliberate technique of rhythmically stimulating the clitoris and surrounding vulva through tapping and rubbing motions, designed to encourage fluid release—and, crucially, they are prepared to take responsibility for it. Where the Nigerian response is often marked by discomfort and feminine apology, the East African tradition insists on masculine accountability (within a heteronormative framework). The man does not recoil; the fluid is not treated as a disruption but as a confirmation of pleasure.
This contrast exposes what's often at stake in the bedroom in places where squirting is contentious: not the fluid itself, but gendered issues of shame and control.
The performance trap
While in the Nigerian cultural example squirting can be treated as embarrassing and disruptive, in many Western contexts, it is often reframed as a marker of sexual liberation or skill—yet pressure around performance still complicates the squirting conversation.
Pornography has made squirting aspirational in many places, encouraging people to see it as proof of sexual success. But aspiration does not erase discomfort. In many contexts, the act sits within a contradiction: something people are encouraged to desire, yet still struggle to understand and respond to thoughtfully. “I have people coming to me asking me to teach them how to squirt,” Gustafsson tells me. “And just as many are asking how to stop. Some want it because they think they’re supposed to. Others are terrified it will happen again.”
Gustafsson says the surge of interest in learning to squirt reflects the way porn has reshaped expectations around sexual performance. Some people may experience squirting through particular kinds of stimulation or relaxation, she explains. For others, they might not experience it at all. “Bodies respond differently. Treating squirting as a skill to master can create pressure that actually makes pleasure harder to reach.”
Tim Lagman, a certified sexology educator and pleasure advocate, says that while some people can “learn” to squirt, it isn’t necessarily something that happens instantly or predictably. Still, if you do want to explore it, be patient, he explains. One commonly discussed focus point is the so-called G-spot—an area located roughly two to four inches inside the vaginal canal along the anterior wall. Because this region can be particularly responsive to stimulation, Lagman advises taking time to explore it gradually using fingers or sex toys. “If using fingers, try positioning them in a gentle ‘come-here’ motion, or spreading them slightly to apply broader pressure,” he suggests. “Some people find that firm, consistent stimulation—whether with fingers or with curved toys such as stainless-steel wands—helps build the sensation associated with squirting. During penetrative sex, upward pressure against this area can also produce similar responses.”
Still, Lagman emphasizes that squirting is not a universal or necessary marker of pleasure. Bodies respond differently, and attempts to force a specific outcome can create anxiety rather than enjoyment.
“If someone doesn’t experience [squirting], there is no reason they must pursue it,” Lagman adds. “And if it happens naturally, it [shouldn’t] be pathologized. Sexual fulfilment isn’t measured by whether or not fluid is released—it’s about comfort, communication, and authentic pleasure.”
The discomfort surrounding squirting is not only about soaked sheets or practical cleanup. For many people, it also involves vulnerability. Squirting can feel like a sudden and highly visible loss of control. While not everyone who squirts identifies as a woman, cultural responses to it are often shaped by ideas about female pleasure. In contexts where that pleasure is expected to remain discreet or contained, such an uninhibited physical response can feel deeply exposing.
Closing the conversation gap
A shift in education and understanding does not begin at the level of culture, but in the privacy of the bedroom. It begins with how people speak to each other before and after sex—with pleasure framed as something to experience rather than something to achieve, and bodies approached with curiosity rather than expectation.
Squirting, like any other physical response, shouldn’t be assessed as a performance metric. It isn’t proof of skill or incompetence, success, or failure. Whether it happens or doesn’t, or changes over time, no experience requires explanation, apology, or pressure.
What matters more than anything is how these intimate moments are held. Partners can respond with patience, reduce pressure, and engage in honest conversations about the body—not as a reaction, but as part of the ongoing exchange of intimacy itself. The culture changes, not because the body is expected to change—as Bolanle said—but because the conversation has.
