The Wet Patch

There I was, kneeling up behind her, waiting for normal breathing and rational thought to return. The fire and passion of a few moments ago culminated, as always, in me flooding her most intimate parts. Now, in the stillness that followed the fury, I contemplated the lines of her back and how beautiful was her pale skin in the subdued bluish light of the clock-radio.

She was laughing at me gently, amused by my exertions and whatever it was I might have cried out in the heat of the moment and I began to think of what a ridiculous and ungainly spectacle we must present to the casual onlooker or to our daughter if, heaven forbid, she should at that instant burst through the door.

As surely as my cock had risen and hardened under her expert touch, so it began to deflate again, gradually falling out of her. Heather was quick to grab two tissues in quick succession from the box beside the bed. She reached out behind her, offering me the first and, when I had plucked it from her hand she reached down beneath her legs with the second, ready to catch what might drip out of her as I withdrew, while I stood prepared to cocoon myself in tissue paper as soon as I was free.

This is a manoeuvre we have practiced hundreds, maybe thousands, of times over the years but still it is to no avail. When I rolled off her to lay down beside her, flattened out now on the bed, my thigh contacted the unmistakeable coldness of the dreaded wet patch.

I would very much like to know how that blob of bodily secretions always manages to evade our best efforts to catch it. I would quite happily set up a video camera beside the bed to record the exact moment of deposition and the mechanisms involved, although I suspect that Heather would not be so enthusiastic (if she should ever change her mind, you’ll be the first to know). I read somewhere that the head of the penis has evolved the shape it has to act as a pump to actively extract fluids from inside the female: Thus, if the female has had a recent previous pairing, the rival semen will be extracted, improving the chances that the genes of the current mate will be those that are passed on to any progeny. Now, we are always very careful when I am finally pulling out to catch any dribbles and in any case, as described above, by that time the piston is considerably deflated and must have lost a fair bit if its efficiency as a pump.

My contention therefore is that the pool is already there long before you expect it to be. Or at least a whole lot of it. So does it occur before or after ejaculation? Does it consist of a puddle of female secretions only, produced in copious amounts and dribbling out or ejected by the pumping mechanism previously described, or is there semen in there as well? Of course there is a very simple way to find out, but I have never had the inclination to taste the wet patch (and that phrase should throw up some pretty bizarre search results). If it is the case that the wet patch is a post-ejaculation phenomenon then the simple way to avoid it would be for the man to stop pumping the moment he has come. This takes a lot of the fun out of it, so I suppose must just accept the wet patch as an inevitable consequence of fucking. Only last week, and quite unconnected with any of these musings, Heather finally came round to the idea of using a fuck-towel instead of loads of tissues after the fact, but I suspect that is only because she wants to buy some new bathroom towels and the old ones are too good to throw out.

On a more serious note: I suppose that if the wet patch, or at least a portion of it, is formed after ejaculation but before the final withdrawal then it would be a good idea for couples trying to conceive if the man did indeed stop pumping away as soon as he came. On that basis alone, there would seem to be a serious need for this matter to be investigated in depth.

I wonder if anybody would give me a research grant.



Here's another of my favourite places in the UK