Tsunami.

It happened three years ago, when I was visiting my relatives in Kansas for Thanksgiving.

I found myself locked in a closet, masturbating furiously.

What brought this on? I can't really say.

Ever since fifth grade, I'd been tuned into sex and intensely curious about it. I'd seen and read things that made me tingle between my legs, but I'd never done anything about it. I'd never felt the need.

But on that fateful day in November, something inside my fifteen-year-old self snapped (too much turkey?), and I was suddenly filled with the urge to hide somewhere and thoroughly explore my body, to sink my fingers deep inside my pussy and start pumping away.

So I did. I lay down among the shoes and looked up at the sweaters, skirts, and carefully folded slacks, and ran my novice hands over myself, stroking and squeezing, pinching and prodding gently. I moved further down, skirting the clitoris completely and instead rubbing my outer lips, pushing them aside and working my way deeper. I moved my middle and index fingers rhythmically, harder and harder until I could feel my insides stretch out, becoming cave-like and spongy. I pressed against the roof, hearing the satisfying squish.

And then, I squirted.

Chagrined, and a little repulsed, I stopped. Had I just urinated all over the carpet? Upon further inspection, it seemed I had not. Apparently this was something new.

Fascinated, I went back to work, and was able to gush even more, absolutely soaking the floor beneath me. I didn't feel anything when this happened (no orgasmic bliss), except amazement and delight, even though I realize now that I'd activated the G-spot.

Several times during that Thanksgiving weekend, I returned to the closet...along with the bathroom, the bath tub, and the bed. Every time, my play resulted in waterworks.

When I went home, I continued my love affair with the G-spot, until one day...I couldn't do it anymore.

I'm sure I still have the ability, I just can't seem to unlock it. But I haven't given up.