He was, for all intents and purposes, a Daddy: late-30s, silver stubble, overcompensating for his lack of height with accented machismo. It happened during winter break, when thousands of students are reminded that masturbating in a house inhabited by their parents is fucking awkward. For someone who treats themselves to the pleasures of self-love on a daily basis, this situation can easily drive them to extremes. We laughed about it in the elevator — he explained that he was allowed to fool around while his husband was away for work and I told him what going to Steamworks on a Tuesday afternoon was like. It was frankly refreshing to be with an older man who has already worked through his sexual hang-ups, unlike all these fuckboys who talk a big game and can’t get it up. We were just two horny guys who needed to blow off some steam.

The sex was great, remarkable even. He was confident, had a great dick and moved between being dominant and submissive with the kind of ease that only comes from experience. I was screaming for God in the devil’s tongue, pleading for deliverance at the hands of this British muscle daddy. I felt like Robert Pattinson, a spent shell of a man whose soul has long been snatched by FKA Twigs. Somewhere in that incoherent babbling I told him I wanted more fingers in me and he remarked, “So you’re into fisting, huh?”


It’s a curious sight, seeing someone’s arm protruding from your nether regions. I was being fisted! I’m that guy who got fisted. I’m a person who enjoys fisting! Does it count if it’s a technicality? I didn’t ask to be fisted but I wasn’t mad about it; I can’t help if I’ve got a big appetite. Maybe he just has small hands. I’ve got room for a fist but not for the word of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. I have seen Him and He gave me a purpose and an identity, the Patron Saint of Spread Sphincters, blessed by the fist of our Lord.

Fisting opened a schism in my life, pre-fisting on one side and post-fisting on the other. I had fallen into my own abyss and climbed back out, freshly fisted, postfisting. The mere act of having someone wrist-deep in me recontextualized all of my previous “risky” sexual practices as those characteristic of a person who likes to being fisted. To take one example, the occasional unprotected hook-up goes turns a very normal “slip-up” into the practices of a barebacking, postfisting cumslut. Fisting, for better or for worse, changed me.

On a purely physical level, nothing about me had changed. The thoroughly debunked myth of promiscuous women becoming “loose” extends to gay men as well, so my ass was intact, at least for the time being. I didn’t realize how far being fisted had pushed me out to sea until an STI test a few weeks later, when I was asked if I participated in risky sexual behaviours like penetrative anal sex and fisting. Anal sex between gay men is de rigeur of course, but once you cross that threshold and append an “and” to your disclosure, you’ve crossed some invisible line that in the eyes of the medical establishment, marks you as a high(er)-risk individual, despite fisting having a lower risk for infection than other forms of penetrative intercourse.

More importantly, I had changed in the eyes of other people, their visceral reactions of surprise (and disgust) more telling than what they’ll admit to thinking about it. In their minds, fisting lies on the other end of the mild-to-wild spectrum, as if one stretching of an orifice is more acceptable than another. As a sexual practice, inserting a fist into someone’s vagina or anus places a masochistic onus on the fistee rather than a sadistic onus on the fister. The fistee’s propensity towards pleasure-via-pain inevitably leads to a perception of looseness and eventually, damage and trauma. The irony is lost on those who gladly subscribe to the veneration of impressive phalli but are unable to imagine those who might desire something a bit larger. Why are fisting enthusiasts so maligned when they’re in fact, achieving the very desire that so many men are inadequately equipped to fulfill?

Masculinity is, needless to say, a fragile and tenuous concept. On one hand, fisting presents a convenient alternative to overcompensating for male lack (of size). On the other hand, being fisted both affirms and compromises phallic power through its fulfillment of a decidedly male obsession with penis size and the disavowal of its masculine ethos by accepting its penetration. But there remains one more dimension of fisting that goes unnoticed; physical disabilities notwithstanding, everyone can curl their fingers into a fist. In my mind, fisting seems to be a far more egalitarian proposition than relying on biologically determined factors like dick size as a corollary to achieving sexual satisfaction. Fisting fills the black hole of inadequacy that centuries of pornography have only served to deepen. Why rely on dicks when you can rely on fists? Moreover, while I’m all for making men feel inadequate, I propose that the cosmopolitan size queen may unwittingly find an alternate route to sexual satisfaction that many (as opposed to few) men can fulfill. Really, everyone wins.

Vidal Wu is longtime contributor and current Marketing Director who can’t stop talking about his anus. Find him on Twitter: @vidalwuu.

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