On Butt Sex
An essay on sexual exploration
For a time in my life I worked nights as a front desk receptionist at a fancy beachside hotel and golf club. It’s there — past the giant Christmas tree, in the lobby bathroom with the fancy minty lotion from England, at 3:30 a.m. while all the guests were asleep and all the sand crabs were awake, everyone anticipating the sunrise over the Atlantic — that I first put a finger up my butt, and I saw that it was good.
And then I rested.
After washing my hands in horror and relieved curiosity.
In retrospect, my first thumb-and-cum was neither the beginning nor the end of a long journey of sexual exploration. I’m sharing this experience so that someone out there in this great big WOYLD of ours might relate and feel comforted by it, that they’re not alone in the dark with stinky fingers like I was: confused, ashamed, and wonderfully aroused.
For most of my life, my only experience with butt sex — when I knew it actually existed — was simply picturing a massive mound of fresh morning shit in the toilet: a dark iceberg with an American flag on top, melted in the microwave, then poured all over my penis, balls, and stomach, smeared everywhere like coconut oil on an island vacation.
I used to think, why would anyone wanna be a fudge-packer? I mean, come on. You’ll literally be COVERED IN SHIT.
I never would have thought there’d be a pleasure center down there, that it would someday be painless to enjoy and not always dirty, or that it would open me up in ways I wouldn’t have expected.
It makes sense to provide an abridged sexual roadmap that eventually led me to explore the forbidden, dark chocolate cavity of my body.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a bit of a horny humper. In my early days it was humping all my stuffed animals: my Fivel from American Tale, Winnie the Pooh, a nameless red spider with big red lips (as well as a polka-dot bow and many useful pockets and crevices), and my favorite, Sparky from Awana Club — the Christian club similar to the Boy Scouts, but instead of being decorated with badges for great ropes, we were awarded stuffed animals for memorizing entire books of the Bible perfectly.
Sparky was a bit of a twink.
So I humped him, long before I knew about anatomy or what went where. For the longest time I didn’t even realize cum came out my penis if I just humped or rubbed myself a little longer. I have my Grace Academy “Creationism”-only education to thank for that. All that really mattered is that we never thought about breasts, rock music, or stealing. See, babies came from God, and it was for Him to decide when to spontaneously grow them in peoples’ bellies, later to be pooped out.
Rock music came from the devil, and even if it was “Christian rock” (when people scream Amazing Grace), it will still lead to dancing, which will lead to evil thoughts, which will lead to visualizing breasts, which will lead to getting bad grades and/or spanking, which will lead to terrorism, meaning the Democratic Party, meaning Hussein-sympathizers, meaning fudge-packing queers.
My mother was a nurse, still is, and she’d bluntly share what you could look forward to if you had sex before marriage: boils, plagues, and all the stuff we saw shoot out from Charleton Heston’s large, hard rod in the Ten Commandments. My father was a no-nonsense Missouri type; his “birds and the bees” discussion was mainly repeating over and over again, “Son, keep your dick in your pants,” whilst swigging from a reserve of Coors Light or Franzia Box Wine on ice.
I realize now that both my parents were kinda nudists, regularly showing us their genitals in a matter-of-fact show-and-tell, “This is daddy’s; this is mommy’s, SEE?” My dad would show me his low-hanger balls and point to mine that would someday drop just as low, and my mother would pull apart her labia lips, just like the ones on my stuffed spider. I made the mental note.
So, I was aware of how everything looked, how somehow the vagina went well with what Dad and I had, yet I had to be extremely careful or else it would lead to rivers turning red, or locusts coming out of my pants, or a winged killer whale angel who breathed a steam cloud that killed people by sneaking under the unbloody doors. This slowly led me to become a horribly ill-informed, yet overly stimulated and incessantly horny hypochondriac.
On my Solomon search for more and more pleasure, I continued to upgrade, with my last experience involving the massive white carnival bear with an unraveled seam slit for a vagina. Instead of the usual soft puffy stuffing, there were delightful packing peanuts that felt like fingers tickling my dick head. During a family reunion some time later, my brother and I had a heart-to-heart about Carnival Bear, as both of us apparently had love affairs with her, even though she was breast-less.
My obsession with breasts was well known to my family. My dad would always proudly call me “BOOB MAN” or, to his friends, “This is my son. He’s a bit of a BOOB MAN.” I’d motion like I was squeezing them, and then they’d laugh. Watching my first Miss America competition, I was actually making out with the TV, licking the dust above the boob-colored pixels. Oddly enough, I got an erection from visual stimulation for the first time while watching a comedy. Steve Martin was making out with some woman, and her blouse unbuttoned to reveal her breast in a bra.
That’s all I needed.
Because I’m a boob man.
Perhaps we’ll call those years the STUFFED ANIMAL YEARS, which eventually lead to the REFRIGERATOR YEARS. During this time period, you can bet that if there was something in the fridge — anyone’s fridge in the entire world, even the contents of yours right now, even the hot sauce — I definitely used it as lubricant. Peanut butter. Grape Jelly. Mustard. Pancake Syrup. Karo Syrup. Banana peels. Really though, it wasn’t confined to things found in the refrigerator; I’d even hunt for substances outside the house, like the insides of aloe plants. Those were good times.
Sticky. A little stinky.
Around this time, the CUMMING YEARS came, when I realized cum actually came out the end of my penis, after a friend told me. Apparently I simply had to just masturbate a little longer. He mentioned something about “cleaning up” one time. He was like, “Yoooou know, when it comes out, when it feels good.”
And I was like, “Huh?”
And then he was like, “Wait, you don’t … you don’t know?”
To which I immediately scoffed, “Pfffffft, OF COURSE, silly, right, right, riiiiiiiiight, the cleaaaaan up, I get it. GOTCHA. Yes.”
And then he was all, “You haven’t cum yet have you.”
And I said “ChYah!!! Of course I have, CUMMING, yes, yeah man.”
We stood looking at each other awkwardly a moment.
“No I haven’t.”
After that, I remember bolting home on my bike to begin my first attempt at cumming, this phenomenon that I’d have to “clean up.” I was in my parent’s bathroom, and for some reason I didn’t use any of my go-to lubricants. I stuck to hot water, over and over again, scalding my dick. My parents were watching some Chuck Norris movie, and I was in the bathroom for hours until my first explosion occurred. It must have been obvious to everyone else in my family what I was doing, turning the water on and off, with the soft thump-thlap, thump-thlap, thump-thlap in between. I must have come out of that bathroom looking like I had finished soccer practice, cheeks red and sweaty. Since that day, I’m pretty sure I’ve masturbated every single day, and especially during those first cumming years, possibly five to eight times a day.
I should also mention that I was exposed to pornography around this time as well, through my rich friend with the bad parents. We’ll call this my PORNOGRAPHY YEARS, which have yet to cease. In addition to porn, we’d watch any kind of movie we could get our hands on with breasts (especially that shower scene with Sylvester Stallone and Michelle Pfeiffer, I think it was, or maybe Barbara Walters, I forget), and we’d both have erections underneath the covers, each petting our dicks like they were ferocious baby honey badgers. His mom would walk by chewing on ice and muscle relaxers, nonchalantly moaning, “Niiiiiiiiiiight boysssss,” and we’d continue our erection badgering.
I waited for quite some time to have any kind of sexual interaction with girls. I always had girls who were friends, and I definitely fantasized about them. But I guess my somewhat “Puritan Hypochondriac” upbringing stuck with me, and really, I don’t regret it.
I’m thankful for it, for being overly-informed about diseases and ill-informed about the anatomy of the female and male genitalia, because it created a healthy mystery and fear for quite some time, just enough time for me to grow up in other ways before I fucked up my life sexually. I saw it happening all around me; so many people hit their prime in middle or high school covered in Ten Commandment boils, also resulting in a child, and nights at home covered in breast-milk throw-up, in place of a Bachelor’s degree or time for bonfires at house parties covered in moonshine throw-up.
College was my time of first experimenting with humans – making out, massages, blow jobs, but never sex until after college. I didn’t even say a cuss word until freshman year, which was also the same year I had my first beer and subsequently threw my friend’s furniture off of his balcony. Two beers did that.
I also thought very compartmentally then.
I needed to accomplish this and that before I ever embarked upon a relationship with anyone, because that led to crabs and babies, and that led to marriage, and that led to unhappiness and stagnation, it seemed — people giving up on their dreams because of the high cost of children with people they half-loved because the other half was just childhood lust. Then they’d just get wasted to forget all of that at the local beachside pub.
As I grew older, and the areas of life, love, religion, right, wrong, and sexuality began to blur into nuance and subtlety, my life became much less compartmental. I think it would now be unfair to categorize things into “yearly” spans, but rather subjects that seemed to swirl together as bubbling clouds of half n’ half slowly blending with the iced coffee of my mind.
I’ll start first with GIRLFRIENDS. My first girlfriend was more of a girlfriend out of convenience and familiarity than any of that “first love” kind of stuff. We both had similar pasts, same high school, same college, and similar philosophies. In other words, she was a fellow celibate sexually-frustrated teddy bear humper.
After a summer of failing to become a paid writer/actor in California, I found myself back in my hometown, partly due to my post-college failure out west, and partly due to my father’s lungs failing. He wanted me back home. I’m not sure why she was back home too, but I think we were both not as interested in a “relationship” as we were tired of waiting to fuck for so long. Our cunts were drying up, we were attracted to each other, and we loved each other deeply as friends, so why not? We were both virgins, and we were both probably a little depressed, and stuck, realizing we had become a version of those losers we so passionately sought not to become. We needed excitement in a dull town of seagull death.
Thus, I began my first intercourse with another human being, besides penetrating the mouths and boob crevasses of many humans and stuffed animals and banana peels before. Although it’s cliché to say, I’ll never forget that first time. It hasn’t faded from my memory and the memory hasn’t morphed over time, because it was just so damn pitiful.
That night was almost a contractual agreement: and NOW we will finally begin.
No foreplay, no nothing. We just wanted to get it over with to see what it felt like. Well, my dick didn’t go in. She was as dry as a beach ball left out in the sun, in the desert, on Mars. I put a condom on, spread her legs, got on top, and attempted to push it right in. Wasn’t working.
And then I started crying.
My first attempt at sexual intercourse, and I started crying. Perhaps it was the combination of feeling like I digressed back into high school, like I failed at my dreams, knowing my father would very likely die within months, feeling pitiful and unmanly because I couldn’t do the one thing a man should know how to do — FUCK.
Really? This is what I was waiting for? This is what was so sacred?
This fucking sucks. But seriously, poems are written about this?
After bawling my eyes out for a while, we tried again after comforting each other; maybe the sight of my crying turned her on. But it finally worked, perhaps because we tried again out of loyal love and hilarious tearful tender acceptance, as opposed to the desire to check off a box.
And then for months we were fucking like Army-engineered rabbits on Viagra and ecstasy. This was also around the time of my first thumb-and-cum in the hotel bathroom, as previously mentioned.
Over time I had a string of other relationships with girlfriends, and, because I am now in a relationship with another person who has a penis, I am tempted to disregard every other kind of sexual experience and relationship I’ve ever had.
I think we like to do this, because it makes us feel more validated by where we are presently, labeling everywhere we once were as a mistake or some kind of experimentation or temporary curiosity. I was completely and utterly attracted to these women though. We fucked wonderfully, and it felt right at the time with The European, the Korean-American, and the Emaciated One.
The European liked to have sex after the rain; she liked feeling sweaty and dirty and sandy. One time I fucked her when she was on her period, and blood drenched my towels. I loved it. The Korean-American liked it rough, and one time we broke my bed. We kept going at a 45-degree angle until we broke it completely. The Emaciated One loved it when I picked her up and used her body as a pump for my dick, up and down, “It’s just like in porn!” she’d scream. While I was with them I didn’t feel like something was “missing,” but all the while my attraction for men did continue simultaneously.
I’ve always been attracted to men aesthetically, although — as I’ve explained — my attraction for women (and acting upon it sexually) seemed to flourish more quickly, perhaps because it was more socially acceptable, or perhaps because that’s what I actually wanted. I noticed women, their breasts, their frailty, the curves of their body, the curls of their hair, their soft features — always an invitation for me, always a turn-on, a call to protect them, love them, dominate them gently, roughly.
I noticed men too, but somewhat differently. Walking down the street I was always stunned when I saw a man with muscular forearms or a sweaty fiery pulsing body or hair in all the places I wanted to have hair, the patterns on the chest, the dark prickles on the face, always a provocation for admiration, a wrestle with naked oily mutual awe. I’d feel something. I’d always notice them, and perhaps I always made a “note” of them in my brain. It was simply a thump, a bullet point in my soul; that’s beautiful too. Check.
But I never really told anyone or acted upon it sexually.
It wasn’t until sometime after college — and between girlfriends — that I had any physical interaction with another man intimately, besides the usual cock-comparisons and group masturbation sessions from childhood and drunken streaking to FSU fountains.
We’ll call this the MIAMI EXPERIMENTATIONS. Perhaps it’s the water in Miami, the fresh minty mojitos, the heart-cracking coffee, the steamy oily sweat, I’m not sure. Maybe that day was just super, super gay. Maybe Miami is Army-engineered to make people gayer? I’ll probably never know why I felt so strongly about this man who was working out next to me at the condo gym.
I noticed him the way I noticed men before, that buck-in-headlights stun, but I noticed I was also aroused at the same time, by the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, his strong trapezoid muscles, his luscious Latino lips, his smell. I was aroused enough to follow him into the bathroom and let him suck on my anus in the bathroom stall until I came all over the toilet, in about two minutes.
For a moment I felt kind of bad for him though. You really want to lick my sweaty anus, where my poop comes out, after a frickin’ work out? After he began though, I didn’t really care; all I know is that it felt wonderful. What gave me even more shutters was actually kissing him, feeling his hairy chest against mine.
We continued these meetings for quite some time, until he invited me to his house. He was intent on fucking me in my butt, which is what he explained via a number of dirty text messages, but perhaps he was used to well-seasoned butt-fuckers, because he was not patient. He expected his dick to go in like a child’s arm playfully thrusted into one of those blood-pressure machines meant for old people at the grocery store. Even though he had a Magnum-condom-sized dick, I was surprisingly willing to try. I don’t think he even tried to put lube anywhere, and, to make matters worse, I think he was wearing a toupee.
During our tom-cock-foolery, he kept his baseball cap on. Every time I tried to take it off, he’d simply turn it backwards. And as he was turning the hat bill to the back, I saw his entire head of hair shift with the hat. I remember clearly mumbling, “what, the, fuuuu…” and then I decided to ignore it.
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
I went through a string a men a similar way. It didn’t even matter where I moved in Miami after grad school, from South Beach, to North Beach, to Little Haiti, to Miami Gardens, I could smell the men in the hot air. It always began with some coffee, a gym, plenty of sweat, some inappropriate longing stares, and then a sex-charged shaky handshake hello. And then, “Where do you want to go?”
Most of the time there was just that one sentence of small talk, and then we’d get into a car, or go to a bathroom somewhere, or to their friend’s apartment, and we’d rip each other’s clothes off. Most of the time this only included making out, maybe a blowjob, or mutual masturbation — rarely a rimming like my first time. Either way, I was always the one getting the blow job, and I was always the one getting rimmed. Sometimes I’d even lure them back to my apartment a few blocks away with some bullshit line like, “Ummm, so, I have some protein shake at my house if you wanna come have one with me,” and then, when we’d walk into the door, I’d pull their pants off. They’d act all surprised, even though we both knew they weren’t.
This one guy (I still look at his Facebook page and masturbate from time to time) was, rather is, so beautiful. When I first saw him at the gym, we kept purposefully working out next to each other until we made it to the water fountain together, where we shook hands. I’ll never forget how he asked me to dinner and how I said, “How about we forget about that and just get right to it.” We left in his truck to his friend’s house, where we made out in an empty room where some dogs slept. It smelled like piss and unwashed dog. Then his friend’s garden party began outside, with everyone crowding around the windows, and we had to awkwardly leave and say hello with our shirts off and our dicks obviously erect.
I guess the most serious interaction was with this Lebanese guy. I walked into a Starbucks, and as I was ordering he kept eyeing me, and I kept eyeing him. His skin was olive, hair dark, eyes greenish. I remember seeing his pectoral muscles clearly through his shirt. His lips were full, and he was one of those guys that always seems to be sweating, his upper lip wet. I kept looking at him as I haphazardly poured my Splenda into my iced coffee. He was unblinking. I couldn’t take it. I was getting an erection, and I could hardly breath, so much so that I had to run to my Honda parked under a Banyan tree.
As I drove away I looked over towards him, and I could see him still staring at me through the Starbucks window. I was hyperventilating. I drove home and violently masturbated my hard wood onto my hardwood floors.
Later that day I worked out, and, of course, he was actually a member of my gym. He was doing pull-ups, sweat pouring down his chest and down his back. I could see his dark chest hair issuing from the top of his cutout gym shirt. We smiled at each other from across the room and knew that we had to say hello now.
He said something like, “Why didn’t you say hello at Starbucks?” and I said, because you made me nervous. We scheduled time to meet that night. I drove to his house. We had wine, and talked. It was my first real “date” with a man. And of course it ended with us getting completely naked and humping each other.
As I mentioned before, I am a bit of a humper.
His chest was beautiful, chiseled, hairy, sweaty, dark, perfect. We met on other dates from time to time over a few months, and I never told anyone about it. Most of the time it was just making out, blow jobs, or him acting like he was fucking me — rubbing his penis in between my butt cheeks until he came on my back. I slept over a lot at his house too. Technically we were dating; although, at the time I could have never psychologically accepted that, because of the guilt, the shame, the confusion. Eventually we reached the point of wanting to have sex. I liked the idea of it, and by that time I was actively getting off to gay porn.
The first time I looked at it, I was in my South Beach studio — white crown molding painted again and again since the 30s, hard wood floors with termites, frameless bed on the ground, found and painted furniture that looked as sleek as I could muster pre-Ikea. I remember looking at breasts as much as I could, but it’s like they had run their course. I was tired of re-imagining past blowjobs and titty-fucks and period-fucks and after-the-rain-fucks.
I wanted that thing that was forbidden, that part of me that said Neat! but never acted upon. I wanted to see men naked, for aesthetic and sexual reasons. So, I think I just typed in exactly that.
“Hairy, muscular, nude, men.”
I still remember the first guy I saw, a beast, with sweat running down his mustache, his chest all the way to his penis, his balls, his strong legs, his work boots. I remember feeling like shit so much for continuing to look at things like that. I started going to a therapist.
I didn’t understand how I could be sexually attracted to both women and men. I always knew men were beautiful, but to get an erection from looking at one naked?
Was this because I never played football and I never showered with other men, jokingly slapping each other’s butts, subsequently getting flashes of their floppy cocks, therefore desensitizing me to their appeal? I started blaming my track coach, for making us simply change out of our skimpy running shorts without showering.
Did looking at porn morph my desires into something they “shouldn’t” be? I began wondering if curiously looking at naked pictures of strangers had the power to change my mind and my whole sexual make-up.
Was there something missing in my life to make me want this? I thought that because I watched my father slowly die, maybe now I have some kind of “daddy issue” that manifests itself with erections, which can later be “cured” with more monogamous sex with women and tearful prayer.
Every explanation annoyed me because I knew, at the deepest coffee bean depths of my brewing soul, every single one of them wasn’t true.
Upon further reflection and prayer and sluttiness, all of the previous answers to my “problem” were debunked. For example, my relationship with my father was fine, and although his death was tragic, it was his time to go. We had enough time to say goodbye, to say we were sorry for all the things we didn’t say or do, for all past unkindnesses. We had time to say thank you, for taking us on camping trips, for making us laugh with crab claws, for dreaming big, for failing, for trying again, for always working hard, for loving the water, for loving the sun, for loving me as a son.
After unceasing, guilty, unceasingly guilty masturbation and multiple trips to therapy and praying to Jesus in tears, I realized that like most things, there wasn’t this false dichotomy everything had to fit into.
You are either black or white.
You are either evil or good.
You are either dead or alive, decaying or growing.
You are either creating or destroying.
You are either happy or sad.
You’re for us or against us.
You are either gay or straight, nothing in the middle, nothing flowing from one to the other, no gradients like the yellow-red-purple-blue of Thai sunsets.
I realized that, like the flowing molecules of re-formed star explosions that we are, everything is quite paradoxical and in multiple states simultaneously. And it’s not something we must categorize and fear, but rather something we can embrace as natural.
I think it’s scary for people to think that their house is actually moving just like their blood. All people are a mix of some other mix of people, some other culture, with opposing ideas living side-by-side, yet we falsely think there’s an “us” vs. “them.” In the same way, I think it’s scary for people to admit that both female and male can arouse us – it was scary for me, at least at first. Over time, and not until recently, have I really begun to feel a certain unexplainable peace.
The Lebanese guy was one of many who were not patient with me, who, frankly, did not have any idea what they were doing. On some level, I’m sure that’s what Jesus meant when he said “They know not what they do” before he bowed his head. They don’t know how to love each other all the time, and they sure as hell don’t know how to buttfuck properly.
When it came time for an attempt at sex, the Lebanese guy first had me sniff something, which now I realize was poppers. I didn’t sniff it though, because I thought he was trying to knock me out and then rape me and give me AIDS.
I fake-sniffed and said, Mmmm, thanks, THAT WAS NICE.
Then I bent over, and after he vigorously fingered me with hardly any lube, he thought my butt was ready for his half-erect penis. I remember he didn’t even want to put a condom on, and I was quite adamant I was not going to become Tom Hanks in Philadelphia. Really, besides the fudge-packing, this was my only other reference for “gayness” from childhood — that, and my Aunt out west who had a “special” friend. What was Philadelphia’s message for me? All gays apparently die from disease after a dramatic lawsuit.
He put it on and began humping like a jack-rabbit with his penis half in my butt. I remember screaming, “Wooaaaah buddy, you gotta take it easy there!!” He awkwardly pulled his dick head out, and then I think he came.
That was one of the last times I saw him. There were other attempts with other men, and from my experience I labeled myself as someone with a butt not sanctioned for the reception of large objects.
Fingers yes, nothing bigger.
In between girlfriends and while living in Korea is when I had my first attempt at being a “top.” Since I also didn’t know what I was doing, the experience was less than magical, and more within the enchanted realms of a fail.
Perhaps someone’s first time at anything is usually a “fail,” at least that was the pattern that I was seeing with myself. Pissing in public, memorizing multiplication tables in elementary school, sex with girls, sex with guys, ALL fails. Yeah, I’m trying to think of something that has been a success for me as a first try, and I really can’t think of anything.
So, the only way I was going to get good at something was if I studied and tried again and again, just like the first poem I memorized at Grace Academy, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again . . .”
I made the same mistakes as a “top” that those other tops over my bottom made with me. In the excitement to execute the act of fucking, I forgot the reason for it to begin with.
My dick was hard and therefore, I thought, it was now ready to insert into my man-friend’s anus. For hours we tried. My dick felt like a ratty balloon that I simply had to keep re-blowing in order to expand. Then, because the act was less about affection or any kind of unconditional love connection, my erection deflated again and again after he pushed me away in pain, leaving my bed a poopy mess of condoms, towels, and frustration.
I felt the same way I felt that night with my first girlfriend, almost to the point of tears again and my Dad wasn’t even dying this time.
Not until now have I noticed this pattern.
Failing at it.
Labeling it as TRIED (check!)
Then re-labeling it as NOT SOMETHING I LIKE DOING.
Until those labels are completely shattered when the opposite occurs.
I went through a new string of men as a “top” after my first success at it.
During this time, you might say I was the FOREIGN SLUTTY PROFESSOR, and I won’t get into how odd it was having my first valid experiences with butt sex within the context of living in South Korea and teaching English; I already wrote entire books on that subject.
This guy was French. I have to give a warning though, because sex with him was very misleading. After briefly making out, I slipped it in and it felt like a wet vagina. I’m still not sure how he did it, and to this day my only explanation is that French men sometimes have self-lubricating anuses. What this did for me though was made me realize that butt sex with men can be enjoyable, and not always covered in feces as I previously suspected and experienced firsthand.
It felt natural. During my brief time with him, I finally realized what all the fuss was about. With butts – perhaps even more so than with vaginas – someone’s experience buttfucking, their comfort and state of relaxation, their overall confidence, as well as their connection to you contributes significantly to how the act of anal intercourse will play out. Perhaps most important is how they see themselves.
After another slutty stint, in New York this time — traipsing around the East Village attempting to make out with as many men as possible, tasting them all like Skittles, and getting as many blow jobs on dark dance floors as possible — I met someone who was confident enough to be patient with me and who saw himself as neither a rigid “top” nor a “bottom.”
It also helped that I was attracted to him on many fronts – not just the physical and not just creatively and the like. I wanted to spend time with him as well as think about his body lustfully as well as talk with him about what was important to me and what was important to him. I liked that he didn’t see himself as having to always be the dominant one or always the submissive one. I realized anal intercourse didn’t have to be a fight, that it can be enjoyed by both parties. There doesn’t have to be that one chosen person who is getting off on fucking their lover as their lover shrinks in pain and blood and shit.
It can be a patient, tender process of listening to each other and attending to other’s wants and needs. It also helped that I took a very pragmatic approach to the matter as well — practice makes perfect.
I went out and bought a buzzing dildo around the same size as my boyfriend’s dick. I got some lube, and I got wine – and some poppers – to relax, after finally realizing that they weren’t date-rape drugs.
It only took me one day of practicing on myself until I took a penis up my butt. With my roommate’s dog watching and sounds of a Spanish church singing about HAY-ZEUS, with a neon orange map of Brooklyn on the wall, I got on top of my boyfriend and slowly sat on his dick. The first couple times were a little painful, so I stopped. I let the fear subside. This didn’t have to be a bloody poopy mess; this could be enjoyable, just like it was enjoyable imagining it when I was by myself. I held onto his pecs, kissed him, and then let him enter me. I slowly rocked up and down, and it felt like it was supposed to feel — amazing, graceful, and no one had to scream.
Since then I’ve learned to relax more, to think about the act less, and focus more on the person.
Do I want him to be a part of me, to fill me, to connect with me? Do I love him? Do I want him to feel good? How can I give myself to him more completely and unconditionally?
I’m ultimately realizing that the less importance we place on the way we love and the more importance we place on how much love can be unconditionally expressed, the more enjoyable butt sex — or any sex — will be.
It’s not only about performance; was I good?
Or only about dominance and submission; did I win?
It’s less about checking off a list of sexual accomplishments on an insatiable Solomon journey of pleasure in our lives so that, when we die, we feel like we did everything a human can possibly do. Maybe quality is better than quantity, or maybe both actually have a purpose.
And it’s less about a prescribed way of connecting with someone, meaning straight Sylvester Stallone and Barbara Walters missionary sex.
Now feel those breasts because you’re a boob man.
Maybe I’m a dick man, because men can be hot too.
And butt sex isn’t this dirty act of pain and torture, and desiring to connect to someone with butt sex doesn’t mean you need to be fixed, or that God will assail you with fiery locusts coughing boiling blood onto your balls in your American Apparel boxers.
I think if God is up there or all around us or within us, then he must know how he designed our asses and that they feel good when you shove things up them, and he probably cares more about how much we’re loving each other and not how.
I think if you’re going to start buttfucking, make sure you are patient, try to love someone, don’t give up, and don’t write everything off in a teary dry-cunt poopy-ass shame after one attempt.
There are refrigerators of possibilities waiting for you, but take your time, even if everyone else doesn’t.
Stay away from hot sauce or any kind of Icy-Hot, and remember that sometimes life gets sticky, and sometimes a little stinky.
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Enjoying the fat of the land isn't always an easy process; it takes time to float up. Sometimes things are separated…thoughtcatalog.com
Originally published at micah-enloe.squarespace.com on March 2, 2014.