I wrote a piece for a magazine that was rejected. It's about anal, and if you want to read it, it's below the fold. I suspect my own ambivalence about writing the piece imbued it a bit too heavily for publication. Hey, it happens. My remunerative loss, your chewy gain.
The Good, the Bad and the AnalThe essential question remains: why would you want to put anything up there? It’s a good question, one that sits docile if provoking in the recesses of my mind each and every time I have anal sex, and I have had it often. Though quite probably not often enough and certainly not recently. Two years have passed since I was last fucked in the ass, and for good reason. Or for reasons good enough. Or merely for reasons. There are reasons enough why I've forgone the glorious gutter pleasure that is anal, and all of them are boring and complicated and as lacking in wet pink erotic tinge as a sere Mother Superior.
Anal, you see, requires me to give it up in ways that defy understanding or articulacy. Anal requires trust deep as viscera. It brings me to a place velvet-dark as night. It lingers like a burn. Butt-fucking is, for me, not a venture to be embarked upon lightly. Therefore when I do do it, when I do decide, when I do commit, when I find myself face down and ass up, my tender lavender brown asshole the starry plum in my soon-to-be-plundered booty, I give in, give up, and let go, because what else can a girl (or guy) do? Everyone has an asshole, and everyone should let theirs be gently fucked at least once in their long lives.
I do enjoy being fucked in the ass, though it pains me. I may even enjoy being fucked in the ass because it pains me. The pain is part of it, like the flour tortilla that wraps the burrito. You don’t eat the burrito because of the tortilla, but you can’t really admit that it doesn’t add to the burrito-eating experience. The pain of anal is not unlike that. The pain is the gateway to the pleasure. The pain—and it comes sharp and hot and molten; it makes my breath catch and turn ragged; it is something that I will to subside, to melt, and to resolve itself into a slow, hot and red-flushed glory—is necessary. It serves to remind that what you’re doing isn’t entirely natural, entirely acceptable, entirely normative. It makes you slow down, consider, and commit. It makes you see the entire operation, the cock sliding into your recalcitrant rectum, your sphincter opening surely if surly, and your grudging acceptance of this magnificently hard foreign object into your most private of privates. The pain sharpens the focus, and you glory in it, or you do if you are me.
It pains me to admit I do enjoy being fucked in the ass. That pain is also pleasurable. Butt-fucking has such a lowly reputation. No sex act gets kicked in the can as much as sodomy. Anal is the low man on the totem pole, a metaphor so loaded it can hardly bear its own weight. But it is the bottom-feeding nature of ass-fuckery that sweetens the experience. Anal is like lobster—its lowly shit-eating status adds to its delight. If it weren’t so faintly tainted with disgust, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. (Plus, I might add, both lobster and anal require copious amounts of butter.) The word that I’d use to describe this pleasure would be “transgressive” were I going to get all intellectual about it, but anal makes it hard to think.
Which is one of the reasons why I treasure it so. I am afflicted. I think too much. My head is a constant whirring hamster wheel of thought. Few things quiet this thinky susurration like having my ass stuffed with a nice, hard cock. It’s like a ball gag for my mind. When I’m being butt-fucked, whether I’m above, below, beside or before, my mind goes blank as a slate. I achieve a rare purity of consciousness and it takes the form of some primal raging keening need whose shape and red-ragged form sit ecstatically outside my ken. When I’m being buttfucked, all I see and feel and sense and am is that hard cock, my slowly relenting ass, and a conflagration of orgasm. When I’m being buttfucked, I am unhinged and wild and raw and glory and fuck me and faster and shallow and yes and yes and now and please and god.
The word most often employed to describe ass play, ass toys, or ass sex is “full.” Manufacturers of adult novelty items will in their marketing material claim that their product “gives that feeling of fullness.” Sometimes they’ll add an adjective too, as in “that wonderful feeling of fullness,” or “that feeling of wonderful fullness.” “Full” is part of the anal experience, but it is word that ultimately fails to describe what it feels like to jam something hard and foreign—toy or cock—in your ass. It’s not the fault of “full”; “full” is a perfectly fine word. The problem is that no words can really do anal justice. Former ballerina Toni Bentley wrote an entire book on her experience of finding god through butt-fucking; writer, sex educator and pornographer Tristan Taormino has dedicated no small section of her life to awakening others to the joys of anal. Both of these writers have failed, and it’s not their faults. They are wonderful writers. The fault is that of anal: it’s simply too big, too deep, and too complex to express.
Anal sits outside utterance, something for which I am eternally grateful. The cock in the ass (and I return to the cock again and again, for as much as I enjoy the toy, enjoy it alone in solipsistic hand-on-clit meanderings, enjoy it with others, enjoy it with a cock in my pussy, enjoy the toy while walking around its secret buried deep within me, enjoy the toy early and often, but enjoy the toy most when it serves as a prelude to actual ass-fuckery) reduces me to a wobbling puddle. Anal is the ultimate release, shredding boundaries, busting barriers, and bringing me to my knees, literally and figuratively. I’d endeavor to describe the seismic orgasms of anal, their banshee wails, their cunt-shuddering power. I’d try to detail how they leave me wet and wrung out, walking like a stroke victim, talking like an aphasiac. I’d try to tell you, but I’d fail.
Which is the tortuous road to the reason why I’ve not had my ass fucked in two years. For two years, I’ve sat on my delectable ass, my roseate hole puckered up and silent, dusty even. Because it’s not something that is entered into lightly. Because it’s not something to be done on a whim. Because to give it up is to give in, and it’s dark and dangerous road to travel with a stranger. And yet the question lingers: why would I want to put anything up there?
Because it feels good, so good that words, like a blessing, fail me.