I was involved in a casual sexual relationship with The Fireman for a little over five years. He was a complete dick, but great in bed and, I’ve gathered, far more experimental than most men his age.
I had a lot of firsts with him – choking, an actual working threesome, handcuffs, pictures, shower sex, watching porn together, and more. But the most memorable experience he introduced me to, as you’ve already gathered, was anal sex.
Women have a way of saying no to anal sex without actually opening their mouths – it’s a bit like boxing. He does a bit of jabbing around, pretending to be going for one hole, when he’s actually faking you out and making a play for the exit. But with a quick shift, a bob and a weave so to speak, the woman throws him off balance and directs him back to the preferred course. Most men will recognize that for what it is – a body language “hell to the nah” – but there are always a few that can’t be deterred. I’ve been in a battle like that more than once: they kept trying, I kept dodging, and pretty soon we were locked in a dance worthy of Muhammad Ali. The end result was never pretty. No, or a sucker punch to the head, does in fact mean no.
The Fireman, thwarted more than once, finally decided he was going to win our ongoing asshole battle by stealth. And by stealth, I mean he waited until I came over one night blitzed out of my mind, talked me into getting in the shower, and pretended we weren’t doing anything but having a jolly, soapy old time.
I was blissfully unaware of the danger lurking behind me when I bent to pick up a rag from the tub floor. Then, suddenly, before I had a chance to stand back up he...well, he attacked me from the rear. With gusto. I would have shrieked, but I had to grab the sides of the tub to keep from toppling over and, as luck would have it, my head was directly under the spray. Every time I tried to open my mouth, water filled it; mascara burned by eyes and matted them closed. It’s a wonder I didn’t drown, and to say I was traumatized would be putting it mildly.
The next day we had a family dinner and I drew more than my fair share of attention with my duck like walk and geriatric sitting techniques. My cousin Christine, who I unfortunately told everything to back then, found it hilarious and made sure to work in plenty of snide remarks and ass slapping. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets ass raped in the shower”, I shouted at Christine. “I could’ve died! My obituary would have read, “Poor young woman dies from ripped rectum/drowning!”
And my best friend was also unmoved, telling me that I should’ve just done what she had done from the beginning. “The first time they try it or ask you to try it, just say ‘Why, are you a fag?’. They generally don’t ask again.”
Though The Fireman did indeed ruin my first anal sex experience, its more than safe to say that I’d never planned on having one to begin with anyway; it wasn’t something I’d been even remotely curious about. For a while after that episode, every time a man suggested or attempted it, I became borderline hysterical. There was no more body language bobbing and weaving, it was simply “don’t you even think about putting it in my ass, motherfucker”. I found out that there’s a whole clan of straight men that pursue asshole sex with a passion. It seemed like every man I slept with wanted to be a bun bandit.
Then, as most of you already know, I had quite a lengthy dry spell. Now, if there was one good thing about being celibate for almost nine months, it was that no one was trying to make me a human hot dog. But that also means that I forgot to be vigilant, to expect it, to be ready with a karate chop to the jugular if need be.
The first time I had sex again it was, as I said here, with Sam. And it was fantastic. It was hot, it was freaky, and so what if he did slip one little finger in there mid romp? It didn’t hurt and I was so busy with the rest, I barely even noticed. He has long, thin piano player fingers because, you know, he plays piano and just...there was only one. The only definitive reason I can come up with for why my ass didn’t blow the rape whistle is, I suppose, because the rest of my body was too busy trilling to the tune of “Whistle while you work”.
I didn’t think anything of it – it never crossed my mind again. Until the last time I went over there.
Everything started off grand. I showed up at his house dressed to fall over on my face in a tight black skirt, a ruffled blouse with an easy access zipper on the side, and the strappy caged high heels he liked so much. We were supposed to go out for dinner, but after a few minutes of distracted conversation on the couch, it was clear that dinner would simply have to wait.
I was sitting astride his lap, shirt off and skirt ruched up around my waist when he stopped kissing me and said, “Bedroom. Now.” Standing up, I clacked up the stairs and down the hallway to his room. I hopped up on his bed, crawled to the middle, turned around, and started to pull my shoes off. “Did I tell you to take those off”, he asked, throwing his clothes left and right. “Nope”, I said laughing.
He was being a lot more forceful that he’d been before and that should have been warning number two (after the piano finger, you know). Forceful and hyped up are butt sex indicators, apparently. To his credit he waited until later, two O faces in to be precise, to pull his shenanigans.
I was on top, working on O face numero tres (perhaps to the rhythm of Digital Underground’s The Humpty Dance) when he said, “You know what I want?”
No, I didn’t. I had no idea; because I was too busy getting what I wanted. But I got all excited thinking it was going to be something awesome like, “I want you to let me slather you in Chick-fil-a dipping sauce, maybe slap your ass once or twice.” (He’s not really a hitter.) Or, you know, something simple like, “I want to make you scream”. Everybody likes screaming.
“Tell me”, I said – not breaking pace, because I’m a hardcore rodeo bitch like that. (“...I’m a freak. I like the girls with the BOOM...I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom...”)
He stared at me. I stared at him. He stared at me. I started to get nervous. He stared at me. I stopped waving my arm in a circle over my head and kicking his legs with my heels.
“Get on your knees.”
Happy clap! Doggie style! OOWA OOWA! We’ll get back to the Humpty Dance later.
Staring nerves temporarily forgotten, I did as he asked. But then, leaning over, he whispered in my ear the words I should have known were coming. “I wanna fuck you in the ass.”
“Um...I don’t...err...not really my thing...”
But for some ungodly reason, I ended up eventually agreeing. Maybe it’s because I like him and wanted to please him; I don’t really know. Either way, it turned out that done correctly (and by correctly I mean with a warning and lube), it isn’t painful at all.
That does not mean I enjoyed it. On the contrary, it did nothing for me what so ever. I thought it was extremely weird and I was counting down the minutes until it was over. And when it was, he was so happy that I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I was thinking the majority of the time: “I’m totally having prison sex right now. This is what people do in jail. Ohmygawd I'm his bitch. I wonder what they use for lube...ew, no I don’t. I said what what in the butt...”
Later, stretched out beside him, we talked about it. I relayed my horror story and he looked appalled. “No wonder”, he said, rubbing my hip. But he also went on to tell me just how much he enjoys that particular pastime and how much he was looking forward to doing it again...among other things, but still. Ugh.
On my way home that night, after a comfortable few hours of pizza and movies, I wondered if I would let him do it again. I thought to myself, “Even though it does nothing for you...it doesn’t hurt. And he really likes it. Maybe it could be like a ‘you’ve been a very good boy’ treat.”
However, I formed a very different opinion over the next few days.
I typically stop by the makeup store on my way home and catch up with the women folk – my lovely godmom and her sidekick, the hilarious Jules, who is also doing the online dating gig. We share our horror stories, our sex stories, our “you’d better never breathe a word of that to anyone stories”...and we laugh a lot.
That, of course, means they have to be kept up to date on all things Sam related...and no subject is taboo.
“How was the other night”, they asked.
“I let him put it in my butt”, I said matter of factly.
They laughed. And knowing my unhappy history with anal sex, then they asked questions.
“It wasn’t bad. I mean, it didn’t really hurt or anything.” I went on to explain the logistics of the encounter.
“So are you going to do it again?”
“Well here’s the thing. I’ve decided that it’s not the act that bothers me anymore, it’s the after affects. For almost two days after that my ass was FUCKED UP, ok! It was just...things were...gross...not cool. I don’t remember that happening before. My body was taking its revenge.”
They laughed, the bitches. And while they were laughing, Jules threw her palms in the air, made an ‘oh no’ face and said, “Your ass was like...GASP! Someone’s been here!”
Then I was laughing even harder than they were. Someone may or may not have said, “Abort, abort”, but I don’t rightly remember because I was too busy dancing in place with my legs crossed, trying not to pee.
Yes, we’re classy like that.
So, anyway, now over a week has gone by since I’ve seen Sam. He was out of town this past weekend with the boys, but he let me know when he got back on Sunday (which was cute and unexpected). We’re supposed to see each other later this week and, unfortunately, I need to have two very important conversations with him.
The first is the typical female need for clarification – I need to know if all he wants is sex...he’s never actually said exactly what he wants. I like him, but I find myself falling into my same old habits. We hang out and we talk, but the majority of the time we’ve spent together, we’ve spent in the bedroom. And even though I do immensely enjoy the (normal) sex, that’s not all I want anymore. It’s great that we want to rip each other’s clothes off, but I also want someone to go out and do things with more often, to meet my friends and come to the Halloween party. I (holy shit) actually want to date.
This is all very new to me and I want to be as honest as humanly possible without sounding like a needy girl. And I don’t think of myself that way, really, because even though I like him a lot, I’m not emotionally invested at this point. So I’m going to ask him where we stand and, hopefully, I’ll do it in a way that makes me sound normal...because sometimes I get nervous when I have to talk about shit like that.
Then, of course, the second important conversation we need to have (if we even need to have it after the first one is over) is about my ass. I’m looking forward to that one even less. Because, honestly, how am I supposed to tell him it isn’t going to happen anymore? We’ve already had the “that wasn’t so bad, was it” conversation. How do I explain?
Do I just come out and say,
“Listen, I don’t particularly like it and it doesn’t do anything for me. However, I was prepared to take one for the team every now and then because you enjoyed it so much. But you know...later...Sigh. Um. See, it’s like this:
Sometimes, in the case of organ transplants, the body will reject the foreign organ. The immune system’s job is to say “bitch, that don’t belong here” and then it goes all kung fu on said organ and tries to destroy it, which causes all sorts of problems. They have medicine to help with that, but it still happens sometimes.
Basically what I’m trying to tell you is that my ass rejected your dick and tried to destroy it, several hours later and for a period of almost two days, in a very unpleasant manner...but your dick wasn’t there anymore so I’m the only one that had to suffer. At the moment I’m unaware of a pill I can swallow that will make my ass happier about being invaded, and I’m worried that next time it’ll realize your dick is there much sooner than it did previously and...well, you know. Plus, I really don’t like spending that much time on the toilet. I don’t know how you men do all that reading there, it isn’t comfortable.”
That’s what I’m working with right now, and I have less than a few days to polish it up and have it ready for presentation. I’ll draw a diagram if I must. It has to happen, no matter how uncomfortable a conversation it will be, because there is no fucking way I’m going through that shit again. Pun, unfortunately, completely intended.
“Peace and humptiness forever.”