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.