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It started with a little discomfort. A bit like when you have a bit of corn caught between your teeth, a teeny tiny grain that nevertheless makes itself known and causes you to obsess and become restless. Well, my grain of corn was located under the belt.
I became obsessed with my butt.
As the days went by, it became more and more clear that something was wrong with my ass. Blood in my stool and an extreme burning sensation while I sat on the golden throne was added to the initial discomfort. I don’t want to give out too many details, even though I know you want them, my little piggies, but… my anus hurt so baaaaad.
I’m not the type to curse, my grandma taught me that you shouldn’t take the lord’s name in vain, but Holy Christ, my anus fucking hurt.
My asshole had become the Mecca of suffering, the Seventh Circle of Hell, a particularly vicious trap of Decadence, and Joan of Arc’s stake. In short, I was a martyr.
“Babe… I think I have an anal fissure! I have Pompeii between my buttcheeks.”
I tell my boyfriend everything, but I admit that stringing these words one after the other required a lot of humility and very little pride. I had just made a big confession.
Slowly becoming a Saint.
My boyfriend being as medicine-savvy as a rock at the bottom of a betta aquarium, I decided to turn to my best friend in the world for this kind of issue (no, it’s not the internet, nice try, pals—you’ll never catch me type “anal fissure” in the Google search bar): my brother who’s also a nurse.
He explained to me that this kind of problem is very common. So, watch out, you might be next! He encouraged me to take sitz baths, stool softeners, and extra strength Tylenol because, hey, no way I’m going to unnecessarily suffer when this kind of drug is available over the counter.
“What? That’s it?”
Yep. There’s nothing to do, really, except to wait it out, rest, and pray not to make mega painful turds. I took out my prayer beads and asked God to soften my stools ASAP.
Needless to say, I felt as sexy as a possum corpse on the edge of an abandoned mini-putt course in Orlando. Amen.
So, while I was in recovery, my anus was a no man’s land. The problem was that my boyfriend and I were in the (sexual) honeymoon phase of our relationship. And my “condition” had just thrown a bucket of ice cold water on our burning fire.
No joke, whenever we had a five-minute Zoom break, we took the opportunity to have him penetrate me in the nearest room. Bathroom? Check. Laundry room? Check. Living room? Check. Broom closet… What?! I was just going to get some Pine-Sol with my ass up in the air…
In short, we were going at it like bunnies.
I don’t really know why, but over the months of our relationship, I had become almost exclusively a bottom. I consider myself to be rather versatile; I don’t really like labels, except when they announce that the butter is 3 for $10.
My boyfriend had been shamed when he was a bottom and had a hard time letting go when I penetrated him. So we didn’t make things complicated: I love getting fucked, and… not to brag, but… I’m very, very good. Call me Anal Wintour! Ba dum tss.
So, he gave, I received, we loved each other, we fucked… but that was before the fissure. Now, he couldn’t even brush against my asshole with his fingertips without making me howl at the moon. It really was a forbidden area.
Sometimes, I put my pain aside so he would coat my hole with Polysporin, and it would make us hard as hell. That sounded like he was my hot nurse and I was his patient. I know it’s twisted, but it was hilarious.
“Wanna jerk each other off?”
My boyfriend asks me this, directly and suddenly, like a sniper shot in Fortnite. Bang! No preamble, nothing. Who cares? I don’t need a preamble, babe.
“Fuck, yes, I’m so horny.”
We drop our pants like kids and we start kissing greedily while caressing each other. It seems like since my anus died (RIP), my cock has been even more sensitive. He masturbates me, focusing on the swollen head of my penis, purple like a grape slushy. I moan in his mouth. He moans into mine. I say:
“Want me to eat your balls?”
In response, his hand lowers my head to his crotch. I suck his balls like nectarine pits while he masturbates vigorously. My drool trickles down to his pink, slightly hairy, sublime anus.
It’s pretty rare that I eat my boyfriend’s anus. But now, it seems that we have both succumbed to a sexual fever. Without warning, I grabbed his legs and tipped him on his back to get a good look at his hole. I spit in his anus and spread the drool around with my hungry mouth. He moans like I’ve rarely heard him moan while he continues to masturbate.
“Can I finger you? One finger. Gently.”
He nods. I kiss him to make him understand that I’m with him in this. I put my index finger in his mouth to lubricate it, then slide it gently into his oh-so-tight anus. Fuck.
With the back and forth of my fingers, his ass expands gradually. It opens to me like a delicate Pandora’s box. I keep rimming to add saliva.
And then, just like that, in a single breath, clear-eyed and without hesitation, he says:
“I want your cock inside me.”
“Are you sure, sweetie?”
“I’ve never wanted a dick inside me so much.”
I kiss him again, grab the bottle of water-based lube from the bedside table (fuck silicone, I’ve stained many sheets with this diabolical invention) and coat my cock with the shiny liquid. I also add some on his anus and on his hard cock so that everything slides perfectly.
I start by entering the tip of my penis into him, no condom, hallelujah. (The pleasures of being in a closed relationship for a year, after being tested,of course!) My tip is rather large, so I take it very, very slow. I feel his anus relax around my cock and swallow it effortlessly.
We both sigh. The hardest part is behind us. I am now fully inside him. It’s so peculiar. It must have been two years since I last penetrated him. What a hard-on, what happiness! It’s so good. So hot inside him. So nice to see his face light up with pleasure at each skilfully executed pelvic stroke.
So divine to fill him with my hot cum.
Over the weeks that followed these caliente-as-tabasco-infused-sriracha antics, we started giving my boyfriend’s anus lots and lots of love, given that mine was still out of order.
The more we had sex, the more he gained self-confidence. He got more greedy and enthusiastic when the time came to play with his anus, and also more aware of what he liked and wanted to try.
The little grain that got stuck in my gears—my anal fissure—forced us to re-explore our sexual playground and find new ways to have fun together.
It was as though, by being forced to take the dirt road instead of the highway, we had taken the time to explore, to slow down, to smell the flowers, and to discover a new piece of ass.
And what a piece of ass it was!
Several months later, I can say that we are now quite versatile in our sexual encounters. Our experiences are richer and more varied. I have discovered a vulnerable and delicious part of his body as well as his relationship to pleasure: as if restriction had revealed wealth. I penetrate him, he penetrates me, we penetrate each other, lick, caress, amen. We flip-flop, as they say.
Sexuality sometimes seems like little vines that find their way in spite of everything. It branches out, struggles, grows some more, and even finds a way to bloom.
Yes, I just served you some chicken soup for the soul about my asshole.
Oh, speaking of, it’s doing very well and is fully functional again. So nice of you to ask!