The Time I Remotely Stimulated a Stranger’s Prostate

“OMG Babe! It doesn’t want to come out! It can’t come out! It won’t come out! I think it’s officially a part of me now!”

These are the words that came out of my mouth when I was talking to my boyfriend, Gabriel, about the big, fuschia butt plug stuck in my asshole. We hade had the brilliant idea to ​​buy this massive toy the day before to “spice up” our sex life. I guess I had literally bit off more than my ass could chew.

Now, we would have chosen a smaller toy, but this one was pretty cheap and we were both broke after paying for tuition. At that very moment, clogged up like a drain, I would have opted for a bit less jalapeño in my sex life, and a bit more plain ‘ol oregano or something. Heck, even just being comfortably tuned in to an episode of Planet Earth II now may have sufficed. But hey, since everything that goes in must (eventually) come out (…I mean, it does, right?), we focused on “operation: unplug me”.

The purplish monster was surprisingly well and truly stuck inside me. You see, we had coated it with this revolutionary new lubricant; two drops of this magical elixir and you can play mini-putt in my insides all night!

Suffice to say, I was pretty dilated. My boyfriend had jerked me off while the discount knick-knack toyed with my prostate, so I had come in no time. I mean it was like, woah! Heavenly. But once the moment of ecstasy was over, I re-entered earth’s atmosphere and suddenly my body tuned in to the full scope of the situation and the immediate comprehension that it now had a four-inch diameter tenant lodged inside was sobering to say the least.

Gabriel, being a real angel, began to murmur sweet words of encouragement while massaging my balls: “Hey handsome. Come on, you can get that colossus out of your rim. I believe in you! You are amazing. You are talented! You have all the capabilities in the world to accomplish this…monstrous task.”

Ignoring his poor attempt at stifling a laugh as he whispered in my ear, and trying to remain bewitched by his half-assed (excuse the pun) poetry, my anus finally, in one glorious final push, expelled my newborn.

I let out a groan of relief that would have made any laboring mother proud. It tore my apartment in half. It shook the ground all the way to Tokyo. It was bliss. I was finally, truly, at one with the Earth and the universe. Peace had found me. Nirvana at last.

Then…in the next room, I heard what sounded like hyenas cackling. “Fuck, my roommate and that guy she’s with are here!”

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“Big night last night?” Asks my roommate while she rains chia seeds on her Greek yogurt. Francis, the glaringly un-datable guy she’s seeing, stares dumbly at us while he butters his toast.

“Not particularly, no.” I reply, coolly. “Gab and I went to see a German film and then we went to bed not too long after, gute Nacht and all that.”

“Oh that’s weird”, she says, feigning concern and confusion as she tries to ferret out the juicy gossip.” I could have sworn that I heard a funny noise coming from your room. It sounded like you were doing hot yoga or throat singing.”

My roommate gives me the kind of look that says “I’m not letting go of this bone until I’ve tasted the marrow, darling”, and so, only somewhat reluctantly, I recount last night’s adventure to them. Francis chokes on a seed from his multigrain toast and says “Fuck, can we at least wait until we’re finished eating before we talk about toys getting stuck in poop-chutes?”

Well aware of the virtues of butt play, my roommate ignores him and goes on to tell us about an ex-coworker’s second cousin’s best friend who got herself a butt plug that you can vibrate remotely via a cell phone app. Between sips of a kale and coconut smoothie, I learn that this high-tech wonder can even be synchronized with your music app to vibrate to the beat of any song of your choice.

“For real, that girl literally had the biggest orgasms of her life while Sia’s Cheap Thrills was playing in her colon”, chuckles my roommate. Frankie-boy ponders out loud that it would be amazing with Skrillex. My roommate looks at him slightly shocked, but then a mischievous smile plays across her lips. On the bus to work, I listen to a Nocturne by Chopin and I’m thinking to myself that having these decibels rocking my hole wouldn’t be bad at all…

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“Guess what?”, chirps my roommate the following week during our macrame class. “Umm… you decided to learn a dead language, like Sumerian?” She informs me that I’m as close to the right answer as Montreal’s pink line project is as close to completion. She then empties the contents of her bag right on the 3-pot plant holder I’m trying (unsuccessfully) to weave.

I learn, between two knots, that the ineffable Francis not only agreed to have an entire index finger tucked into his backside, but that he “really didn’t seem to hate it” and that he even “jizzed all the way across the room onto the dimmer”. (Note to self: never dim my roomie’s bedroom light ever again.)

In all seriousness, I don’t know which of the twelve knights of hell she had to summon to get that guy to agree to have anything other than Fruit of the Loom underwear between his cheeks. I stand corrected.

Weaving her pot holder like an old pro (did she take this class before??), the Miraculous informs me that Sir Francis-discoverer-of-his-prostate was even in the mood to try the famous Bluetooth butt plug. “He ate me out while a Phil Collins guitar solo massaged his ass, it was so hot!”, my roommate whispers to me while the teacher gives us an acidic look that seems to say “less talking, more macrameing”.

I start to settle in to my plant holder, making a note to revisit our increasingly tantalizing conversation later, but then she says, “I challenged him to wear the butt plug to his family dinner in Beauce tomorrow, and I’m going to make it vibrate from here with my cell phone every time I think of him. It’ll be like I was there!”

I’m shook.

I try to hold back my shocked, and hate-to-admit-it-slightly-jealous?-yet-majorly-intrigued nervous laughter, but it comes out like a Yorkshire choking on Tabasco sauce. The whole class suddenly turns around and stares. “Hey, you two, are you here to tie knots, or are you here to clown around? Some of us are trying to weave without being disturbed”, bellows the instructor. A thousand apologies, my lady, it’s just that tomorrow evening, Francis is going to have his chocolate starfish buzzed between two mouthfuls of lamb while his mother serves him a portion of mashed potatoes. “Sorry, ma’am, we’re going to stop right away!”

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“It smells amazingly like New Delhi in here, guys! What’s cooking?”, asks my roommate, sniffing around the pot on the stove while putting on her earrings. “Oh, a little chickpea curry, nothing too complicated”, Gab replies, chopping some cilantro. “Whew, you guys are going to be bloated from all those legumes, no Sodom and Gomorrah tonight…”, she says, dipping her index finger in the pyrex dish. She laughs at her comment and leaves for her shift at the restaurant where she has been a hostess for the past four years.

As I set the table, I realize that, lost in her self-congratulatory haze over her mediocre joke, she forgot her cell phone on the coffee table, with the vibrator app left open. “Too bad, she won’t get to vibrate her douchebag remotely…”, Gab tells me, placing our steaming plates on the table. “Oh no, she won’t, but we will, honey”. I pour myself a generous glass of tempranillo, silently appreciating how our evening adventures have begun to look much more promising.

I am so ashamed of what happened next that it still makes me hide my head under my hoodie like a red handmaid. After having made the last bite of garlic naan bread disappear, my boyfriend and I started making out on the couch, souk breath and all.

In less than two minutes, I was swirling my tongue around his rim like MacDonald’s soft serve.

Out of the corner of my eye, my face buried between Gab’s cheeks, I see my roommate’s cell phone, illuminated by the traffic lights just outside the window. Damn, it’s a sign from the Creator. Blessed be the fruit.

I grab it, butt plug app still open, and with barely a pause, I press the “vibrate” button with one hand, and start jerking Gab off with the other. Focusing on the head of his penis, just the way he likes it, I shift focus to the cell phone. The beat is about to drop. Gab’s moaning intertwines with the app’s frantic beep! beep! beep! I tap it relentlessly, imagining Francis writhing on his chair in Beauce.

By glorious coincidence, my roommate’s fuckboy and my boyfriend came in unison. Gabriel’s orgasm was worthy of a fireworks finale at La Ronde, and we ended up slumping onto the floating floor, laughing. Lying on the floor, staring at the blades of the ceiling fan, I am suddenly overcome with remorse. All my notions of sex-positivity bubble up to the surface of my brain like little bubbles coming out of a minnow’s mouth.

A question crosses my mind: did I just “touch” Francis without his consent? Did I just switch over to the offenders’ side? Father, forgive me, for I (might) have sinned. On the table, we hear my roommate’s cell vibrate, and a Messenger notification appears on the screen. It’s Francis…

“Sweety, I’ve literally never come so hard in my life. I had to leave the table while everyone was having tiramisu to go and finish myself off in the bathroom! You really are something else. 😛”