XLV. The Guy Who Indulged In Scat Play

“If you play in the sewer, you’re bound to get some mud”-

– Tyler Oakley –

When I was little, never in a million years did I think I could fit an erect penis up my tuchus. The only things that had ever traveled through my cave of wonder were the waste products from all the McNuggets I digested throughout my life. I mean… for the longest time, I had assumed that my chamber of secrets, guarded by my lush jungle of pubic hair, was meant to be a one-way street. I wasn’t equipped with the knowledge of rectal douching, or more importantly, why it’s necessary for some specific occasions. I didn’t know there was such a thing called “bottom-friendly diet”, a diet specifically catered for bottoms to avoid unpleasant surprises. It’s a shame that I had to learn all of these from experiences, PornHub, and shady websites written by corporates pondering to the gays. Unfortunately, I didn’t know all of these before I invited my muse for this chapter for an afternoon quickie.

So ladies and gentlemen, buckle up because I’m about to present to you one of the shittiest sexperiences I had to endure (pun very much intended). Enjoy!

Being on the receiving end of anal sex is not an instant process, and no matter how hard you try, sometimes shit happens, literally and figuratively. I mean, sure, there are a few noble human beings out there who don’t seem to be bothered by the poop emoji. Unfortunately, I, along with the majority of the gays, are not one of those people (no judgment to those of you who get off watching “Two Girls One Cup”, I’m not trying to kink shame anyone). With that said, I know what I’m getting myself into, and I understand sometimes I can’t avoid having some party crashers during my adult slumber party. A few of you, lucky hungry bottoms out there, might get away with taking a nine-inch penis with no fear of repercussions. Still, most of us have to prepare in advance if we have to attend a hardcore gangbang session in thirty minutes. So yeah, I guess top privilege really does exist.

It was a regular Tuesday afternoon, and boredom hit me like a truck. Just like every other chic, sophisticated homosexual out there, I resorted to Grindr to add some spices to my dreary afternoon. I thought – sure, I might add some more damages to my sanity, but adding a scratch to a damaged good was no biggie, right?

Here’s the thing though: I was (and still am) a non-commital bitch who had never been a massive proponent of preparing your peach in advance. I’m talking about the processes that help one to take a dick up their ass spontaneously. Those might include, but not limited to, taking fiber supplements daily, douching twice a day, and having a strict no chili sauce diet. It’s a fucking tedious process! With that said, it didn’t stop me from inviting this twenty-something-years old tall guy for a quick, stress-free afternoon delight. After exchanging some classless visuals that are intended to entice thirsty friends of Dorothy, he agreed to come over to get his hands on these buns. Little did I know this was the beginning of a crappy romance (pun also very much intended).

I made my way to the bathroom to begin the unpleasant procedure one must take to prepare for a hygienic anal penetration. I grabbed the ever-so-loyal enema that I stored neatly inside one of my bathroom drawers and began filling it with room temperature water. I inserted the tip of the anal douche inside my bussy (urgh, I hate this word with a passion), which marked the beginning of the repetitive process that many gays are familiar with. That ritual included shoving water up to one’s butt and extracting that water out of my rectum (there’s nothing sexy about this process, trust me). I repeated that spiritually-healing activity while praying to the God of anal hygiene, hoping for the desired outcome to arrive as soon as possible because I had a deadline I needed to meet.

After five minutes of performing speed squats on my toilet, the water finally came out clear. Bitches, I was ready to go. 

I did, however, have this uncomfortable feeling in my belly the moment I put on my casual yet slightly tantalizing outfit. It’s like my instinct was telling me that this was going to be a catastrophe. It’s like that feeling you have after have 5 boxes of McNuggets at 3 AM after a night of drinking; my belly was a fucking mess. Was it because of the double shot latte I had an hour ago? Did I apply too much hydraulic pressure to my bum? That’s a mystery I’d never be able to fathom. However, I decided to ditch my guts and continued with the scheduled programming.

You might be thinking, “bitch, you had done this many times, how could you fuck this up?” I wish I could answer that question myself since apparently, my bum has a mind of its own.  

The next thing I know, my date informed me that he’s already at my front door. Dun dun dun. I opened the door only to be greeted by this average-looking, fratty college boy who seemed eager to get the party started. The uneasy feeling inside of my belly had slightly subdued, and I dismissed my prior nausea, thinking it was just a typical first-date jitter. I thought, “what a relief! It’s just in time for me to perform!” So I directed the unfortunate soul standing at my front door to my bed, skipped the small talks, and went straight to business. After we awkwardly removed the last article of clothing I had, he laid me down on my back and let his tongue did the work.

To be honest, the foreplay was abysmal because it was barely existent. There was no passion and gentle touch; the opening scene of ‘Bridesmaids’ has more romance than whatever this passion-averse individual did to my body. The combination of his extremely high libido and my high tolerance for awkward sex, however, made me feel bad for turning away his erect disco stick. Despite how irritable I felt after he gave me a below-average rim job, the show had to go on. After he gave a quick glance over at the condom and a bottle of silicon-based lubricate I neatly situated on my nightstand, I knew he was ready to consume this juicy peach. With zero careful deliberation, I decided to give him a chance to explore my back tunnel.

I deliriously thought, “an awful blow job is not synonymous with a terrible penis-to-butt action, right?”

And then came the time for penetration. The position of my penetrator’s choice was the doggy style, and I didn’t bother to give him a counter-argument. With my ass up and face down in a pillow, I gave him full access to enter my precious little hole with little to no peripheral vision. I helplessly surrendered my apple bottom for him to exploit.

Now… I don’t know if this guy was genuinely a horrible top, or he was trying to break the Guinness world record for the fastest anal penetration. But he didn’t begin his prostate punching session the way a proper top should: with a lot of teasing. Instead, he just went at it at full force from the get-go, in a way that had a high probability of killing an inexperienced bottom. Don’t get me wrong: I love the occasional aggressive, borderline sadistic plowing, but only if it’s done with respect and finesse. But my top didn’t even bother to stop and ask for feedback after I shrieked in agony. I concluded that this guy either had got some hearing problems or he just simply did not care.

I tried my best to endure the sloppy plowing in the hope that the slight unease would magically turn into pleasure. And I kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting… but it never happened. Getting fucked by this guy was like waiting for Donald Trump to be removed from the office; we did the best we could to survive the shitshow he threw at us, but the guy could never leave. At that point, I already accepted my fate as a mere fleshlight and internally prayed to Himeros so he could stop this madness.

Suddenly, I realized there was a nausea-inducing smell permeating through the air. I. had. a bad. feeling. about. this. Being a curious bitch, I told my top to stop whatever the hell he was doing so I could identify the source of this foul odor. I turned my head around so I could get a better vision, and OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.

My bed sheet looked like someone just spilled a bowl of Japanese curry on it, and his dick looked like a banana dipped into a chocolate fountain.
It was a grotesque sight.

I didn’t know why it took me so long to realize that I had a Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory situation going on. In my defense, my vision was minimal, so I couldn’t fully register what went down with my badonkadonk. But more importantly, why didn’t he say something?! Was he one of those nonchalant gays who was way ahead of his time and had a holistic understanding of the possible repercussion of anal sex? Or was he secretly enjoying the presence of our uninvited guests?! On second thought, was that my body’s auto-response to sloppy fuck?

I politely informed him that I could no longer participate in this party to prevent myself from drowning in the sea of embarrassment. Did I hate that I turned into a party pooper (pun very much intended)? Abso-motherfuckin’-lutely. But there’s no way in hell that I would allow myself to turn into a messy bitch who utilized his own feces as supplementary lube. No. fucking. way.

In the strangest turn of events, my top didn’t seem to be bothered at all. If anything, he was ready to continue plowing this soiled hole.
What. The. Fuck.

I came to the conclusion that this guy was not worth my time any longer (or it was my brain’s defense mechanism to save myself from dying from an overwhelming amount of shame). I quickly ejected his penis from my body as fast as humanly possible, passed him some napkins in a poor attempt at cleaning the E.Coli orgy on his penis, and told the feces aficionado to leave my room immediately. After throwing away the stained bed sheet and spraying my room with two bottles of Glade, I managed to calm myself down from that disastrous shitty incident. I immediately blocked the guy from all my dating apps because, well, I was quite confident there wouldn’t be a second date.

And I wonder, for someone who douches regularly, somehow, I can still be so full of shit.

Lesson learned: do not drink two cups of double shot lattes moments before taking a dick up your butt. You’re welcome for the advice.