Enema. Fail.

[I promise to make this entry as benign as possible. My motivation for this blog is to document and understand the good, the bad and the ugly, and today landed on butt ugly.]

I have a reasonable idea of the spatial layout of my gastrointestinal tract and knowing when and where I feel full, empty, clean, not clean and combinations thereof. The prospect of anal sex increases my focus on bodily movements though: when preparing for an expected encounter, I eat lighter meals a couple of days prior, pay heed to my bowel movements and do a quick clean in the shower with a finger and gentle soap before leaving the house in case a curious tongue or hard cock probes its way around there. When I’m not satisfied with my feelings of emptiness or cleanliness, I communicate and we focus on the myriad other ways of sharing pleasure.

Something happened a few months ago that’s meddled with my relaxed ritual, and I’m not pleased because I keep thinking it’s not my fault.

I was with Jekyll during one of our hotel afternoons and he made indications towards anal penetration, but we’d gone out for a late breakfast before we checked into the hotel. My stomach was heavy with an impulse order of eggs Florentine, which triggered the gastrocolic reflex too early and I felt increasingly full and uncomfortable with digestive machinations. I told Jekyll I didn’t feel empty enough and but was coaxed into listening to his counter-claim that everything would be all right.

Wrong. I won’t go into too much detail but I was indeed full, the sex was uncomfortable and I called a stop and ran to the shower when I caught smell of the waste I warned him about.

Instead of listening and respecting my knowledge of my body, Jekyll defended and suggested I learn the ancient art of administering an enema. The thought has drifted through my mind ever since, wondering if one of us was right or wrong or if a formal cleansing was a useful practicality rather than an attempt to obliterate a conflicting guilt trip (on one hand it’s partially for his benefit so I sense guilt trip , but on the other hand he is comfortable with self-administration when he’s been a bottom for gay and bi men he’s had sex with so it’s no big deal for him).

Anyway, as part of the education process I spent part of an afternoon messing about with an enema kit (not the fancypants, scary one that looks like a hot water bottle and hangs in the shower, but a big squeezy bottle with a three-inch tube). Not happy. I got lube over the bathroom floor, fluids escaped during administration and more towels were soiled than I’m going to admit, the toilet needed a damn good scrubbing after expulsion and I don’t think I got enough liquid inside to conduct a thorough cleansing despite the mayhem in the bathroom. The hours of subsequent cramping indicated I tried to force the warm water too quickly or too much air was introduced when trying to piece together a workable process.

Fuck that shit.

I know my body. I also know I don’t like to fail but on this occasion I’m content to flunk the masterclass in scouring one’s insides.

(And remember to follow qualified and verified opinions if searching for advice on the web. I checked about 20 sites and at least a dozen contained conflicting information and advice bordering on negligence. At least I learned how to erase my web browser’s history as I was using The Drummer’s computer and there is such thing as too much information.)

Mad as early March hares

The ability of the male sex drive to sometimes overrule logical thought didn’t truly hit home until a couple of years ago when The Drummer and I were engaged in a bitter argument. At the time we had separated but lived under the same roof while finalising new living arrangements (I don’t recommend this to anyone but the clinically masochistic, although it was convenient not having to move back in when we reconciled). I can’t remember the reason for raised voices but we were near the bottom of a descending spiral of misunderstanding and vitriol.

Finally, he shouted that he was too horny to think coherently and suggested we fuck to get the frustration out of his system and then talk. I responded that I was too angry to consider fucking him, in the archetypal gender mismatching that men use sex to purge stress and women won’t have sex when stressed.

We bickered fruitlessly until I cracked and said, “Well! Go and see a fucking prostitute and then we’ll talk. I’m too angry to touch you.” In an odd bonding moment, I scanned the local newspaper and he had the phone on hands-free as we shopped for somewhere suitable to send him. We must’ve come across as naïve prank callers when we asked parlour receptionists about prices, if bookings were required and tricky questions such as what happens if you’re not finished when time is up? Logistics sorted with the advice of some understanding women on the other end of the phone, he disappeared for an hour and I wasn’t stricken by insecurity — the argument inadvertently helped me realise that neither of us would die if we had sex with someone else and started me on the current phase of my life.

It’s a loose segue, but The Drummer’s cock taking over his brain came to mind when wondering what the hell’s going on with the men I know.

The chap from the post before last who sent the message about the BDSM porn with visions of fucking me has disappeared again without trace — either a post-orgasm reality check or studying for a role in the film version of He’s Just Not That Into You (Unless He’s Got his Cock in his Hand and Porn on his TV).

Jekyll came good on his promise (threat) to create a joint profile on the dating site — weeks ago I said I wasn’t motivated and to not bother because we had so few opportunities with each other. Yesterday he surprised me with news that the profile was up and I should pull my weight and start responding to smiles. I asked him to stop, think carefully and tell me exactly how and when we’ll meet other people. I logged on the site to shut him up for a while, looked at one message and logged off. That’ll do until he responds to my snarky questions.

Hyde appeared from his lair and is apparently interested in hooking up with a couple, with me as the fourth person. He asked Jekyll to sound me out even though Jekyll hasn’t been invited to this particular party. Hyde has my phone number and I don’t know why he’s using Jekyll as his pimp. I’m ignoring them both until they sort themselves out.

ArmyDude and I have been sidestepping each other after I provided blunt feedback about his disappearances (fine) without communication (not fine). He has since dropped by the office three times in three days and sent half a dozen messages of apology. Thank goodness this overcompensating behaviour has slowed.

Just when I thought the planets had re-aligned, last night ArmyDude sent a message saying I still couldn’t visit because of the continuing long daylight hours and his neighbours were active until late. I agreed and said we’d need to talk about our future at some stage as our other options to meet were drying up. This sentiment didn’t sink in as I intended. A few messages later he was overtaken by an erection from hell and pleaded me to come by immediately, forgetting his earlier sage message and promising he’d handle any neighbourhood sightings or rumours. I told him to put the phone down, wank until he got off, rest for 10 minutes and re-consider his insane plan. He replied with a frustrated, “You could have been here by now if you’d left straight away.” I referred to my previous suggestion and went to bed.

The boys are behaving strangely. I’ve heard Mars is in retrograde Uranus or something but this broadscale assault of the cock over the brain is bamboozling.


A lesson in e-housekeeping

My computer crashed the other day. A blue screen of death appeared without warning, I hit the ‘off’ button in fright and re-booted with a heart full of hope but my trusty laptop never got past a black screen with green vertical pinstripes.

My first thought was Oh, no, I can’t deal with calling tech support in a far-flung country when I can’t even elucidate the nature of the problem, let alone garner the patience to troubleshoot. I’ll pack it up and take it to the local repair shop tomorrow.

My second thought was Oh shit, I have just finished some quarterly accounts and hope like hell ‘safe’ mode works because, of course, the crash occurred immediately after saving and immediately before plugging in the back-up drive. I’ll be furious beyond respite if I have to re-create my somewhat pluck-a-number-out-of-my-arse accounting methods.

My third thought was Holy fucking hell, what porn, smut and other incriminating data on my hard drive needs to be relocated before I take it to the shop? It’s not a large town and I know the workers there by association. I don’t think they need to know me as well as they might if they start sniffing around.

I spent the next few minutes on my knees begging the computer to allow ‘safe’ mode to start. After some heart-stopping moments of white text scrolling wildly up a dark screen, the basic and clunky safe interface appeared. I owe someone one of my remaining nine lives for allowing me temporary access to my spreadsheet and secrets.

While I’m zealous about respecting the privacy of anyone I’m involved with and take precautions to protect information that comes from or involves someone else, I’m in a fortunate situation that 99 per cent of the time it doesn’t matter what’s not blocked, not hidden and not history erased after every log-in. ArmyDude showed me his electronic footstep erasing procedure once and the additional intricacies to remove everything made me reflect on my good fortune that I need to be careful but certainly don’t need to hold my breath if my partner wants to use my computer.

The other one per cent of the time (as in this week), I panic, and thank my lucky stars I’m anally retentive about being organised and not being much of a porn fiend.

On one drive partition I found a short clip of double-handed anal fisting. I wouldn’t classify that as porn, but rather a documentary because I stare goggle-eyed that the human body can take and (in this subject’s case) enjoy such a frenetic pounding by a man with two very large hands. Moved to portable drive.

I also found a video of a man bent over, fucking himself with an extremely large dildo and replacing the dildo with his own hand. Now that’s flexibility and I’m classifying it as a documentary as well. Moved.

The woman shooting green apples out of her backside? Sent a few weeks ago by M1 in an attempt to shock me. Deleted.

And that was it for the videos (I keep a few clips on a DVD because of my obsession with a clutter-free computer and The Drummer has gigabytes of everything from titty fucking to bi boy gang bangs if I ever feel the need to indulge – now, if *his* computer broke this would be a different story).

My hidden section of the C: drive for personal ephemera was more worry inducing. A casual hunter of information wouldn’t bother delving so many layers of blandly-named folders to find the interesting stuff, but someone with IT nous could probably dig up gold with a simple .jpg search in hidden files and folders.

Some things I had forgotten about:

A wish-list of sexual adventures I typed about 18 months ago (I had forgotten about the wax play and the fisting/anal penetration combo!). Re-read, noted and moved.

A copy of a long BDSM story exchange with M1. I doubt there’s anything of literary value but I was loathe to discard 100-odd pages of mental exploring. Moved.

A folder of photos commissioned by M1 when we were playing dom/sub. My genitals with vibrators in each orifice, nipple clamps attached to my labia and clit, knives, forks and spoons (handles inside, thank you) when he was issuing kitchen-related sets of penetrative demands, and some interesting rope work when he ordered me to masturbate after having tied myself up. Delete, delete, delete and empty the recycle bin to make sure they never see the light of day.

Photos archived from my mobile phone that are little signposts of the past 12 months of my life: Jekyll’s hand where I thought it would never go, the reddest backside in town when Jekyll and Hyde tandem-slapped my arse, a dentally-perfect bite mark on my shoulder, masturbation shots and videos sent by Jekyll and ArmyDude, some nude shots of MB that I keep for remembrance’s sake. Moved with a smile.

The data on my computer is now cleaner than fresh show (or as clean as I’m content to live with – too bad if I left some muddy footprints somewhere) and the limping laptop can be taken to the doctor’s.

I’m still looking over my shoulder about what I might have forgotten, but this is a time I’m appreciative that I don’t need to conceal every trace of my other adult life. My inner naïve idealist wishes that everyone could fuck with impunity, but my hardened realist ponders how much track-covering hard work a secret life is for others because contents of a computer only touch the outer skin of illicit embraces.

Anal sex, anal sex, anal sex

Now, have we got over the taboo aspect yet?

Why is so much wrong with perceptions of anal sex in a supposedly modern society?

Somehow, opinions of sexual activities involving the anus fall into two main camps: Camp Stigma believes it’s still taboo and can only be discussed in whispered tones or as a joke attached to prostate gland health checks. The other is Camp Porn where the onslaught of modern-day XXX clips portrays aggressive double penetration of women screaming “fuck me harder ah ah ah” as the norm.

Anal sex is neither of those.

The rectum is a part of the anatomy where women *and* men can experience enjoyment and it’s important to move past the stereotype that anal sex is about a man fucking a woman up the bum. It’s a sexual experience for each partner involved and is a lot more enjoyable when everyone is open minded and considerate in regard to an encounter.

Women need stop to treating their anuses like sacred vessels when the topic of anal sex is raised. Everybody has a bum hole and some women like anal pleasure. Some don’t. Judgement and the ‘only bad girls and sluts do it’ attitude don’t do the sisterhood and feminism any favours.

It’s also a step backwards to belittle a male partner who might want to try fingers, tongues, toys or a strap-on in his own anus. He’s not automatically gay, bisexual, sissified, perverted, dirty or whatever other demeaning label can be slapped on him. He trusts enough to share part of his desires and that trust needs to be treated with respect. (A man wanting to dress like a woman while being fucked anally with a strap-on in a humiliation scenario is a different story altogether. Bitchy Jones expands on backwards feminisation better than I ever can.)

I will be correct in guessing most of the women who read this will nod familiarly when reminded of men “accidentally” trying to slide into the anus during vaginal sex. We all know which hole is which and ignorance should not be used as an underhanded entrance tactic, ever. Discussion is a better way of communicating desires and how they might be shared and enacted.

Some real-life practicalities

S-l-o-w is the order of the day. There’s nothing wrong with building up stimulation over a period of weeks until trying penile penetration. Taking time with preparation might make the success rate higher for regular anal activity to be included in a sexual repertoire if each partner enjoys the session. The perception that the giver is the enthusiastic partner and the receiver is the anxious partner needs to be given the boot with lots of slow, careful build-up so it’s pleasurable for everyone.

Just like sex as a term should not always imply a penis in a vagina, anal sex should not automatically mean a penis in an anus. Think more broadly into the range of activities that can take place between male/female, male/male and female/female. Try a gently buzzing vibrator or hand stimulation to the external areas during oral sex and build up to a lubricated finger, a tongue, a butt plug, then a penis over different sessions if each partner wants to keep experimenting and building on the foundation. Not everyone is going to move at the same speed or like the same things.

Use toys designed for anal use. They are shaped they way they are and have flared bases for a reason. This is not the time to play with the contents of the vegetable crisper, beer bottles or other household goods. The hospital emergency ward stories are true.

Safety and comfort are the orders of the day and condoms and lube are a must. Lubed condoms can be good as they maintain their ‘lubiness’ but use in addition to condom-safe lube.

There should be more talking than grunting. Keep checking into each other’s welfare and sensations so it’s a shared experienced and not one-sided in the favour of the giver. The recipient is in control of what’s happening at all times.

Anal penetration does feel different to vaginal penetration for women and it can take time to adapt and relax into the new sensations.

Ignore that porny stunt of a man penetrating a woman’s anus, returning to the vagina, back to the anus and repeating. That is a rapid-fire way to a urinary tract infection. Porn producers cut the non-sexy scenes like disinfecting genitals to avoid cross-contamination but here we are dealing with real life.

Do not use one unsuccessful episode as an excuse to shut the door completely to anal sex. No one was accomplished at kissing, oral sex or vaginal sex the first few times and anal play is no different. Women in particular use the, “I’ve tried it once and hated it” line, which may not be fair to future partners with more skill and experience.

My rules of play

I like fingers and smaller toys, especially during oral sex but I’m still not converted to the sensations when a penis is moving around in there. I see it as part of a total experience with a partner – I have quirks that aren’t shared by everyone so it’s part of the give and take of sexual desires and is an ongoing project.

A side-effect for me is farting uncontrollably for several hours after receiving something of decent size up there so timing is a consideration. For practicality’s sake, I’m not going to take it up the arse the afternoon of a family dinner.

I’m not keen on one-night-stands anyway but I won’t receive anal sex with a partner I don’t know well. It’s on my mental list of things to do only with trusted partners.

Any man who goes near my anus with his penis before “warm-up” play will either be told to fuck off or re-educated. I don’t have time for people who think they can pretend their way into experience if they don’t already have it. Honesty goes a long way.

Any man who wants to play in my dark hole without reciprocation of some kind needs to have a good reason and not a closed mind, or he will also be told to fuck off or re-educated. It’s a game both genders can enjoy and my role is not as a one-way receptacle.

I won’t do anything with a higher risk of pain or discomfort for me under the influence of alcohol or anything mind bending. Consciousness and awareness always.

I’ve never had an anal douche, enema or colonic irrigation and don’t plan starting now. Anal play can smell and brown bits sometimes lurk in the rectum. I’m not a fan of those aspects but I’m less keen on pretending that my arse is fresher than a daisy. I know when the path is at its clearest and will communicate that.

Any man in my orbit who wants to try being the recipient is hot. Bring that bottle of lube over here and let’s play.