Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


April 1993 – Does it seem like a disturbingly large portion of these diary entries involve stuff going in and out of my pee-hole or butt? ‘Cause it sure seems that way to me.

Anyway… Many moons ago I dated a sexually liberated girl who was a little too interested in the human butthole.

…And that’s it. That’s it folks; that’s the entry for this week! “Many moons ago I dated a sexually liberated girl who was a little too interested in the human butthole.” Thanks for stopping by, and have a safe drive home.

No, no… Just kidding. If only that was the end of it. No, this was one of those aforementioned women who’ll publicly endorse all sorts of kinky, alternative-sexuality mores, but who in my experience turn out to be about as fun to hunch as a pile of compost. (No offense to you compost fuckers.)

Now, I admit that it’s certainly within the bounds of possibility that the simple exhibition of my naked body is dampening the carnal fires in these situations – in fact, my parole officer hinted as much to me after that one incident in the mall. (Not to get off-topic, but can I just say that I really think America would be a better place if society was a little more open to modern interpretive dance? Thanks.)

I have a theory about all this, in the unlikely event these unsatisfying sexual situations aren’t actually the fault of my doughy, scarred physique. I think it’s part of a psychological need to deal with intimacy and sex in a safe, controlled environment. This frequently manifests itself during the college years, when a final personal identity is being formed. In the process of exploring these complex feelings and testing the boundaries of individual sexuality, displayed behavior might run contrary to a person’s true comfort level with certain kinds of bedroom activities.

Or it might not even be that complex – maybe this kind of behavior is just a simple survival tactic, a way to armor-plate emotions or divert attention from vulnerable parts of the psyche.

But who knows? I never bring it up. God knows I don’t want to hear about feelings and emotions and psychological crap from a girlfriend, or anyone else. Ultimately these issues are for people who, unlike me, care about the happiness and well-being of others.

Anyway, I was dating one of these girls, and she was always talking about the butthole. One time she even recommended some book with a title like Healthy Butthole Lifestyles or Your Stinky Gateway to Fun or Magic Anal Rootin’ Around or something. However, this didn’t have much of an impact on me. We had a long-distance relationship, so it’s not like I was faced with any actual buttholes on a day-to-day basis, and when we were on the phone I was usually pretty distracted by the fact that I wasn’t paying any attention to whatever it was she was saying. In fact, I was so dense that the vibrating buttplug she sent me on Valentine’s Day didn’t even register as a possible clue as to the seriousness of her rectal proclivities.

The actual plug on this gizmo was a small, silver lozenge with a pronounced seam. It had a flimsy remote control attached to it by a few feet of plastic cord, and the entire apparatus generated a disagreeable buzzing noise when switched on. Fact was, the thing was so chintzy that I thought it was a gag. I did manage to find some uses for it that deviated from its intended purpose, though… Chiefly, turning it on and whirling it around like a set of nunchuks while screaming and chasing houseguests.

It went on like this for a few months; with me occasionally wearing the clumsy thing like a bolo tie or using it to mix drinks. Then one day I happened to be visiting friends, a heavily pierced and laboriously transgressive married couple that had a few sex-toy catalogs on their coffee table. Leafing through this stuff in hopes of spying a titty I could “save for later,” I noticed my buttplug.

Holy moley! The thing had cost 40 bucks! I couldn’t believe something that was so cheaply made and dinky (not to mention specifically designed to be befouled by the human ass) would be so expensive.

I gasped and my friends, no doubt really hoping I was shocked by something other than a price tag, came running to see what was the matter. “My… My… It’s my buttplug,” I said, pointing at the catalog.

“Ohh, that’s a good one,” they said, almost in unison. “Don’t you just love it?”

Hmmm… I sure did love horrifying people with it. But was it possible someone would actually stick this kind of thing in their butt on purpose? And enjoy it? I mean, the place where the poo comes out? I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the primary function of the butt, and in general monkeyed around with it as little as possible... A few embarrassed swabs with toilet paper here and there, just to keep my somewhat tenuous membership in civilization active… That was it. Could it be that fetid hole might do double-duty as a source of sexual pleasure?

“Dude,” I asked, addressing the husband. “You stick this doohickey in your ass?”

“I love it,” he said.

“It feels good?”

“It feels GREAT.”

“Huh. No shit. Well. I reckon maybe I’ll give it a try then.”

So I went home and called up ol’ Analina the Bunghole Queen. Sure enough, she had always intended that I use her gift for sexy good times, rather than assaulting my friends. She even told me she was getting kind of hot then and there just thinking about me cramming the device up my pooper (perhaps not her exact words). That was enough for me. I made the decision right then – I was going to get it on with myself in a forbidden, anal fashion. Awwww yeah.

As I made preparations, a thousand thoughts shot through my head. What if it hurts? What if it feels really, really good? What if it feels so good that I freak out? Hey! …What if I turn gay? I already had a Bronski Beat album, but if the buttplug turned me gay I’d pretty much have to start over from scratch in every other area of my life. That’d be a lot of work. Is it worth the risk? Will my girlfriend break up with me if her buttplug turns me gay? And when I go through with the actual deed, should I put on the Bronski Beat album to, you know, give the place a little atmosphere?

I have to admit that, all doubts aside, I was pretty excited. I mean, I was fixin’ to open myself up to a rear-end rollercoaster of mind-bending, ass-blasting erotic thrills. Skin flush with anticipation, I stripped down and got on the bed. After a moment’s reflection, I wrapped the plug in a condom, to protect it from poop. Lying on my back, I got down to business. After a few minutes of whacking it, I was ready. I leaned to one side, lifted a cheek and started easing it in…

Oh, there… There it goes… Hmmm. Is it in yet? Never thought I’d be asking myself that question… So far so good, though… No discomfort… Don’t feel gay yet.

In fact, I didn’t feel much of anything. I very gingerly activated the vibration… Nothing. Primed for an explosion of sensual ass-fireworks, I upped the ante a bit. Nothing. Anxious to generate any kind of sensation at all, I cranked it, really putting the pedal to the metal.

Nothing. Not even a tingle.

The luster began to fade. I noticed the faint buzzing noise coming from deep within my crotch, like a sad, degenerate bee had flown down there. The only discernible sensation was a slight pressure, pretty much identical to the feeling I get when I have to take a dump. I glanced down and saw myself: a naked man… With a cheap, plastic remote control coming out of his ass. A wave of self-awareness shocked me… I was a failed libertine, a battery-powered pervert… An unadulterated square too vanilla to get off even with the assistance of the latest in advanced butthole technology.

The room suddenly seemed dark and cold. I was very alone.


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