It started during my sophomore year of high school, and I suspect it had something to do with my decision to start having anal sex with my then-boyfriend…
Watching Your Baseball Team Get Blown Out Is Like Anal Sex
As I watched the Cleveland Indians’ wholesale slaughter of the Houston Astros last week (the final score was 19-6), an odd feeling crept over me. It was horrible to watch a baseball team get absolutely creamed like that, but it was also oddly familiar, and not just because the Astros are terrible. The mixture of pleasure and pain that unfolded over nine innings—it started out scary, but ended up being kind of fun—was pretty much like anal sex. Actually, baseball blowouts—be they the 1897 Chicago Colts’ 36-7 record-setting victory over Louisville, the 30-3 destruction of the Baltimore Orioles by the 2007 Texas Rangers, this season’s 15-0 shellacking of the Nationals by the Reds—are exactly like anal sex. Here’s an inning-by-inning recap:
THE FIRST INNING: BACKDOOR PRESSURE
The initial runs that appear on the scoreboard serve as a quiet harbinger of what’s to come, much like the none-too-subtle pressure of a wiener knocking on your tightly clenched rosebud. This game won’t really be so bad, you tell yourself. Then another walk, wild pitch, ground-rule double, and you surreptitiously clasp your cheeks in expectation. But I never do anal!
THE SECOND INNING: PENETRATION
Much like the moment when your lover spits on your asshole, the appearance of an additional three or four runs in the second officially heralds that anal is occurring, and then—yup, that’s a dick in your asshole. Any hope of a comeback is shattered, and no amount of praying for run support will make that sweet pucker of yours any less penetrated. The flesh of your loins quivers, bases loaded, no outs.
Dir: Joanna Angel
I started taking steroids yesterday as an act of thanks and joyous celebration. I felt it was my duty as a native of New Jersey because the pieces of shit on the most atrocious public-relations disaster in the history of the Garden State, Jersey Shore, are not returning for another season. Hopefully by the time you read this my balls will have shrunk to a microscopic size (like those of the cast of the show), and I’ll be starting senseless bar fights because I have no other way to channel my latent homosexuality.
Sadly, the steroids I’ve been prescribed are not the kind that will turn me into the Incredible Hulk. I asked the doctor how long before I’d be able to lift cars above my head. She laughed and said, “You’re thinking of anabolic steroids. These steroids are to get rid of that hacking cough you’ve had for three months. The only real side effect is that you’ll have very vivid dreams.”
I was hoping for wet dreams, but instead got an entirely different brand of delight. Last night I dreamed I was on a road trip, heading to the Grand Canyon with five other fellows. We stopped at a greasy spoon on some desert highway in some nowhere town.
“What kind of beer do you have?” I asked the red-haired, middle-aged waitress. “We got both kinds: Bud and Bud Light,” she replied, accented with a look of disgust, as she walked past me. My eyes and head followed her to the end of the counter, but my torso didn’t move. I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and was nearly knocked off my barstool.
I leaned back to get a good look at my fellow travelers. We were all dressed as famous female musicians. And we looked pretty damn good if I do say so myself. I was Dolly Parton, and as my dream camera panned down the bar like in Goodfellas there was Aretha Franklin, Lady Gaga, bald Sinead O’Connor, Cher, and Madonna. After we finished eating, things took a real Beverly Hills Cop twist, and Aretha Franklin got killed. (Yes, even in dreams the black guy is always the first to die.) Next thing, we had guns and were hunting down the killer. I remember saying the classic Eddie Murphy line, “I ain’t fallin’ for no banana in my tailpipe,” and one of the other ladies saying, “Ooh! Ooh! I will! I will!”
I woke up at 4 AM, before we solved the murder, because I had to take a dump. Seems that these steroids have another side effect: shitting like you’ve been on a weekend-long ex-lax-snorting bender.
Did I ever tell you about the time I was on tour in Utah and my buddy met this girl from Turkey or Syria or somewhere and went back to her place after drinking shitty, cheap 3.2 percent beer for 13 hours, and she fed him the darkest Turkish coffee known to man and as they’re making out he started farting and shitting himself? Long story short, he ran out without saying good-bye and barely made it outside before having to rip his pants down and spray poop all over her front door. It’s times like this that I’m thankful I’m not single and always have a toilet nearby.
Previously - Anal Lessons
Are there scouts in the porn business like in baseball who travel the minor-league circuit looking for the next big star? If so, I think that’s what I’d like to do when I grow up. I feel that I have an eye for who is and isn’t slutty, and this goes far beyond my default fantasy of “Well, she’s got a mouth, she’s got to be slutty.” Like a batter, there are a lot of telltale signs. Instead of hip movement or bat swing, first check the eyes. Are they slowly scanning the room, seeking something? If so, most likely you have a good case of daddy issues on your hands and she’s probably a nice prospect.
As I’ve said in the past, tattoos are the quickest indication that a gal likes anal. Is she covered in ink? Chances are she loves it in the ass and prefers it there first. Freud tied the whole yearning-for-pain thing back to the loss of virginity in his book about porn; I forget what it was called.
The young lady above is named Christy Mack, and I wish I were the scout who found her in Indianapolis. Aside from the necessary three holes, she’s got all the attributes needed to play in the big leagues: attitude, a unique look, and big tits. I don’t know who the (not dead) George Steinbrenner of porn is, but I can imagine calling him from my cell phone in the parking lot of the Brass Flamingo or whatever club I found Ms. Mack patronizing, and saying, “I just found your next Derek Jeter (of butt sex).”
I always wanted to own my own Brass Flamingo. From the moment I walked into my first strip club—smelling the coconut lotion and pressing my head to a stripper’s vagina in the champagne room and hearing the ocean—I knew it was the tropical locale where I wanted to live out my days in retirement. At the time we were at war with someone in the Middle East, and I remember thinking that the Gaza Strip would be a great name for a strip club, but as I traveled more I realized it was important to come up with the basest name possible to attract the sort of clientele who frequent such places: Tit World, Ass Palace, and Place to Look at Pussy (PtLaP) were quickly added to the list of possible names.
Then I moved to Cincinnati for nine long months and ballooned from 135 to 215 pounds. While living there I went to Sudsy Malone’s, a local rock venue/laundromat, and that’s when it hit me: Open a titty bar in a college town where you can pay the girls to do your laundry and give you a lap dance. I’d call it the Muff ’n’ Fold. Every year I’d get a new crop of girls who honestly and truly were just trying to put themselves through college. If they were unsure of what occupation to pursue, and if they had the right stuff, perhaps I could suggest to them a fun and exciting life in the not-at-all seedy world of pornography. I envisioned it as a wholesale family business with my sons recruiting the prospects for training camp, me scouting for the bigs, and my wife making sure the girls knew how to do laundry because I have no idea how that works. I tried once and flooded the entire basement with suds. Then again, they love those foam parties in Ibiza. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
Previously - Panty Pops
Why Girls Should Only Have Anal Sex
I’m about to give you the biggest colon cleanse of your life, because yesterday’s article by Ms. Banal was a bunch of SHIT. Ass sex rules because destruction, degradation, and pain are FUN. I’m going to try to expound on that very simple and true statement in the coming paragraphs, but if there’s one thing you take away from these words that should be it. If I’ve done my job, by the time you get to the end of this article you’ll be fingering your own butthole and scheming on ways to get it filled with something fun.
THINKING WITH YOUR ANUS
Obviously anal sex is the wrong idea. That’s why it rules. For girls, anal sex just inherently means “no.” That’s like the first life lesson we’ve ever learned: “My asshole excretes things, I’m not supposed to put things in it.” Good girl. Part of the thrill, though, is disobeying your fundamental biology. Butt sex is fun for the same reason it’s fun to piss off a teacher or take a piss on a cop car, or burn down a church—except, get this, the only authority that you’re rebelling against is yourself. That’s some next-level shit. It’s like condensing six months of “getting in touch with your true feelings” BS therapy into 20 minutes. And, unlike burning down a church, you get to keep your job and be a fully functioning adult in society afterwards.
YOU HAVE TO WANT IT
It can’t just be a fun little experiment you do to spice up your relationship. I mean, I guess that’s fine, but that’s when you’re going to be distracted by thoughts like “Oh, this feels kinda unpleasant,” or “Wow, I hope I don’t get a UTI.” That’s not really getting into the spirit of anal. The desire has to come from a deep need to feel degraded, and this is something that should be expressed/initiated through body language, NOT through diplomatic compromise, like “OK, honey, you get to do that to me as long as you promise you’ll come to my cousin’s wedding.” (Ew, are there people who negotiate with sex like that?) I think there is a time and a place for anal, and you will know exactly when that time comes—he’ll tell you. (Just kidding.) (Not really.)
ANAL FISSURES BUILD CHARACTER
Yes, I’ve bled from my anus for weeks at a time (not constantly, that would be insane) and let me tell you something: I wouldn’t trade it for the world. In fact, I’m convinced experiencing an anal fissure may bring you closer to understanding the world, because guess what? Life is about dealing with things you would rather not deal with, like blood coming out of your asshole. You go through days of not wanting to eat because of not wanting to shit because of not wanting to reopen the scar tissue that has hopefully been developing on your butthole, but eventually the fissure does go away and you’ll either be a) wanting to go through it all over again, or b) taking precautions for next time.
I happened upon the miracle of muscle relaxers by accident. One day a boy effortlessly slid his penis up my butt and I was like “What, I thought this was supposed to hurt?” And then I walked around afterwards without a care in the world thinking that I just had an unusually loose sphincter. It took me a while to realize that the fluidity of the whole transaction could be attributed to the fact that I had been swallowing muscle relaxers daily (never mind why). Anal lube is bullshit. With Robaxin, you can put p’s in your b all day—there you go, Robaxin executives, I just came up with your advertising slogan for you. You’re welcome
What do you mean by “borrowed from the straight community”?
Well, when you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail. But just because there’s a penis and there’s a hole doesn’t mean that the penis should go into the hole. There is a lot of copying and pasting from the straight community into the gay community. What I wonder is if you were to put ten gay teenagers on a remote island, without exposure to straight sex, would they, by themselves, figure out that anal sex is appropriate for them? Maybe that experiment should be conducted to find out whether anal sex is really “natural.”
You talked before about how good it feels. There are nerve endings down there. Doesn’t the fact that it is pleasurable mean we are supposed to have fun with our butts and that it is, in fact, “natural”?
Drugs makes you feel good, too. But all they really do is cover up the pain. Anal sex might make you feel good temporarily, but the moment you wake up the following day, nothing’s changed and you still have to deal with what you need to deal with.