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.
When Life Hands You Hemorrhoids…
If karma truly exists, then I must have murdered a baby to deserve hemorrhoids this bad. It feels like my ass is being torn apart with a razor blade every time I go to take a shit. For the past month I’ve just been trying to ignore it. But I guess when you don’t take care of certain problems, they only get worse. It started off feeling kind of like a paper cut—but now it’s bleeding, it’s irritated, and it’s burning, sort of like living with a mini-holocaust in my pants.
But what can my asshole teach us about personal success? Lots!
Most people have had to deal with metaphorical hemorrhoids at some point in their lives. They start off as part of you—veins, pumping blood around your body, filled with the elixir of life. Maybe this is a significant other, or a feeling of fulfillment at your job, or maybe its how oxycodone felt to you the first time. But then slowly after a while, the veins start becoming crazy and compromise your happiness. What will you do? Will you confront them right away and let them slide back into your anus where you’ll live happily in perfect harmony? Or will you let them swell, and swell, to the point where they become so big and externally aggravating that you actually require surgery to get them removed? Naturally, you’d chose to seek immediate medical attention and avoid any larger issues, like a normal, sane human being. But as we all know, it’s not always easy to make good choices and be sane, especially when we’re not even aware that choices are available to us sometimes.
The Disasters of the Fake Hymen
My boyfriend did not want to break my hymen. There is probably a certain sect of men who get off on popping cherries like they’re a row of bubble wrap blisters, but I’m not a girl and this wasn’t my first time. And my hymen was going to be messy. These are probably all reasons my boyfriend was less than enthusiastic about this little experiment.
A couple of months ago my editor told me about Joan of Arc Red, a fake hymen made in China and marketed mostly in Japan. Essentially, it is a piece of plastic with a bit of dye inside designed to let a sullied woman pretend her precious membrane is still intact and appear to bleed upon intercourse. Yes, Joan of Arc might have been a murderous delusional schizophrenic psychopath, but at least she was always a virgin. When my editor originally told me about this thing, the idea was to get someone with a real vagina to test-drive it. A couple of days later, however, I stumbled upon this article in New York magazine. I sent him a link to the bad news, he asked if I’d like to test it out in my butt, and here we are.
When I first proposed this experiment to my boyfriend he said yes in the abstract, but when the time for participation arose so did his excuses for not doing it. He thought it would be sloppy and asked if they were made in China, as if his balls might somehow get lead poisoning from it. The only thing that didn’t arise was the one part we were going to need to get the job done. Who knew that fucking a guy with a butt hymen would be so unappealing to a red-blooded gay American male?
After a long week of nagging and some negotiation, we put the towel down on the floor and got to work. Each box is wood paneled, so it looks like a million 80s rec rooms where real hymens were busted while Porky’s played on HBO. Inside, on a delicate pink satin pillow, are two foil packets, each containing a hymen. At first I didn’t understand why you’d need two of them. By using the second one, wouldn’t you be letting your partner know you’d faked it the first time? By the end of the evening, however, it all made sense.
Things I Learned from Butt Chugging Wine
The insertion of foreign objects into the rectum intestinum of Homo sapiens is nothing new. As you’ll remember from history class, the Maya administered tobacco and hallucinogenic enemas for religious purposes, and also probably because they were bored. They were kind enough to leave behind stone reliefs and figurines documenting the deed—now we use web videos and blogs for similar purposes. And we got rid of the cumbersome spiritual aspects of inserting tubes into our butts as well. This is called progress.
The latest round of anal-centric tittering occurred in late September when University of Tennessee Pi Kappa Alpha member Alexander “Xander” Broughton (yes, presumably pronounced “bro-ton”) was treated for severe alcohol poisoning after “allegedly” butt chugging boxed wine (the proper bro-menclature, I believe, is “Tour de Franzia”). Butt chugging—in case you were blissfully unaware—allows the alcohol to bypass the liver’s filtering and metabolic processes so that the ethanol drains straight into the bloodstream via veins to the vena cava. You’re basically short-circuiting the body’s poison defenses by putting liquor in your ass. It’s supposed to be an intense and near-instant buzz.
The university subsequently suspended the frat’s chapter, and that would have been the end of it. Except Xander then held an unintentionally(?) hilarious press conference. Surrounded by his lawyer and the entire UT chapter of Pi Kaps, Xander denied previously knowing anything about butt chugging, castigated the institutions accusing him of the act, promised retribution against the media outlets so fascinated with his story, and, through his lawyer, made it very clear that “he is a straight man and he thinks the idea… of butt chugging is absolutely repulsive.”
I’m a straight man, too, and one who knows, unlike Xander, that it’s totally not gay to put things up your butt. How could I not be intrigued by butt chugging? It seems like a terrible idea, sure, but young people have done many silly things that have brought joy to millions, like Facebook—could drinking through your ass be like Facebook? Turns out, no. It is terrible, as I found out when I experimented with it the other evening. Still, it does allow one to see the world from a different point of view. And not simply because I spent much of said evening flat on my back, glutes floating in midair, angling a booze-loaded enema bottle. No, it’s deeper than that. Deeper, too, than the enema’s one-and-a-half inch, pre-lubricated nozzle that penetrated my interior sphincter. The point is, fresh perspectives blossom after butt chugging a glass of Franzia and a half a pint of vodka.
Perspective 1: Doggie Style
I insist on “Sunset Blush” for the wine. The name suggests a kind of tenderness one’s bum might find acceptable, even inviting. I also purchase vodka and whiskey, for comparison as well as a quicker fix. Across the street from the liquor store, the pharmacy sells two-for-one enemas. “They should advertise it as ‘twin-emas,’” the Significant Other (SO) announces cheerily (for fairly obvious reasons, she’s remaining anonymous).
Back at the house, I carefully pour two shots of Sunset Blush into the enema bottle. The classic elbows-and-knees doggie-style with a drip towel underneath seems like the most respectable option.
Behind the closed bathroom door, my rear shimmies skyward as I try to steady my weight with the left forearm while the right contorts uncomfortably behind, poking clumsily for the entry point. A few deep breaths help ease the pigeon baster inward and a cool blast of Sunset Blush hits my innards. Not too bad. No stinging. Maybe a little more drippage than I’d like. But my sphincter revolts. While trying to coax my anus both physically and verbally (“Shhhh, it’s OK. It’s OK”), I take stock of my own compromising position. I feel, well, there’s no other way to put it… it feels so damndegrading. For fear of sounding flippant, I won’t say that I finally connected emotionally with my feminist sisters who deride doggie-style sex as a form of demeaning subjugation. But yeah, there’s pretty much no way to feel empowered when you’re on your hands and knees and something is going up your ass. After that epiphany, I wipe off the excess Franzia, pull up my pants and go to the kitchen where the SO and I make pizza.
Perspective 2: Stirrup style
The Straight Man’s Guide to Receiving Anal Sex from Your Girlfriend
Relationships, like produce, milk and reality television stars, have a shelf life. Most couples find that after a few weeks, months, or years, the luster fades and the initial carnal fury that brought them together has dissipated. The moldy codgers who get past this sexual brick wall do so by developing an elaborate series of coping mechanisms.
Infidelity is common in scenarios where one or both sexual partners become fed up with plain vanilla missionary. Sometimes, the couple just resigns themselves to erotic entropy, and embraces a sort of marital celibacy typified by the nightly ritual of ‘reading magazines’ or ‘checking the scores on ESPN.’ In this instance, going to sleep unfulfilled is preferable to even trying.
For those of you out there who want to tell me how love can sustain itself over decades, allow me to offer you the following completely non-scientific statistical breakdown:
-4% of the population falls in love and remains in love the rest of their lives
-21% of the population commits suicide after one too many viewings of the Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan comedyYou’ve Got Mail
-25% of the population masturbates more than three times a day
-3% of the population is asexual
-40% of the population has boring, meaningless sex until they die
-7% of the population has casual, freaky fetish sex with multiple partners until they die of being too happy
The goal of every human reading this article should be to get in that 11% of the globe that either finds a soulmate or fucks a neverending series of holes with verve and vigor.
The easiest way to go about joining the 11 Percent (which is far more vital to the national discourse than the 99 Percent or the 47 Percent) is through the back door. Anal sex is the first stop on the Save My Relationship World Tour.