Workin’ stiffs! Partial-plated Price Chopper denizens constantly re-living the halcyon days of the early ’80s when your recent herpes diagnosis made you feel novel and fun and that much closer to Lee Aaron – I am one with you.
Like you, I wake up in the morning, regard my scat-caked, sleeping hubby with a mixture of repulsion and coochie-coo, spark up a ciggie and get on with it. Is it garbage day? Is it ever not garbage day?
I know that what I’m about to share with you will have the sting of truth, and that you will know precisely where I am coming from, like you knew where your two-faced friend Bonnie was coming from when she said that you were as pretty as Cher even though you couldn’t afford skin grafts after the fire and had to use lawn sod. Even though you know that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the face.
I’m going to share with you. But I’m so scared to share! Is it because my grandparents lived through the Depression? Is it because my parents lived through my grandparents’ depression, in which every good report card wasgreeted with “A+ for who the hell cares. I shat out a lymph node today and it felt like victory. Dinner’s at 6pm, barring a Korean home invasion”?
But since when did I care about my dumb-ass legacy? Since never is when! So, here’s my secret: I forgot all about my rectum and its needs and nuances! I feel like shit for not feeling my shit!
There was a time when my rectum sizzled with possibility. It matters not that my first sex came during the throes of the AIDS crisis, so that my first sex invariably consisted of the following, fully-clothed conversation:
“Hot.”
“Yes. Hot. I can’t even get over it.”
“What? Barbara Bush’s easy elegance?”
“What?”
“Silence equals death.”
“So keep talking.”
“Okay. Hot.”
Even then I perceived through an ass darkly. Alone on my bed, legs hoisted and splayed, I’d raid my rectum with trembling fingers for hours on end, shocked and more than a little terrified at my bum’s capacity for pleasure. After all, if there was pleasure in my bum, what else was in there? Rogue ovaries? Tiny Bibles? Was it just a fart, or the cry of a child, fallen down the intestinal well?
Despite these sessions of candlelit colonic spelunking, I’ve never been a bottom. Powerless in every other part of my waking life, I’ve never been able to abide the utter surrender of some jiggly-boobed grandfather (I have to stop being nude and flirty at family reunions!) rutting atop me, stirring yesterday’s dinner with his God-awful baby dill of a pee-pee. It makes me immediately want to call OPSEU to inquire about labour code infractions. But can one person form a union?
(That question has made me introspective, which I’m bad at. I cried at the end of Marvin’s Room. Am I a pyro? I like cologne. Have I been raped? See?)
Of course, not being a bottom does not mean that I need to exclude my ass altogether during “The Act” or that I need to evasively refer to sex using titles from Broadway shows starring Liza Minnelli. No, it does not and no, I do not!
There’s still rimming and diddling and coquettishly spreading wide open to expose lush haemorrhoids the size of Scatman Crother’s head. Flora The Red Menace is supposed to be impulsive and torrid, isn’t it? If The Rink isn’t boundary-pushing, then it’s not really Liza’s Back, is it? Right on!
Why, then, in the last few years, have I taken to screaming “War crimes of the worst kind!” whenever a suitor meekly grazes my south mouth?
It’s not like I come from an ass-phobic family. Quite the opposite. Workaday scatology was all-invasive when I was growing up. For instance, my grandmother voluntarily had a colostomy bag installed, simply to save money on toilet paper. As I perched on the birthday bicycle she bought me with her TP savings, she proudly announced, “You’re practically riding Nana’s ass, my boy! Now guess how we paid for the cake. Hint: It’s bone marrowalicious!”
I see the ecstatic, mid-fuck faces of the boys in rented pornos like Lord Quordley’s Diversion (the only entrance to our local adult video store is also an enchanted portal back to 1785). I listen as my friends regale me with hot confessionals of baptism by way of backdoor tongue bath, and I hate myself for being so prudish and recalcitrant. Is it just because my ass is unsightly? It can’t be – I think of all the brazen nudies at the Barracks, wielding asses that looked like ancient, Home Ec class pizzas, and I know that I, too, can proudly put my best backside forward.
This hang-up is too big for one person to tackle. Friends, the next time you see my dour face on Church St, and think, “What’s up his ass?” won’t you reach out to a comrade and answer your own question, be it with a finger, fist, tongue or twig?
I’d do the same for you, because we are one.
Why you can trust Xtra
