Talk About A Pain In The Ass

In her latest piece, Calico looks at a recent news story out of England which isn’t going to help her set aside her already significant reticence to participate in anal sex — or not as the one on the receiving end, at least.

Read on…

by Calico Rudasill at Sssh.com

While he seems to have mostly given up on the idea these days, every so often my husband will raise the idea of us engaging in anal sex that goes beyond “anal play” (which I don’t mind a little of from time to time, as a change of pace) and into full-blown ass fucking (which I have tried, but didn’t really cotton to).

To be clear, he’s not bringing this up hoping I’ll peg him, or shove a finger up his ass while we’re in the throes of intercourse; he’s strictly looking to be the pitcher in this sexual scenario.

I can understand why he doesn’t want to give up the dream of putting it in my butt; every indication I’ve heard and read suggests that as the penis-owner, it feels quite pleasurable to be on the giving end of a butt-boning.

It’s just that from my perspective, as the one being penetrated, the sensation is less one of pleasure and more akin to something involving a duly-licensed person wearing a glove and white coat – and to whom I’m required to offer a copay as part of the ordeal.

Stories Like This Don’t Help His Case

Of course, even if I hadn’t already made up my mind anal isn’t for me, reading stories about women who wind up with butt plugs inserted decidedly too far.

“We were having a naughty night in last March and decided to use the toy,” said Emily, the poor, over-penetrated soul in question. “I’d never used one before.”

On the one hand, the fact it was her first time using a butt plug might help explain how things went haywire. On the other… Well, I’m guessing this might also prove Emily’s last time using such a device to enhance a night of hanky-panky.

“I think he got too excited and managed to push the end of it in too,” Emily charitably said of her partner. “It was a goner.”

Then the story turns to the truly touching part, wherein we find out what a compassionate, caring, helpful fellow young Emily’s partner is isn’t.

“I began to panic and told him I needed to go to hospital,” Emily said. “He said it should come out naturally on the toilet and then he said ‘I’m really sorry I have work early in the morning’ and he shot off.”

What. The. Fuck.

I’ll say this much for my husband; he knows if he pulled some shit like this and come to realize he was responsible for the fact I had a foreign object up my ass, he’d at least have enough sense to call in sick to work, drive me to the nearest urgent care facility, hold my hand for as much of the process as the doctors would let him, buy me flowers, sit through a nice, long binge of some Netflix original series he doesn’t like and generally grovel for forgiveness until I was completely satisfied with his display of contrition.

Of course, he’d mostly do all the above out of abject fear (I do own poultry shears and he’d need to sleep eventually, after all), but he’d still do it.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand No-Ways

If the text of Emily’s story by itself wasn’t enough to send me cringing (and it was, believe me), then the X-ray certainly finished the job.

Just look at that thing; it’s like something I’d expect to find inside someone swearing up and down she’d just been abducted by aliens – especially if they were these aliens.

Plus, when you get to the serious parts of this anal anecdote, things stop being funny and start getting more than a little scary.

“I assumed they could get it out manually but it was only when I saw the X-ray did I realize they couldn’t and how dangerous it was,” Emily said. “I’m petrified of needles so when they lay me down and a nurse put a line in I realized they needed to operate. I was terrified.”

Making matters worse, the docs told Emily if they couldn’t remove the plug in the way they planned to, they might have to go in through her bowels, resulting in a minimum six-month stint using a colostomy bag.

Sorry honey; speaking of six-month minimums, you’d best keep your fingertip the hell away from my backdoor for as long as it takes for the words “colostomy bag” to stop rebounding around inside my head… A term equaling the rest of your natural life should suffice.

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