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26 May 2011, 12:00 pm No Comments

Cynical And Southern: Fisting, A True Dealbreaker

This post was submitted by Jeremy Gloff

He was such a cute boy. Sandy hair. Bright smile. Raucous laugh. He always gave me the biggest hugs. He was the kind of boy I hoped would be in the club. He was the best bump on the dance floor and the best elbow in the walkway.

I never asked him out for dinner. We never went out for coffee. I did consider it though. In daydreams of potential romance I always envision what someone would look like in the morning. Would he still glow outside of the club lights? Would the sunlight make him as beautiful as a strobe does?

He and I would text occasionally. He was alternately funny, sexy and intelligent. He was the total package. He sent me a picture of his package without me ever sending one of mine.

I’ve shared my heart and my bed with druggies, thieves, homeless boys, and felons. I longed for these crazed boys without apprehension. I occasionally longed for the cute boy with the sandy hair.

One late night I opted for a drunken text message exchange in lieu of a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t trying to get laid. I was just enjoying communicating. Nothing remedies late night longing like an unexpected text from a potential suitor.

Of late I’m much too lackadaisical to be offended by much. To each their own. For real. Or so I thought.

During this late night texting session eventually the cute boy with the sandy hair told me what he had done last weekend. He had fisted his ex-boyfriend in a car in a parking lot.

I am fully supportive of the exploration of fetishes. I’ve gotten pee-ed on…thrice…years ago. I let a straight boy wear high heels and his cousin’s underwear. But during this text message conversation with a cute sandy-haired a boy I realized there was a line where I put my fist down. I meant foot.

I can wrap my head(s) around why someone would enjoy anal sex. Even various other sexual acts, whether I do them or not I can at least understand why another person might enjoy it. But the fist? Fuck no. I don’t get it. Painful. Dangerous. Those are the words that come to mind.

They say don’t knock something until you try it. I hate to disappoint advocates of that statement but I’ll have lived a full life even if I don’t try heroin, a scientologist convention, or a fist up my ass. Or my fist up someone else’s.

I no longer consider the sandy haired boy a potential breakfast sharer. He is still cute. He is still funny. But he is now tainted with the image of his arm up someone’s behind making them, in his words, “his puppet”.

I could never be the Lamb Chop to his Shari Lewis.


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