Happy Hole

I do it because I like to hear the man’s body speak.

When people look at one of my online profiles and see I’m into fisting, a lot of them automatically assume, or fear, that I’m one of those cigar-chompin’, leather-wearin’, shit-talkin’ top men who doesn’t take guff and prefers to be called ‘sir’ even in my downtime. Those who’ve never experienced fist-fucking tend to assume it’s one of the nastiest extremes of sex, an invasive and degrading procedure that forever renders a guy submissive and unable to control his bowel movements. Some of them assume, and state right up front, that I’m going to turn every encounter into a handballing session. (“I’m not into that if it’s a requirement!”)

A lot of the fisting porn that’s out there doesn’t really erase any of the impression that it’s a sexual variation performed by anyone other than the most hardened, muscular, and depraved of homosexuals. I have a friend from college who, I found out many years later, started making fisting films. All the descriptions from the video company talk about his scenes with a language that’s extreme and provocative. He doesn’t merely get fisted in the movies he’s made. He bends over like a bitch! And has his boypussy turned into gaping manflaps! By big, brutal meaty paws! That hole-punch him to a whimpering, wide-open man-whore!

Yeah, I’d be running away from fisters too, if I thought my hole was going to be reduced to gaping manflaps. Jesus. I’m not hardened, or outstandingly muscular. Depraved, maybe. But fisting’s not like that at all. At least, it doesn’t have to be.

Take Hardy, for example. The guy takes major things up his ass. The shelving unit of toys he keeps in his basement has a bin full of giant dildos, buttplugs the general size of traffic cones, and one of those life-sized latex arms that I suspect most stores stock only as a novelty item. He loves to be fisted. And he loves the way I fist him.

For me, fisting is less about invasive hole-punching and more about creative, sensual, hand-and-ass play. It’s slow, and quiet. It’s intimate and reflective. Meditative, even.

When Hardy hopped up into his leather hammock the other night and let his feet rest in the stirrups, I put a towel on the chair at the sling’s base and made myself comfortable. Hardy had already laid a bowl of shortening at arm’s reach. Next to it sat a rubber squeeze-bulb of a thick, clear lubricant with an eight-inch long, thin neck. Once we were both settled, I reached into the shortening, scooped up three fingers of it, and started rubbing it onto and in Hardy’s hole.

Two fingers. That’s all I insert inside him to begin. He receives them easily. I’d just finished fucking him only moments before, so he’s still open and sticky. I ease in as much of the white, fluffy goop as possible, turning my fingers around and around. He sighs, and I know I can move on.

Three fingers. My thumb and pinkie act as a natural base as I ease my fingers in and out. I like keeping my face close to the hole, when I’m opening it slowly. It’s not that I have to be close to hear the sounds of Hardy’s gentle moaning, or to smell the Crisco, but I like being near to him, when I’m doing this. The sling’s a fine place to give me easy access to a hole, but I’ve fisted most men in their beds, and I hold them in the same way; I like to be as close to them as possible, so that this is an experience we’re sharing. Not an operation. Not something I’m performing on them.

I like laying a hand upon my partner’s stomach as I move in and out, sometimes. I can feel his body speak to me this way. When he’s tense, before he’s ready for more, his stomach will be tight and distended. As he relaxes, his breathing becomes deeper and more regular, and that’s when I know it’s all right to proceed.

Four fingers. When my pinkie joins the others, I scoop up more shortening from the bowl with my free, left hand. With my index and middle finger, I smooth more of around my knuckles, and push it deeper into Hardy’s widening hole. Only my thumb is on the outside, now. He can feel immediately the difference, and his stomach distends again. I hear him take a deep breath as my fingers compress into a column and move in and out, in and out, in a slow and deliberate motion. The girth of my four longest fingers is really no more than of my dick. Any resistance he has at this point is sheerly mental, as he envisions how my hand must look as it disappears into him. I rest my head upon the inside of his thigh, closing my eyes and enjoying the sensation of his flesh around my skin.

Five fingers. Again I slather on more of the Crisco with my free hand, then wipe it on a towel. My thumb takes its place with my other fingers, nestling in the hollow they’ve created for it. The shortening that I add all around the circumference of my hand now reaches almost to my wrist. My knuckles gently nudge against his hole, causing his breathing to become more shallow. He shifts uneasily, knowing what comes next.

With my left hand, I pick up the rubber squeeze bottle. My thumb eases out, and the long neck replaces it. I ease the black nozzle into his ass and give the bulb a squeeze until I can feel a puddle of cool liquid around my fingertips. When the bottle’s on the floor once more, my thumb again takes its place. My left hand returns to his stomach, feeling its rise and fall. Hardy’s fingers entwine around mine as he holds on—though I don’t know whether for comfort, or support, or simply because he wants us to be as close as possible at that moment. This part is the most difficult, here at the widest part of my hand. Yet it’s not that difficult at all. He trusts me enough to relax. We’ve been down this route before together, and he knows I won’t hurt him. I compress my knuckles and fingers to make them as narrow as possible, and rub my forehead against his thigh to remind him I’m there. Then I slide in to the wrist.

I can’t imagine what he feels on his end. I’ve never bottomed for a hand. I’ve been curious, yes, but I can barely take a finger without regretting it. He’s clearly enjoying himself, though. Without seeing I can tell that his neck has arched and carried his head back. He groans with pleasure, and his skin comes alive with gooseflesh. No, I don’t know what he feels, but I know that this is the truly pleasurable part for me. It’s an unfortunate analogy, but once I’m in to the wrist, fisting is a lot like playing in mudpies. Not because of the color of what normally comes out of that orifice, but because the sensation is much like plunging my hand into something soft, and wet, and warmed by the sun. It’s a sheerly tactile pleasure that has nothing to do with my dick, which I can endlessly enjoy for its own sake.

Once I’m this far into Hardy, I like to vary the sensations he’s feeling. He’s fond of my twisting my hand the most; I rotate it as far as I can without going much deeper. Each pass of my knuckles causes him to shiver and moan. When I’m this close to him, this deep inside, I can feel the pulse of his heart; I can hear when it quickens or when it settles back into its steady rhythm. Though I quicken the pace of my turning wrist, I never speed up to the point that it’s outright fast. This experience we’re sharing is not one intended to be speedy. It’s quiet, and slow, and deliberate, and as intimate as two men can be.

I keep my eyes closed as I penetrate further into him. There’s no need to look at what I’m doing, save for the moments when I apply more grease to my arm or side the rubber nozzle back inside him to douche his hole with a dose of the cool and viscous lube. All I need to know I can learn from the sounds he’s making, the pace of his breathing, and the motion of his body. He’s grinding his hips slightly as I twist and slowly push my way in, accepting more flesh at his own pace. From time to him his fingers still grasp at mine, or he’ll pull my free hand to his lips and kiss the fingertips. Once in a while I’ll rub my beard over the skin of his leg, or kiss the inside of his thigh, just to remind him I’m still present.

It’s not a necessary reminder, though. He knows I’m there. It’s hard to miss me. He’s relaxed enough now that there’s no issue in sliding in and out. I’ve been in holes where it’s been difficult to find that natural passage inside, but Hardy’s never given me a problem. The mere fact that I can find my way deeper inside him without having to search merely heightens the intimacy between us. When I withdraw my arm to the wrist, the dungeon’s cool air creates a chill on my skin. It feels a little bit like leaving the depths of my hot tub on a chilly winter’s night, so I move back inside, to be warm again. This is not an invasion. It’s a completeness between us. A slow and steady exploration of trust.

“How far are you in me?” he asks at last. It sounds as if he’s drowsy, or has woken from a deep sleep to ask his lover a simple question. “Show me,” he says, guiding my fingers to his own arm.

Without looking, I feel up past his fingers and wrist. An inch below the crook of his elbow, I stop. I make a circle with my left thumb and forefinger there.

“Oh, wow. Amazing,” he says. Then, a little bit after, as if he’s drifting back off, “Happy hole. Happy . . . hole.”

My motion now is constant and steady, but still slow. I twist slip in and feel him part for me, warm and wet. I slip out, and feel the circulating air on my skin and the pull of his hole, beckoning me back in. On and on it goes, for long minutes. Just the quiet, and the warmth, and the wetness.

I’m perhaps halfway inside when I can feel his ass pushing me back out. His body is telling him he’s had enough, and I honor it. He wants to expel me all at once, but that’s not a good thing; I exert a steady pressure to keep him from pushing too hard and too fast, and withdraw slowly and deliberately. My arm emerges inch by inch, and then my wrist. My knuckles. My fingers. Their tips. His hole contracts, then widens, then contracts again, and I smooth my fingers over it. He sighs. It’s done.

Saturday night I spent perhaps almost an hour on Hardy’s hole, while the others played and watched. When it was done and I’d wiped him free of the grease with a hand towel, I walked out of the dungeon and went to wash my forearm in the warm water of the laundry tub. The water was hotter in temperature than Hardy’s ass, but the warmth didn’t sustain itself. It vanished too quickly, as I dried off.

When I returned to the dungeon area to settle down and relax for a while, Hardy was padding around with big smile. He came up to me from behind and gave me a hug, then kissed me. “Happy hole,” he said, as satisfied as a little boy on Christmas. “Thank you so much.”

“No. Thank you,” I said, meaning it. “You know I love that with you.”

I watched him bounce off to get a snack with a lightness in his step. “Happy hole,” he repeated, over and over again, as he hugged himself.