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An Unrepentant Assoholic Confesses
BY TEEJAY
I have been ass crazy as far back as I can remember. Before I really knew what I was doing, I would follow guys for blocks just to see how their asses moved in their jeans, their board shorts -- even their corduroys fer fuck’s sake. I was a pre-adolescent perv fast on my way to becoming a full-blown teenage assoholic.
A few years later I met someone who was even more ass crazy than I was. He said, “For me, a dick is just a lever I use to flip a guy over so I can get at his ass.” When I heard this the earth moved with a profound, new knowledge: I realized I liked ass more than I liked dick.
Don’t get me wrong, I like dick. It does things. It goes places. But an ass, in all its majesty, just kind of is. It preens, it shows off, it invites you to rest your weary head. It’s got its utilitarian purposes, god knows. But a great ass is the body’s star: mind-blowing because for reasons too mysterious to decipher, it wants to dazzle and draw you in. Ahem.
Which brings me to rimming. Actually, it doesn’t take much to bring me to rimming. There is something about an ass that makes me want to sit down and chow down. I’ve heard guys make sounds when my tongue is up their asses that I’ve never heard when I’m blowing them. Amphibious, other-worldly sounds. It’s like they revert: they whimper, they writhe, they’re suddenly pre-verbal.
They don’t know what you’re doing back there -- and after a minute or two they’re so delirious they’re not even sure you’re still back there -- but they like it. Oh, God, they like it.
I should take this moment to say a hole is greater than the sum of its parts, but I won’t.
Which brings me to ass fingering. Love it. And ass fucking. Love it more. Sometimes when I’m fucking a great ass I think of it as a giant, pretty tomato that I’m shish- kabbobing. Which makes me think of summer. Which makes me think of picnics. Which brings me back to rimming. Damn, I’d like to be face down in an ass right now…
Sorry. It’s a little problem I have.
A lot of guys are funny about their asses. These guys are called tops. Of course not all tops. Many tops know it helps to have a show pony back there -- if only to draw the crowds. But most tops relegate their asses to second billing, beneath their above-the-title cocks.
This kills me. Such a waste.
Yes, your cock, it rules, we get it. But even the most total/100%/ass-plundering top has a prostate for fuck’s sake. And that prostate is surrounded by bazillions of nerve endings that radiate throughout the body like the sun high in the noontime sky. If you don’t want someone’s dick tickling these, do you really want to miss out on fingers, tongues, toys, etc…?
At this point I really should go into more vivid forms of ass play, but -- full disclosure -- they fall out of my current realm of expertise. (Here I’m thinking of fisting, felching, benoit balls, ass-yodeling, ass time-sharing, ass slalom-and-luge competitions, etc…)
But I digress. I was about to mention my mission on earth: putting tops the world over in touch with their asses. There’s nothing so hot to me as tripping the wire that leads to a top’s ass. When he suddenly realizes that his cock is not always the center of his sexual universe. That, in fact, the center keeps moving and sometimes the center is what he’s sitting on.
There’s something truly inspiring about it all, don’t you think? Certainly the 18th century poet Rimbaud did. He wrote a little something called “Sonnet of the Asshole.” It’s basically written from the bird’s eye view of someone who’s just pulled out of the sweetest ass he’s ever fucked. This two-line excerpt gives you the gist:
Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation,
It sighs, humbly nestling in the moss still moist from love
It’s my favorite piece of writing after The Color Purple.
I hate to drag my father into this, but the man was able to recall every memorable meals he had for years and years. I’m like that with asses. I can still remember -- with almost 3D, high definition recall -- asses I had the privilege of, um, befriending in college.
One in particular. I’m no longer so sure of the face of the guy it belonged to, but I’m here to tell you as far as his ass was concerned it was true love. I could have grown old looking at that ass. I wanted to end up on a porch swing with that ass. Being near that ass I felt all the gratitude and wonder Scarlet O’Hara felt when she came over that hill and realized Tara had not burned with the rest of Atlanta.
So let us now praise ass. The top of the thighs, the bottom of the back. Muscular or cushy, dusted with hair or smooth as a lunar surface, broad as a beam or small like two Pillsbury dinner rolls. I’d follow it just about anywhere.
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