The other night, as often happens when we start drinking whiskey, my brothers and I were relaxing back at the house pre-party, sitting around on the couch, bullshitting about life and college. Looking forward to the fun we were about to have, and more importantly to the girls who would be attending that we were all not-so-secretly hoping to score with, the conversation naturally took a more depraved and derriere-focused turn. We started commenting on the success of the #buttstuff2015 movement and speculating as to the future of butt stuff for the upcoming year. Would it have the momentum to push through the second half of the decade? Would it get lost in the dark hole of faded trends and fads? Or would the remains of the butt stuff movement be wiped from popular culture to be replaced by another sexually deviant agenda? Important questions, no doubt.
This conversation then got directed to the act itself, and where the boundaries of butt stuff in the bedroom get drawn. Obviously, we were all onboard with the tush push. Also, unsurprisingly, not a single one of us really wanted anything going up our own poop chutes. That area of a man is, in my opinion, a sensitive swampland better left unexplored. But the division really started in earnest when the act of eating ass was imposed.
Anyone with a pulse knows that this year, more than any other, was a watershed year for eating booty. At this time last year, if you would have told me that literally licking someone’s chocolate starfish would be the thing to do in the bedroom, I would have laughed in your face and then gagged a little bit and probably called the police on you, sicko. Somehow, though, it seems like you are considered a prude square these days if you don’t advertise your ass appetite.
Maybe I’m old-fashioned, maybe I’m set in my ways, maybe I’ve taken one too many biology courses, but something about sticking my face in another person’s pooper just doesn’t do it for me. Really just not feeling it. Sure, would two nice ass cheeks bouncing around on my face be a good time? Probably. Could I use them as nice pillows to rest my head? You bet. But opening my face hole near your waste hole? Not going to happen.
My buddy Chett took it one step further. Not only would he not eat booty, he wouldn’t even want someone to eat his booty. No amount of reason, he said, could persuade him to feel otherwise. This is where I took exception. If some brave girl is feeling adventurous enough to mount a mouth expedition to my nether region, I say grab your astrolabe and go for it. It’s a real jungle back there, but if that’s what gets you going then I have no problem. I imagine it feels a bit like a warm bidet, and that intrigues me.
So I began to press my buddy Chett: “If there was a hot chick who wanted to eat your butt, you’d say no?” I got more specific with my question by adding in that she’s “the hottest, most desirable girl ever,” who, to Chett, would be Taylor Swift. He remained adamant. Wouldn’t even let T Swift near his ass. Finally, I said enough is enough. Biggest hypothetical I could imagine: you’re hooking up with Swifty, and she says the only way that it’s going to happen is if she can eat your ass. She wants it that bad. Needs it. Has to eat your butt to continue the hookup.
Chett paused, considered his options. Finally, he came back with his answer: “No,” he said casually, “even if it meant not hooking up with Taylor Swift, period.”
We preceded to laugh in his face and call him an idiot. I think someone even threw a beer can at him. But he was firm in his behind-the-times beliefs. Right as this was happening, the first round of girls started showing up, and so we had to put away the conversation for another time.
What makes some people so thirsty for ass play, and others so unwaveringly opposed? Maybe some men possess some primal natural instinct to protect their butts. Maybe because we like sticking our things into other things, and so the concept of the reverse is conceptually flawed to our “square peg in a round hole” mentality. Maybe we’re just not adventurous. Personally, I’m alright with that. After all, butt stuff is more about giving than receiving. It’s the Christmas of sexual satisfaction.
But a funny thing happened that night…my friend Chett hooked up with a girl — blonde hair and a big smile. The next morning, I couldn’t quite place it, but something about Chett seemed different. A new twinkle in his eye that I hadn’t seen before. He gave a knowing wink as she left, oversized tee in hand. “I’d like to change my answer,” he dropped slyly. In the end, it seems, that butt stuff gets us all..