Let me lay some #buttstuff logic on you: as it seems, putting a P in your B can actually kill you. This isn’t a column to deter you from living whatever sex life you want, nor is it a personal challenge. If I had my own way about things, I would put a “do not try this at home” sticker on this entire page, hoping that if I just save one life, my experience would seem worth it.
Let me set the scene (and the mood) for you: Saturday night, 2 a.m., free Fireball shots at the bar. I give my boyfriend that “come hither” look, which I assume at 2 a.m. after free shots of Fireball looks a lot like Helen Keller mid-seizure. It is time to leave, and I know this because I just bought some random 8/10 a drink in exchange for hitting on some bush-league guy who I just met purely for my own personal, drunken entertainment.
Upon stumbling into my overpriced one-bedroom apartment, my boyfriend and I head straight to where the magic happens. This is not my first rodeo, and I know that the sooner sex begins, the sooner I can pass out on top of him, which is how I’m sure God intended it. I’m sure you all know the logistics of sex by now–unless your most recent move was into your parents’ basement–so for the sake of continuity, there was a lot of P in the V action.
About 15 minutes in, and much to my regret, I decided to expand my sexual horizons for a “One night only!” event: my one-way street was now open to out-of-towners. I’m not sure how I came to make this decision. The only things I was sure of were my lack of sobriety and the fact that the P to hole ratio was severely lopsided. Being the Republican that I am, I like to believe that the Bush 43 administration really stuck with me over the years, and that, in my drunken stupor, I declared a No Child Left Behind policy in the sack. And, in case any of you sick fucks are wondering, I was not prepared for this.
I looked at my boyfriend and said the words he had probably been waiting to hear since that one night he got me drunk, took me home, and assumed it was going to be a one-night stand: “Wanna do anal?” The next awkward few minutes were some that I have since forgotten in sobriety or suppressed altogether to avoid a hefty therapy bill; but, what I can tell you is that it was the struggle that only the few, the brave, and the scarred know.
Everything was going as well as you could possibly hope for when it comes to sticking a penis in a butthole until I could see my pulse. Since we’re talking about things that make my mother proud of me, you should know that I’m no doctor, but I’m fairly certain that you shouldn’t be able to physically SEE your pulse. Every time my heart beat, white would flash in my eyes like my brain was taking mental, forward-facing Snapchats. What came next was the only time in the recollection of my 23 years on this planet that I’ve ever wanted the power to conjure a Snuggie on demand. I soon went from being face down, ass up to face down, passed out.
Guys, I’m not sure if a girl has ever passed out on you while you’re trying to rock her world, but I can only guess that it’s not a great feeling. Another not-so-great feeling is having your ass penetrated. The feeling to top it all, though, is waking up to the sound of your boyfriend on the phone with 911 saying, “We were having anal sex and then I thought she died.” After having to ward off 911, assuring them I was fine, we took to Google like any Gen Y would to try to figure out why P to B action had caused me to pass out.
Apparently, there is a nerve in dat ass that, if hit just the right way, causes your blood pressure to plummet and you to black the fuck out faster than that time freshman year when you thought shooting grain alcohol was a great idea. Basically, even your ass doesn’t want to do anal.
This wasn’t even my first time. I’ve done the dirty a small handful of times, actually. The last time was about a year ago when some random got a little too excited and misplaced his dick in my butthole, and I still swear to this day that I had a seizure afterward.
Long story short, I’m just pretty sure that I’m not meant by God or the Republican party to ever stick anything up my butt again. I tried it, I didn’t like it, and I almost died. I have hit the hat-trick of no, and, effective immediately, am retiring from the game of anal. Thank you and God bless the USA.