By Jessie Sage
Pittsburgh Current Columnist
Editor’s Note: This story contains adult themes and graphic descriptions of sex.
The night was already magical. After dancing in the wooden barn lit by strings of white lights, we slipped down to the water with some of our friends, stripped our clothes off, and swam naked into the vast lake until the only thing visible was the moon’s faint reflections on our wet skin and the lanterns we carried to the beach burning in the distance.
Eventually, we wondered back to our cabin. Pulling the bobby pins out of my hair, I let my towel drop to the floor as I slid in bed next to my lover. He pressed my ass against him and could feel that his cock was already hard with anticipation. He ran his hands down my body and my legs opened almost instinctively as an invitation. I was already wet and swollen; my juices ran down his fingers as they found their way inside my body.
For a few moments he used his fingers to apply pressure in the way he knows drives me wild with desire. Sliding his fingers back out, he grabbed his cock and rubbed some of my juices on it before starting to tease me with his head. He grazed my clit gently, back and forth a few times, then guided his tip down, over my lips and along my shallowly pulsing slit.
He didn’t stop there. He pulled his cock back further and further until I felt its pressure firmly against my asshole. He pulled my head toward him and whispered in my ear, “Tonight, I want to cum inside my wife’s ass.”
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and moaned as I gave way to the pressure and to my own pleasure. Sweat ran down my back as he moved his thick cock in and out of my ass until we both came. Panting, we collapsed in each other’s arms, my wedding dress in a ball on the floor.
When I was younger, I remember being afraid of anal—afraid it would hurt or that it could be embarrassingly messy. I remember partners begging for it but not feeling like it was something I wanted to do or could do. I believed there were other people out there whose bodies and sexualities somehow worked differently than mine, who seemed to enjoy receiving anal sex, but I couldn’t imagine why that would be.
Then one night, as a previous partner and I started fucking after a long date, I encouraged him to slide into my ass—a request that surprised both of us. He started slowly at first, while I adjusted to the intense (and new-to-me) sensation of fullness. I let that feeling wash over my body, embracing the experience and letting go of my fear.
That I can go from being fearful to craving anal so badly that I wanted it on my wedding night perhaps says more about me than it does about the act itself. Like all sexual acts, the pleasure any individual gets from it depends on a myriad of factors: where they are in their lives, their history and upbringing, their physiology, the way they relate to their partner(s), and the association they have with the act.
When I say I enjoy anal, I do mean, in part, that I enjoy the physical act. Having my asshole massaged, fingered, licked, and fucked makes my pussy swell and pushes me into having intense, full-bodied orgasms. But it would be too simple to say I like anal because it feels good. A lot of things feel good, but different things can feel good for different reasons.
When I first started having anal regularly, I realized that everything about it was different than the sex I had become accustomed to having. Anal made me feel vulnerable, but in a way that was emotionally powerful: it was a submission that required my entire full attention, one that pulled me out of my head and into my body and the moment—which is something I struggle with.
As a writer and former academic, I am prone to living in my head, to occupying a world of ideas. It is easy for me to forget to do practical things like pay my bills, and it is more natural than not for me to feel disconnected from my body. I can write about sex in my capacity as a sex columnist because I primarily relate to it as an idea, as something interesting to think about, talk about, analyze, and dissect.
But having anal sex was different. If I didn’t tune in to my partner and give my full attention to the act, it could be painful for both of us. He couldn’t lazily pound me for 5 minutes while I went over how I was going to structure my next essay in my head. The intensity of anal penetration called me back into my own body, and into communion with my partner; it requires a presentness —a thereness—that I have a hard time achieving without effort.
This presentness also fosters an intense intimacy. The first time my husband we were fumbling in the dark, kissing, and learning each other’s bodies when I told him I wanted to feel him fill and stretch my ass. He licked his fingers and massaged my hole, getting me ready to take him. I laid back on the bed, spread my legs and ran my fingers over my clit while he massaged me, applying a little more pressure with each motion. Then he climbed on top of me, looked me in the eyes, and told me to relax. I wrapped my arms and legs around his body while he gently entered mine. At that moment, I felt more connected to him than I ever had.
I crave anal for my own emotional wellbeing, as well as my feeling of connectedness to my partner (as well as to my own body). I need to feel called back into my body, and to let out the deep guttural moans that I only experience when my ass is being stretched and filled by my lover, when I am giving myself over to him, and trusting him to care for me.