You wanna know about the fucking? I’ll tell you all about the fucking but you’re not about to know who I fucking am. I’ve been married for well over a decade and, while I’m chronically shameless, I don’t want to embarrass my wife. You can live vicariously through me all you want, so long as you can still get your rocks off on anonymity.

I got into fucking women in the ass in a fairly straightforward way—one of my first girlfriends asked to be fucked in the ass. Actually, if we’re gonna get technical, the first girl I ever fucked did too:

“Hey what if you baked cookies in our kitchen wearing nothing but this apron?”

“Only if you fuck me in the ass while I’m doing it!”

The spirit was willing, the flesh wasn’t even particularly weak, we were just dumb kids who didn’t know how lube worked. “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle…” When a little light pressure didn’t open the back patio for play dates we quickly moved on and returned our attentions to self lubricating arenas—she was my first and I was her second so we didn’t exactly want for novelty.

Anyway, a few girlfriends later and I’m hooked, with one major caveat: for being a full-on degenerate in what Freud would call the “anal retentive” mode, I’ve engaged in the vice surprisingly little. While a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation puts my total body count in the low thirties, I can count the partners I’ve gone “full service” with on a single hand. Where the butthole is concerned, my dick is like Dracula. It has to be invited in.

That isn’t to say that enthusiasm is required in the moment, as long as it has been established through prior arrangement. One of the nice things my wife and I have discovered through open, honest communication around sex this past year is that she likes being fucked in the ass in her sleep, and I love doing it. As you can imagine it requires something of a delicate touch, but the woman I love is nothing if not a heavy sleeper.

We’ve also been reading aloud to each other most afternoons, and I’ve noticed that taking similar liberties while she dictates will ignite comparable passions. I enjoy, in the title of a Xasthur album, To Violate the Oblivious, or in the case of reading, the extremely preoccupied. When you’ve spent large swathes of your adult life sodomizing a succession of willing women, or engaging in any form of sexual intercourse for that matter, you become accustomed to being the center of attention.

This attention is pleasant, but the novelty of its absence also provides a little frisson of something. It may have been in my head, but I felt like I could feel vibrations from her diaphragm as she read, clear across and on the opposite extreme of the entire digestive tract, playing across my anatomy with a gentle humming throb. The part that truly excited me was that her reading, in terms of tone, pacing, rhythm, emphasis etc., would stay essentially unchanged no matter how vigorous my ministrations became.

This remained true up until the very end, but unfortunately, as I inched toward the finish line I lost control of the throttle, and the effect was like that episode of Jackass where Henry Rollins gave Steve-O a tattoo in an off-roading Humvee. My beloved wife was bucked so hard she could no longer read, and this broke the spell and prevented the standard denouement.

Anyway, this story isn’t about fucking my wife, it’s about fucking a woman who isn’t my wife back in my bachelor days. I had met a fancy New England art girl in my travels, and she flew to my side of the country for an ill-advised visit. She joked about being a sexual tourist but soon became a medical tourist as well. I wasn’t the best at keeping my dick clean in 2009, and we soon found ourselves in a Planned Parenthood office seeking treatment for a nasty UTI.

The news was delivered in an amusingly roundabout way: she was informed of her joyful state when it was explained that they could not treat her UTI because they don’t do prenatal. Luckily, we intended nothing of the kind and, as my home state is a socialist utopia, she was given a special form of emergency medical insurance once it was established that her intention was to terminate. Her insistence that this future abortion was mine didn’t quite jive with the provided developmental timeline of eight weeks but in for a penny, in for a pound: it was effectively ours.

I got to hang out with the other asshole boyfriends and watch Clueless in the Planned Parenthood waiting room while they put her through the motions. She was given some pills to dissolve in her cheek like a chipmunk, and we were told to expect the fireworks in approximately six to eight hours. For whatever reason, we picked that moment to jump on a long distance bus and traverse the length of the state to my parents’ house.

I don’t know if this type of abortion pill is an aphrodisiac, or the results were hormone/pregnancy related, but we hit our destination eager to spend some quality time together. I should explain one small detail: earlier I referred to my dick as an ass-Dracula, and it usually is, but my experiences with this girl in particular represented a sort of loophole, as my first time through her backdoor was a genuine accident.

From that point on, she preferred her assplay rough and unlubricated. Certain interpersonal details no doubt contributed to this—in the game of Brokeback Mountain she played “needy” and I played “distant.” As soon as my father had picked us up from the bus station, we excused ourselves to my childhood bedroom where I quickly had her on all fours in front of a full-length mirror. While it wasn’t planned this way, this detail would be essential in what was about to transpire.

The moment I shoved in to my base, she had an orgasm, and the pills had evidently worked their magic. My position in her ass left the birthing canal unobstructed, and the power of her cumming was sufficient to flush out the fetus. In the mirror it looked as if somebody had just thrown a water balloon full of blood at her crotch, where it duly exploded. I reached my own climax in that moment for one of the few mutual orgasms of my life.

To this day I remain unconvinced that I was responsible for fucking the baby in, but there can be no doubt as to who was responsible for fucking it out. In a circle-of-life kind of way, it felt appropriate that this particular clump of cells ended its life in a manner so similar to how it began. I realize that this story may seem morbid to some, but I don’t really believe in getting precious about things like flesh and blood. Anyway, the unborn, in those situations where they are also unwanted, can eat a dick as far as I’m concerned.

Anyway, that’s my tale. If you think you know who I am, then keep your fucking mouth shut about it.