You’d think gay guys have sex all the time — I mean we do — but think about your dearest gay, your average 20- to 21-year-old social science or business major named Michael. How often do they have sex?
No, I don’t mean how often they hook up with guys. But how many times do they f*ck/get f*ck’d. If they are anything like me, that is not crazy often and it is definitely not because they are not in the mood. It is all about the douching.
If you are still not getting what I am talking about, douching is basically when you clean up your rectal area before engaging in anal intercourse. And if you have ever dabbled with the pipes, you should know how important it is to make sure they stay clean for transit.
For those of you unfamiliar with the practice, you might have read the article from my fellow bottom buddy — and one time failed date — Stevie Dicks. Newsflash, he lied. Douching is (as Hobbes said it best) a solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short endeavor.
For starters, you need to get some paraphernalia to bottom, either a designated douche for enemas, or a shower attachment to push water into your h***e. Then I would typically suggest sitting down at your nearby toilet to make sure things get flushed down the drain where they belong.
Living in a dorm I suffer from structural bottomphobia in this campus. I simply cannot douche — at least you wouldn’t want me to anyway. I think of bottoming as a very private endeavor, even more than I do sex.
For me it has always carried a heavy load of shame and expectation because it is not a true science, your body will not be consistent every time (fiber intake, time of the day and just sheer luck are what’s carrying you forward).
Sometimes I get anxiety just because of douching, because even though I could rinse and repeat for an hour, the water might not come out clean before you run out of time to hook up.
Not having access to a private place can be tricky, but I have found an almost abandoned bathroom where I can have some semblance of privacy when cleaning out. However, Cornell should be more thoughtful of its bottom population.
But given our current structural limitations, at best, you might feel the uncanny chilling feeling of water enter and exit your body and be painfully reminded that your waste, in fact, smells. However, sometimes things spill. Literally.
Just the other day, I was hooking up with my favorite frat regular after douching for about forty minutes. I was on all fours, having good old passionate sex, when out of nowhere, the worst possible outcome happened. I painted him.
FYI, painting — or when the d*** ends up glazed with your s**t — is the worst thing that could ever happen to someone. You fully go through a whole range of emotions from panic, embarrassment, disgust and fully a boner killer.
My sheets and my day were ruined — the payback I get for being a hosting bottom — and I just wanted to disintegrate into dust avengers style. Luckily for me, my frat darling was not an asshole about it and tried to comfort me and told me everything was fine.
But I can’t help but feel disappointed, “You had one job” I tell myself. As I ponder on whether or not a guy will ever give me a second chance after painting.
Shame aside, a guy’s reaction to a painting accident also gives you a huge deal of information about them. Back when I met my first boyfriend, we actually decided to take our chances on impromptu sex after a romantic pasta dinner. If you guessed it, I ended up painting after a couple minutes. Awkwardness aside, he understood that we had taken a gamble and it did not pan out the best for us, and I even got a second date.
However, miracles do exist. Just a couple days ago I met up with one of my good friends, he needed to decompress after a packed couple of weeks. I gave myself a good shower and I felt ready, so I just went for it. It paid off, I got my fill free of guilt — and any undesired substances.
Whether you are one of those lucky gutless bottoms who never needs to douche, or are not a gut health warrior who gets accidents from time to time like me, I hope my small rant of misfortunes served as a slight consolation that at the end of the day, we all s**t the same.
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