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Bare Back Magazine
Foster Blinks
Mom and Fisting Just Don't Mix
by Foster Blinks

It was my own damn fault. I'm 25 years old. I should not have allowed my mother
to clean my room. But the thing is, I'm sure as hell not going to clean it, and
she'd probably cry if I told her she couldn't. So it was a win-win, providing I
remembered to hide all the contraband. Condoms, check. Lube, check.

Emergency porn I've printed out in case of internet meltdown, check.

It wasn't until she was done and gone that I noticed a row of books she had
collected from the floor and neatly placed on my bookshelf. And right in front,
proudly, was "The Fine Art of Vaginal Fisting." Whoops.

This ranks pretty high up on the list of things you don't want your mom to find.
Your parents already probably assume you're having sex- you don't want them
to find out exactly how. I suppose it was possible that she didn't know what
vaginal fisting was, except for the cover had a tasteful black and white shot of a
naked female torso, with the vagina obscured by a hand in a rubber kitchen
glove.

I had recently started dating a submissive. She cheerfully encouraged all
manner of humiliation, rape fantasies, and torture. She had a safety word,
which was "safe." This struck me as boring, but she explained it needs to be
something that's easy to remember, even when hot wax was dripping on your
clit. I suggested that perhaps it could be a racial slur- that way, she'd be extra-
reluctant to shout it out.

At first I felt apologetic about being dominant, because us men spend most of
our sexual lives being very nice to girls, in the hopes that they will let us see
them naked. With a submissive, you just think to yourself, "What do most girls
hate?" Nothing you can say is too assholeish: "If I'm not too tired later, and if
Justice League is a rerun, then maybe I will do you the favor of letting you suck
my cock." You can get used to it.

We tried the standard jackhammer into the uterus rough sex, then the turn your
intestines inside out anal sex, and I figured out all sorts of ways to come on her
face when she least expected it. We ranked sexual encounters in terms of the
number of days she felt bruised inside. Five was good.

And eventually, she proposed fisting. This was something new for me. An ex-
girlfriend once admitted that in high school, while really really drunk, she had let
her boyfriend do it to her, which could be the greatest anti-underage drinking
propaganda ever. If she spoke before an auditorium of 16-year-old girls and
said, "If you drink, you might regain consciousness with a lacrosse player buried
up to his elbow in your snatch," none of them would ever use mouthwash again.

There's a undeniable appeal to fisting. It's probably the most extreme sex act
one person can do to another without the aid of some sort of prop. It's the limits
of what the female body can take, and there's a certain satisfaction to know that
for the rest of her life, all her lovers are going to seem pretty manageable
compared to what you did to her.

Now I can't explain exactly why I chose to research fisting instead of just trying it.
It doesn't seem particularly complex. You're not doing the girl's taxes. Your
putting your hand inside her. But she was a tiny girl, and although it is every
man's fantasy to run into an emergency room and shout, "I need someone to
sew up my girlfriend's cunt," I decided to do some homework.

I did an Amazon search for "fisting" and came across, "A Hand in the Bush: The
Fine Art of Vaginal Fisting." It currently is ranked 127,635 in sales, and I have
no idea if that is good or bad. I ordered it at least partially out of curiosity; does
there really need to be an entire book on fisting? And not even anal fisting-
specifically vaginal fisting.

Lavar Burton time. First of all, it clocks in at a petite 112 pages. Second of all,
most of it simply waxes poetic on how beautiful and spiritual fisting can be. (This
is a book by lesbians, for lesbians.) What little nitty-gritty how-to there is
consists of helpful hints like "engage in foreplay first," "add one finger at a
time," and "use plenty of lube." Thanks book, I thought I should just take a
running start and uppercut the chick's vagina.

It was this useless book that my mom cleaned for me, which seemed unfair. It
was like having your mom find porn under your mattress, but lame porn you
never even masturbated to. Worse, I never even managed to fist the girl after
all. Oh, I tried. I got close, but at about fourish fingers she'd start squealing that
I was crushing her pelvis or something. Either I really do need the book, or that
girl is destined for a c-section someday. I had pretty much written off fisting and
forgotten about the book when my mom discovered it.

So what did I do? Not much. You can't say, "So mom, about the fisting…" Or,
"See any books you'd like to borrow?" A mother's primary job, re: the sexual
education of her son, is to make sure he treats women with respect. She
teaches him to open doors, buy flowers, talk about her feelings. Anything you
have to put on surgical gloves for is frowned upon.

Of course, I had to get rid of the fucking book. Seriously bad karma. I went back
on Amazon and put it on sale, for a dollar less than the other used copies. A
few days later I mailed it to a woman in Maine. I had this image of a statuesque
female lumberjack, one foot upon the stump of a mighty maple tree, a fist
triumphantly emerging from between her legs. But wait, lumberjacks are
Canada, right? Fuck it, I've never been to Maine.

But recently, I've been thinking about giving fisting another try. Every time I talk
to my mom, I am haunted by the idea that she assumes I am going around
sticking my hands into every girl in New York. And as long as I'm going to be
consider a fister, I might as well at least try it. Before I was curious- now, fisting
and I are irreparably linked. I can't just forget about it now. In a strange way, my
mom has inspired me to get back on the horse, and stick my fist up that horse's
vagina. There's a Mother's Day card for you.
©2005 by Foster Blinks
All rights reserved.

Foster is a 25-year-old comedy writer living in New York.  Comments about this
story can be emailed to  
foster.blinks@gmail.com