I was fisted once. I was hanging out with the-guy-I-was-dating-at-the-time – we went out for a month but never clicked on a boyfriend/girlfriend level – when we were flipping channels and paused on a sex advice show. (That’s what we did. We ate Mexican food, we watched television, we had sex.) We were both tickled by the older woman who hosted the show, and we were talking about how much fun she was to listen to when we heard a caller say
“Heterosexuals can fuck with fists, too. My girlfriend and I prove it every night… even if she won’t let me try it on her.”
“Fisting,” I said. “Haven’t tried that yet.”
“You want to?” the-guy-I-was-dating-at-the-time asked, with eyebrow raised.
It didn’t take long before the show distracted our attention and the subject of fisting was forgotten.
I didn’t realize what was happening until he had actually pushed his fist all the way in. I panicked for a second, but I was, as ever, ready for new experiences, looking for a kink to own so I wouldn’t seem so vanilla next to all my friends. In most social circles I’d been in before, the kinky people were the odd ones out. This scene was just the opposite. I tried a number of things – bondage, flogging, threesomes, etc. – but I could never find a kink that turned me on as much as straight, hot sex. So, in the search to find my secret kink, I let the-guy-I-was-dating-at-the-time continue fisting me.
It was… interesting. I told him I liked it, but I think he knew. He never did try it again.
We stopped seeing each other a couple of weeks later, and I left town about a week after that. I still talk to him from time to time. To my surprise, I don’t think of him as the-guy-who-fisted-me.