And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
from T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
I’ve been meaning for quite some time to write more about fisting. The trouble is that my words often fail to do justice to the reverence I have for the act, as a recipient and as an observer. How can I even begin to explain the stillness, the focus I feel in the presence of such a ritual, especially when the act is the butt of so many jokes and is viewed by the majority at best as simple wank fodder?
It’s daunting to say the least.
To achieve the act takes a great deal of focus on the part of both fister and fistee. I am a small person with a generously wide set ischium but tight Kegel muscles that need a great deal of coaxing to yield. My partner is 6 foot 3 and large build. He wears size 13 triple wide shoes. His hands are enormous.
The feat is near impossible. To accommodate his hand, I need an incredible degree of relaxation in the face of radical invasion. I completely entrain to his rhythm. After a time, we even breathe as one. The process takes over an hour.
I cannot move when I am being fisted. Or at least I do not dare move.
With his hand inside me, I am the most vulnerable I have ever been.
Any sex at this point is a footnote, an afterthought.
I have been completely known, all the way to my depth, and accepted.