Fistfucking – Pat Califia

Desire for another’s touch is our first protest against the existential loneliness that dogs human consciousness (…)

It makes all the hairs on my body stand straight up in awe: That illusion of holding another person’s beating heart in the palm of my cupped hand. The first time, I was very stoned and following the terse directions of a thoroughly debauched fag who thought it would be a giggle to see the look on my face when my whole hand went up inside him. So many contradictory insights washed over me that I could barely keep my forearm moving in its hot sheath of Crisco and intestinal membranes. I knew that without the MDA, pot, acid and poppers I’d ingested, this never would have happened. But I also knew that there was something sacred about our deep intimacy that was higher than any chemical could ever get me, perhaps as high as heaven itself.

The man I was fucking was not a nice person, nor did he have any particular affection for me; after we were done, he would move on to someone with a bigger fist and a thicker arm, or simply line up dildos in order (from large to gargantuan) and perch till daybreak. And yet I felt such great love for his body, which had opened, accepted and blessed me; and from his body, waves of gratitude for the pleasure. I was utterly aware of the vulnerability of this man whose legs were locked up and back, his feet waving around his ears, but I was also in thrall to the power of his piggishness, enslaved by the aggressive strength of his wanton hole. There we were, one man and one woman, locked in sexual congress — but nothing could be queerer.

The Necessity of Excess (2002)