You can feel his heartbeat all around you. You can count it–one, two, three– timed with the piston-pump of your arm. It is a wet, enveloping heat unlike anything you have ever felt before. He looks up at you, face framed by his legs tied up in stirrups, begging. You push in deeper and his head lolls back, mouth open in a wordless grunt of pleasure. You are, both of you, bound by flesh. Never have you been closer to another man, never more enmeshed with another. You could hurt him, if you were not being careful, could damage him in a deep, real way. But he trusts you not to, trusts that the power over him he’s given you will be wielded judiciously. He is at your mercy, cupped in the palm of your hand.
This is the mindfuck of Fisting.
Before I ever had my first gay fisting encounter, I was a seasoned kinkster. I had made my way through most of the fetish alphabet. Age play? Anilingus? Awesome. Bondage? Bruises? Bet. CBT? Collars? Cum on. But fisting?
Perhaps like you, my notions of fisting were colored largely by secondhand anecdotes and media (mis)representation. To be honest, fisting intimidated me. Was I really going to stick my arm up some dude’s ass—and he would like it? The list of things that could go wrong sent me spiraling, and before things could get out of hand (excuse the pun), I shelved any thought of fisting.
That was until I met Ben.
In the late summer of 2019, I was in San Francisco visiting my cousin. One day, while he was at work, I decided to take care of a little business myself. I came across Ben’s profile on Grindr. Not only was he hot, he was right down the block. After a brief back-and-forth (Hey. Hey. Nudes? Hot. Address?) I headed over. We dispensed with pleasantries and quickly got to fucking. His ass was one for the books—big and bubbly and HUNGRY. A sweat-soaked hour later, as we caught our breath and took a moment to hydrate, Ben rolled over and asked me, “Would you be down to fist me?”
My kneejerk reaction was to say, No. That familiar, gut-rumbling anxiety began to bubble up, but something in Ben’s demeanor calmed me down. Maybe it was the cool, confident way he described himself as a Fisting Champ. Maybe it was the ease with which his ass had taken the pounding I’d just given it. But something told me to lean in, and boy did I.
Ben knew what he was doing. I waited while he fetched a towel and a small tub of Crisco. He got on all fours, his loosened hole winking as I lubed up my hand. I wasn’t completely green, so I knew enough to form a “beak” with my fingers and thumb. And—most importantly—to go slow. At first it felt no different than fingering a guy. As I twisted my hand around, I felt Ben’s hole relax even more—whenever I pulled my fingers out, he gaped, like his ass was saying, “Aaaah”.
The first moment of real pressure came when I pushed my hand in past the knuckles. Like an anal Rubicon, this is the moment of “no return”. It’s where the fistee is going to feel the most stretch, and where the fister will feel the most squeeze. As I pushed, Ben let out a sound, and his hole sucked me in.
His hole was now my playground. He moaned and arched, pushing farther up my wrist. The heat, the velvet texture, the way his body opened for me—not to mention the ecstatic sounds he was making—got me rock hard. As someone who has always enjoyed dominating men, it should have come as no surprise that having a man in the palm of my hand would be a huge turn on. The looser and looser Ben’s hole got, the more aggressive I could be. With his encouragement, I was soon punch-fucking him. I wasn’t the only one turned on—Ben came hands-free while I was working him over. Not that that stopped him from begging me to fuck him again before I left (which I was more than happy to oblige).
Though I left Ben in San Francisco, the experience we shared stayed with me. Ben might have been the first guy I fisted, but he certainly wasn’t the last. The seal had been broken, and I now found myself diving headfirst (or rather, fist-first) into this new realm of kink. Luckily, there was no shortage of FFriendly guys in my area, and I have even had the honor of introducing a handful (again, apologies for the pun) of men to fisting. Each time I open a guy’s hole for the first time, I think back to Ben, and I aspire to be as good of a guide as he was for me.
Fisting might not be top of my list of kinks, but it’s one that I am grateful to have had the chance to explore. There are few acts that give a more powerful sensation of control and connection. And the sensation is comparable to none. I understand now the passion many have for anal fisting, and I am grateful to Ben for sharing his experience (and hole) with me. To all the curious, would-be fisters out there, find a patient, experienced teacher and try it. It’s a kinky mindfuck not to be missed. And to all the experienced fisters out there, thank you for giving a hand (okay, okay, last one I promise) to all of us explorers. It is certainly an eye—and hole—opening experience.
Semper Kink,
Captain ARF
