I Fisted a Man on My Way Home From Brunch

Starting off 2023 with a bang...or fist.

“So…I’m going to go a fist a guy. Do you mind if I borrow your nail clippers?” 

Before I head home from anywhere in New York, I like to hop on Sniffies. In a new neighborhood, there are new boys, and I’m fresh meat. The messages flood my inbox, and I get to flood a hole.

I was finishing a creative writers’ brunch in the West Village when I asked my friend if I could stay for five minutes more to find a man on the way to the train. 

“Take your time,” he said, sympathetic to my horny plight. 

Quickly, I started messaging, “Hey, what you up to?” to each and every boy with a fat ass. A few replied with lackluster responses, but one twunk replied, “Chilling. Here just trying to get fisted.” 

His profile pic was a zoomed-in pic of him on all fours—you could only see his slender waist ballooning out to a big ol’ donk. I had only fisted someone once, and that was years ago—an older gay in San Francisco who had clearly been getting fisted since before I was born. 

This man was my age and, more importantly, lived by my train. I told him I could be there in fifteen minutes. I saw my long, unmanicured fingernails as I typed the final confirmatory message. Strange, I thought to myself. I usually keep my nails short and filed down because I never know when I will be inside someone. I was slacking.

“So… I’m going to go fist this guy,” I told my friend. His eyes widened, but only slightly; he was accustomed to my sexual shenanigans. “Do you mind if I borrow your nail clippers?” 

“Of course,” he said. “I feel like this brings our friendship to a new level.” I nodded and laughed.

Fifteen minutes later, I was telling the doorman of his building 4C. “For Devon, right?” the doorman asked, giving me a subtle, knowing nod. 

“Yeah!” I said, feigning confidence.

In the elevator, I realized that I wasn’t only unaware of his name, but I also hadn’t seen his face, or really, any part of him besides that ass. That one photo could be fake or from twenty years ago. I know it didn’t really matter. I was there to fist him, so I wouldn’t be looking deep into his eyes. Still, it would be nice if he had a pretty face. If so, I would make out with him, even if that wasn’t the main attraction of the evening. 

While I’m not the most spiritual person who believes in a higher power, astrology, or general cosmic energy, at times like these, I hope for good sex karma. I hope that my sluttiness (and how I treat my partners) has been a net positive in the world. As such, the universe is open to rewarding me with a handsome man (and not a killer catfish). 

I knocked, and he hid behind the door as he opened it. That’s not good, I thought to myself. But like a moth can’t resist a flame, the Boyslut can’t resist a juicy ass. So I stepped inside, not knowing who stood behind the door. 

Then I saw him. He was already nude; that was why he obscured himself while opening the door. His face was traditionally handsome—big, bright eyes, full lips, and a patchy beard. And his body was indeed the body on his profile. The karmic slut gods had rewarded me! 

He led me to his twin bed, though there wasn’t much leading in his tiny studio apartment. A blanket lay atop the mattress and on it, a massive water bottle filled with, presumably, J-Lube mixture. Next to the bed was a dining room chair. I undressed, matching his nudity as he assumed the position on all fours on his bed. I sat at the edge of my chair, my dick and balls hanging over the cushion. I squirted a healthy dose of the J-Lube into my hands, and that thick, viscous mixture oozed out. I proceeded to rub my hands together as if I was washing them. Something is arousing about fisting lubes. It’s thick and slimy—vaguely alien—what cum wishes it could be.