A Celebration Of International Fisting Day, Or The Incredibly True Tale Of The First Time I Was Fisted

Welcome to the first International Fisting Day—a day for discussing the delightful sex act known as fisting (and, hopefully, practicing it in a safe and pleasurable manner). In celebration of all things fisting related, I'm going to do something I've never done on this site before. I'm going to tell a (very true!) story about my own personal sex life—specifically, the tale of my first fisting experience.

Technically, this story has been told before; in fact, it's actually published in a book. But that's the story from the side of the person whose fist wound up in my cunt. This, right here, is a tale of what it was like for a curious young nineteen year old to find herself on the pleasurable end of Tristan Taormino's fist.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Because before I can tell you the story of being fisted, I really have to tell you the story of a party. Not just any party, mind you, but a party called Throb.

It doesn't exist anymore, but back in 2002, Throb was a magical place to be: a monthly convergence of gorgeous queer women and trans people, all come together to, well, come together. Behind a nondescript door on Houston Street lay a world of sexual exploration and BDSM more wondrous than my nineteen year old brain could fathom.

I don't remember exactly how I first found out about Throb; it's entirely likely that I'd read about it in Tristan's Village Voice column, or perhaps I'd stumbled upon it some other way. But as soon as I heard about it, I knew I wanted to attend. And once I found a friend was similarly eager to check it all out—well, it wasn't long until I found myself in front of that plain metal door on the Lower East Side.

Behind the door was a short, plain hallway leading to coat check; after paying my admission, I found myself in Throb's lounge area. Being new to the event, I figured I'd camp out there for a while: after all, there's no better way to prepare one's self for an evening of debauchery than by nibbling on cheese and crackers and watching porn. (This being 2002, I believe it was something along the lines of "Sugar High Glitter City" playing on the lounge TV.)

As the night wore on, I started to feel a little braver, and slowly ventured into Throb's play area. Imagine a cavernous, black room full of assorted sex and BDSM paraphernalia, and you've got an idea of what this place was like: glory holes, a sex swing, a Saint Andrew's cross—this place had it all.

But the swing is where my story really begins.

What happened is this: eventually, I stripped down to my underwear. Eventually, I took off my underwear. Eventually, I was naked in the leather swing. And that's where Tristan found me.

I would say that I'm not sure what about me caught her eye, but I think it's safe to say that being nineteen and naked and so obviously willing was probably a large part of it. As she approached me, my heart stopped: this was Tristan, the woman I idolized. My hero, my inspiration, my fantasy.

She smiled coyly as she eyed me, her gaze taking in my every curve. At the time, I had a thing for shaving off all my pubic hair; I had a weekly ritual that involved a long bath and a Mach 3 razor. Tristan's eyes lit up when she spied my bare labia. "You did a nice job shaving," she told me. "Mach 3, right?"

The fisting was Tristan's idea. It had to be Tristan's idea. Not only was I too speechless and awed to actually ask for anything, I was also far too young and innocent to even really think of fisting as something that would be on the sexual menu.

It's hard for me to recall the actual details of the fisting itself: when I'm in the middle of a sexual experience, my brain stops writing new memories, focusing all its energy on living in the moment at hand. But I do remember an overwhelming sense of awe—not simply at the fact that this was Tristan Taormino putting her hand inside me, but that there was, in fact, a hand inside me; that my vagina, which seemed so compressed, could, with time and attention, expand to encompass a finger, two fingers, three fingers, four fingers, and eventually knuckles and an entire hand.

I didn't make it to advanced level fisting that night; for me, simply getting to the point of having an entire fist inside my body was an experience enough. It's been almost ten years, and I'm still struck by the memory. Sure, penises are delightful, and toys are divine—but there's nothing quite like having a fist inside of you to make you feel completely, totally connected to another person.

[Photo: The author, circa 2002.]

*****

Fisting Resources

· Kink Academy on Fisting (kinkacademy.com)
· Tristan offers fisting advice (puckerup.com)
· Hand in the Bush (goodvibes.com)