This Hand Was Made For Fisting

The first time I fisted a guy was in the Clubhouse II baths in Lauderdale on one of my snowbird visits in the ‘90’s. The guy, a lean and mean, lightly furry, handsome fucker, all of 30, was obviously strung out on something when he gave me the eye as I passed his open room door. Even if I wasn’t quite as versed in the ins and outs of gay sex as I am today, I knew the can of Crisco on his bed stand wasn’t there for frying chicken.

That night I also learned I was a born fister. I had the strong but tightly built hand of a musician and, in fact, had been a concert pianist by the age of 8 but gave it all up when my piano teacher moved to another town.

I guess that’s why my new buddy smiled when he looked at my hand. It took very little effort for me to slide first two fingers, then three, then my tapered fist, and finally my whole hand half way to my elbow up his stretched hole. He was a clean machine – you know what I’m saying – and all I felt was wet, warm tissue enveloping my arm. Frankly, I wasn’t sexually turned on by the experience, but neither was I turned off – just curious. My buddy, on the other hand, was in Fistee Heaven. I’m sure whatever he was on certainly helped the cause.

I thought guys who loved getting fisted may have gotten bored with conventional dick fucking or even super-sized dildos. I also knew from that first night that it had to be far more than massaging the guy’s prostate since the prostate is only a few inches up the rectum while your hand feels like you could grab the guy by the throat from inside. But as a seasoned fister buddy explained to me, the anal sphincter is another erogenous zone which becomes so sensitive after a fisting experience, just touching it continues to drive the guy wild and even more hungry for a hard cock to enter next.

OK, I’ll but that, but I still think there’s also something of a mind game going on here, the fact the guys knows that once you’ve got half your arm up his butt, you have complete dominion over his life.

And his soul.

While I’m not member of a fisting club, over the years I’ve had my fair share of asses, even a new neighbor’s a few blocks away once, discounting the old proverb you shouldn’t shit where you sleep. But increasingly I found the experience, well, a little boring. While I knew that the guy I was doing it to was obviously enjoying it – I could tell by the level of his grunts – my mind would often wander to my weekly food shopping list.

That is, until I met my fisting brothers from Chicago, Mike and Terry.

We connected on Manhunt; they were in from Chicago on vacation here in Lauderdale, staying at one of the overpriced guest houses by the beach, but they were willing to make it easy for me by coming to my place. Hairy, masculine, gym-built fuckers in their early forties with thick uncut cocks, they looked like the types who would want to tie me up to a post and take turns fucking the shit out of my tight virgin butt. But no, instead it was me who took turns fisting them, or I should say their glorious furry butts, Mike’s first while Terry went down on my dick, then vs. versa, as they say. Reciprocation made all the difference for me, something that could only happen in a threesome arrangement. We took it slow but the more arm I gave them the more each of them wanted til I felt I could rip their hearts out if I willed it.

They were also neat freaks, the neatest ff pair I have ever met. You can understand how Crisco – still the gold standard for fisting – can get a little messy, but Mike and Terry approached their fisting session with surgical precision. Mike placed the disposable mattress covers they use in nursing homes over my bed comforter, while Terry fitted me with the latex gloves (I’m a righty) and made sure their special brew of lub would stay put.

And when they had both gotten off, flaccid dicks spurting away, Mike twisted my nips while Terry went down on me and took my load like a pro. Then they packed up their stuff, in as organized a fashion as they had unpacked, slipped back into their jogging shorts and tight tanks, and thanked me for a good time. For once had by all.

A month or so later, a fuck buddy of mine and I were at Haulover, Miami’s nude beach, lying out there au naturale, when I spotted Mike and Terry, also sans their swim suits, their big dicks swaying in the breeze, walking towards our beach chairs. I got up and gestured to my bud to do the same and when I introduced Bill to the guys, Terry grabbed his hand, examined it intently, and gave me a quick smirk.

“You’ll do,” I quipped to my friend after they had strolled on, but poor Bill, who began munching on his tuna fish sandwich, had no fucken idea what I was talking about, and he being a conventional fucker who didn’t even like his balls pulled on, I figured I’d leave sleeping dogs lie.  After all, why spoil his lunch?

Then there was Jacques, my six foot six French Canadian I met at a bath house in the Gay Village on my virgin tryst to Montreal. We played a bit in my room in, let’s say, a conventional way. Then he invited me back to his where he wanted me to fist him. OK, said I to myself. By now, as you can see, I was pretty experienced in the art. Ah, but every kink has a new quirk, doesn’t it? You see, Jacques didn’t just want me to fist him, no, he wanted me to PUNCH fist him, keep pounding my hand up his rectum as hard as I could. I complied, or at least gave it my best shot for awhile, but I knew it was time to exit when, glancing down at my arm, he shouted out between grunts, “If I don’t see blood, you’re wasting my time!”

Enough said?

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