Curiosity about my asshole began when I was in the 5th grade, about the same time I started to beat off. I remember the touching and the rubbing. And I remember the view from the mirror, looking at the puckered opening through my legs as I bent over. No doubt about it, this was an intriguing part of my anatomy.
A few years later I began exploring the inside of this forbidden area with my fingers. And soon after, with artificial fingers. First it was with small wooden dowels and then with the heads of screwdrivers, and the heads of screwdrivers enlarged by the wrapping of black tape. The adventures were always undertaken in the attic above our garage, and always when mother was at work.
Somewhere in the course of these solitary endeavors I recognized that the occasionally encountered brown stuff was not an annoyance. I think it started when I discovered that I was excited by the smell of my extracted finger. The sniffing soon became a part of the ritual, and tasting was not far behind. Explore, smell, and lick became an intense experience that facilitated my orgasms.
I was probably in the tenth grade when I realized that everything worked better if I predictably encountered some of my shit when I used my finger. So my beat-off sessions began to revolve around my bowel habits. I learned how to get my finger really dirty, how to make the smell really intense, and how to make the lick really worthwhile.
Playing with my loaded ass brought on an urge to dump. I found exhilaration in holding the load and prolonging the time till the final release. And the release did not involve the toilet. The first remembered mess occurred in the heat of summer, again in the garage attic. I filled my jockey shorts. Over-filled is more like it. I remember lying there for half an hour--dirty, smelly and ecstatic. This was also the first time I realized that cleanup was not an insignificant problem.
I tried to find time to indulge in my now escalated ass play, but it wasn't that often I'd find myself safely home alone in a horny mood with the need to dump. Maybe once a month. But when it all came together I'd make the most of it. Each scene would last longer and be more intense than the last. I would smear it, mix it with my piss, fill my mouth, smear it some more, and generally end up a total brown mess. Then I'd carefully get to the shower.
During college years things nearly came to a halt--at least for the big stuff. A dorm room and a straight roommate imposed insurmountable barriers. I reverted to the finger- smell-lick routine and found it less than satisfying. But these were years when I discovered sex with other human beings. Suck and fuck were new and captivating experiences that adequately fulfilled my desires. Not that the other desire had disappeared, or that I remained entirely celibate of shit during those years.
During my senior year of college I read an ad in the Advocate from a guy in my city that wanted to "share some brown." If there was someone else in the world with similar fantasies, I was sure I would never meet him. But now I had hope I was wrong.
I answered the ad by mail and told the guy to call me at exactly 8 PM on a Monday evening at a campus phone where I knew that privacy would be ensured. I doubted he would call, and doubted even more that I would muster the courage to answer if he did call.
As the time for the call came closer, I found myself consumed with thoughts of doing shit with someone else. The anticipation was exhilarating. I was waiting by the phone at 10 minutes before the designated time, convinced that there would be no ring but in a sweat and mentally rehearsing my words. It did ring, and exactly at 8 PM.
It wasn't the conversation I had expected. His name was Brian and he quickly let me know that the "brown" referred to scat. I told him I had hoped so. Then the subject was never again mentioned. We talked for half an hour about the world, the weather, and about ourselves. He was 35 years old, single, an attorney, and had a home in the city. We agreed to meet for breakfast the next Saturday morning.
If anticipation of the phone call provoked anxiety, the breakfast meeting loomed as an impossible adventure. Would he be ugly? Would I see him and sneak out without even a greeting? What would I say? Would he even appear? Would I?
When the guy with the blue polo shirt walked into the restaurant, I felt instant electricity headed to my groin. He wasn't a hunk, but was far more attractive than I'd expected. Sandy hair with a hint of curl, blue eyes, a smile to die for. And he certainly wasn't fat. We shook hands, sat down to pancakes or whatever it was, and talked more about the weather, the world and our pasts. As the second pot of coffee was delivered, he asked: "why did you answer my ad?" I nervously tried a non-committal response: "oh, I guess I was interested." But it got the conversation pointed in the right direction. His "are you a top or a bottom?" came as a surprise--I knew what he meant, but had never really thought of it in those terms. "Well, both I guess," I blurted out, without much consideration of possible consequences. But it turned out to be the response he was hoping for. He produced the to-die-for smile and quipped: "we'll get along just fine."
We decided to meet at his house on Sunday of the following week--the first day that worked for both of us. He paid. And as we departed, he said: "load-up good and let's have fun."
Waiting wasn't easy. But it was not the anxiety and the ambivalence that had dominated the wait for the phone call and the breakfast meeting. It was anticipation and pure horniness. There was a bit of worry about performance--the need to "load-up good"--but I had some experience here and planned well.
He answered the knock quickly. And there we stood, our lusts peculiarly intertwined but our need for social graces in the way. He seemed relaxed--a considerable contrast to me. And he did look great, wearing jeans and a T. A few beers proved helpful for the socialization, and for my anxiety. After the third beer, I asked directions to the bathroom. Bryan promptly suggested another toilet--his mouth. Thankful that he made the first move, I dropped my jeans and shorts, aimed my hardening dick at his mouth and fired away. He took every last drop. It wasn't much of a wait before I got my chance. My first taste of another mans piss made my heart race. I loved it. And it wasn't just a taste--I guzzled till he was dry.
With our clothes off, we kissed and groped--stopping occasionally to drink some more beer and to recycle the old. Brian finally reached for my ass and tucked in a finger. He found what he wanted, pulled out the browned digit and brought it to my lips. I felt quivers in my nuts as I cleansed it with my tongue. It was beautifully bitter and intoxicating.
I was dying to know if his ass was as full as mine, so I duplicated the previous ritual. My ass-probing finger was not disappointed. Nor was his eager tongue. Now both of us knew this was for real. We were connected--shit buddies, scat lovers. This was like a sacrament, with us as the priests.
Brian made the next move, pulling my legs up and diving his face into my ass. He knew how to rim and knew how to encourage me. He moaned loudly as his wet tongue darted around my asshole. His licks became more aggressive as his passion rose. The tightening grip of his hands on my thighs assured me he was ready. I gave him what he needed. He licked and swallowed and nuzzled my shit over his face and around my ass. I gave him more. He recruited his hands to contain the growing load, massaging it over my ass and nuts and rigid dick.
With a brown face and a full mouth, he came up to share his meal. My tongue was orgasmic as it played with his while we exchanged my shit. His hands were everywhere, caressing my face, my hair, and my chest--leaving behind the brown evidence of his exploration.
The taste of my own shit drove me insane. Now I had to have some of his. I had a desperate need to lose my virginity for another mans shit. And Brian knew how to lead me on, whispering loudly that I was a shit lover, an ass scatter, a toilet pig.
He stood up over my face and slowly lowered his ass down to my waiting tongue. I licked and sucked his asshole and told him I needed his shit, that I would take all of it. I licked and begged and said I would do anything if he would shit in my mouth. I was in a state of absolute lust, waiting for the experience that few others have ever known. Waiting to demonstrate my total abandonment of inhibition. Waiting to satisfy my need for loss of personal identity and dignity. Waiting for total defilement and degradation.
I uncapped the poppers and inhaled deeply--three, four, five times. The rush hit hard. Then it happened, like an orgasm from another planet. Beautiful shit--oh, the smell, the taste, the feel. It came into my waiting mouth faster than I could accept, savor, and swallow. The shit oozed out of my mouth and over my face. I pressed it against his ass, then caressed the mounting shit load with my hands and smeared it wherever my hands could reach.
Now it was my turn to be in control. I came up with a loaded mouth and went to his parted lips. Then I hesitated, waiting for him to come and get the shit I knew he craved. He moaned "I want my own shit," then went for it with the fury of an animal. We shared the meal, frenching and creating one mouth- -one unified tasting organ. My hands found every part of his smooth body, completing the defilement and uniting the two of us in the ecstasy of moral oblivion.
Now we were one. No control games. United in our primeval lust. We kissed, caressed, and fondled. We let our excrement glue our bodies together. It was the ultimate sharing--the communion of defilement.