Buttholes And Bliss

My boyfriend and I are experimental. He experimented with locations by moving out to Brooklyn. I experimented with thoughtless action by agreeing to move out there with him. It was basically the most romantic way of flipping a coin and unfortunately we called heads when it landed tails.

But we are stuck on this foreign coast so we are trying to make the best of it. There is a lot of pent-up frustration between how the incessant cold prevents us from ever going out, and how we are absolutely volatile as a couple if we stay in the apartment together for more than four hours.

Being the experimental couple that we are, we have derived new methods of letting out this frustration. While some couples deem playfulness as mild teasing or occasional tickling, we get down to the good (debatable) stuff. After two years we have figured which penetrated orifices we squirm in pleasure from and which ones we squirm due to absolute agony.

And after those two years he knows exactly where my weak spot is. The same weak spot that girls won’t let you touch unless you bought them those extra two, three, four shots of patron at that overrated expensive club they love to dance at or if you tell them you love them. You know, whichever is easier

Why yes, the asshole. He loves to wrestle me down, tickle me until I lose enough strength, so he can really dig in there. As my retaliation I dig my index and middle finger exactly where no one wants them: his nostrils. That’s right, I am the O.G. gold digger.

So we laugh as we desperately try to clench and squirm our way out of these utterly compromising positions. He furiously tries to flip his head to avoid my missile attacks as I concentrate as hard as I can in clenching my ass to prevent him from getting any deeper into the unholiest of holes. Even Freud would have difficulty explaining this type of behavioral bonding.

There is no shame in it. Dignity goes out the window as soon as you enter a long-term relationship and allow yourself to brush your teeth to the familiar smell of your lover’s shit as it wafts scents of the egg rothko and bacon you ordered from Egg on North 5th Street earlier this morning.

So as we are digging to relieve ourselves from the stresses of this new city and of our relationship something unintentional happens: he gets a bloody nose.

I bleed every month, so a few drops are not a big deal, but he acts as if it is the beginning of Revelations. Apparently now I have all these boundary issues as if the last couple of months of this vile dance were not indication enough. After all the grotesque and horrible things we have done to each other during our time together, a bloody nose is where the line is drawn. What is someone to make of that?

I am now stuck in our shared room pondering to myself how exactly I got into this situation in the first place. And it isn’t the type of thing you can Google and get an answer to. Trust me, I tried. TC mark

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