Can straight guys like butt stuff? Of course they can! Jack Stover shares one man’s journey to a whole new hole.
All it took was ten years of vanilla sex and an accidental visit to an illegal brothel for me to figure it out: I like butt stuff. Giving it, taking it (to an extent), I’m into it. So, can straight guys like butt stuff? You bet your ass they can. This is the story of how I came to this conclusion under a half-drunk haze in a New York hand job parlor.
I wasn’t meant to be there. I swear. I was only searching for a foot massage. My own sister-in-law had recommended the place! Or, at least a place like it. She’d explained how back when she once lived in New York, she would wind down after work, not with an overpriced Midtown cocktail, but with an underpriced Koreatown foot massage. She told me I should do the same. So I found a place that looked right, and went in.
But then I was naked. And the masseuse, a 20-something woman in a lacy corset, told me not to be shy. Then she took off my towel, took hold of my hand, and guided me from the private massage room down the hallway until we reached the washroom.
The washroom had distinct dentist-chair vibes. There was a table covered in a sheath of transparent plastic, and prone beneath it the scariest water faucet I’ve ever seen, with with knobs for various pressures and settings. She had me lie on the plastic table and proceeded to pressure-hose me like a dog being punished for swimming in a dirty pond. After the sanitation, she gestured to my shriveled penis with a flutter of her eyelashes, and asked: “Can I kiss it?”
Back in the massage room, the masseuse had me lie on my stomach, my ass exposed to the air and to her will. She rubbed my neck and shoulders, then my calves and hamstrings, much like a normal massage. Then she straddled my butt and draped her soft breasts across my back, sliding them up and down with slippery ease through the oil, which—well, that part wasn’t so much like a normal massage.
Just when I was beginning to ease up—leaning into the pleasure and forgetting about what a strange yet, dare I say it, fortuitous mix up it was that had landed me here—she slid her hand up the back of my thigh, higher than anyone had ever ventured before. Then, with slightly cupped hands, she gently swiped through my butt crack.
At first, my entire body flinched, jolting like a salmon out of water, shocked by the foreign invasion. She giggled, then continued swiping her hands through my crack with the dexterity of a sculptor at a pottery wheel.
It felt… it felt incredible. With each stroke, I felt tingling waves of pleasure wash over me. Like being tickled, but without the please-make-it-stop terror of regular tickling. Each swipe cascaded down my anus and along my perineum then onward to my scrotum where her fingernails lightly scraped against the underside of my testicles.
As a man, and a historically non-adventurous one in the sheets at that, all I’d really known prior to this moment was the pathetic gurgle and sputter of a penile orgasm. Here, however, with each gentle pressuring of her thumb into my taint, I felt sensations in my toes; I felt the hairs on the back of my neck raise as if they’d been rubbed by a balloon; I felt my entire pelvic floor quake for more.
I came without having my penis touched.
Since that fateful night, I’ve incorporated what I learned in the Korean hand job parlor into my heterosexual sex life—to great effect.
At first, it was giving. Two separate girlfriends—each after about three months of dating. The first, it was just a complementary middle finger slid gently into her butt while the thumb of my opposite hand massaged her clitoris. The second was the whole shebang: penis, butt, and an unsavory amount of lube. Both times, these women reacted in a way I’d never seen before, possessed and googly-eyed, shaky and weak by the end of it, clinging on to me even well after we were finished. And I was able to observe this change because, well, it was so wildly different from all the other times when I’d left them sighing and saying, “that’s okay.”
After a while, I wanted in on the receiving end again. I didn’t want full penetration, and still haven’t graduated to that point (though I hear great things). What I was after was a reenactment of the Koreatown parlor. I craved the soft but commanding twiddle of the masseuse’s fingers in my ass, the hand strokes on my gooch. These girlfriends, to my surprise, happily obliged. Though they didn’t quite possess the mastery of the Koreatown masseuse, they possessed the boundless enthusiasm of the apprentice. Which, for me, was just as good.
The reason butt stuff is so great, I later learned as I searched Google trying to gauge my level of normalcy and decency, is that the anus and perineum are the ultimate erogenous zones—particularly for men.
Taking it back to grade school, erogenous zones are areas of the body with high concentrations of nerve endings: lips, ears, neck, penis (obviously). The anus and perineum are the sleeping beauties of erogenous zones; the underrated all-stars. For men, the perineum is especially sensitive because beneath it is a concentrated patch of nerve endings and then the prostate—better known to some as the “Male G-Spot.”
Of course, this is not some great revelation for many folks. I’m an admitted newcomer to butt stuff. But if my small story of a hapless bore in the sheets finding his way in a dimly-lit massage parlor can help other on-the-fencers see the holy light of butt play for straight guys, then maybe, just maybe, it was all worth it.