It's late in the Halloween celebrations, and my friends and I have walked up and down a closed-off Church Street as the Desperate Housewives. My costume has paid its dues, and I'm ready for a break. At our favourite watering hole in the Village, Andrew tells us about the guy he was seeing who wanted to be smothered with a pillow when he climaxed. Steve reminds us about the time he picked up a guy who turned out to be a hooker.
Sharing our sexual horror stories, I realize they can be scarier than old horror flicks from Blockbuster, so I buy another round of drinks to prepare my friends for my horrific sex story of the night: my first rim job, and my last. The year was 1999. I was 19 years old, just out of the closet and a virgin. My first boyfriend, the Italian Cookie, and I were hanging out at my friend's apartment. We were staying the night, and because a guest was already taking the couch, we took the summer bed set up on the balcony. Around midnight, everyone was heading to sleep, so the Italian Cookie and I went out to the balcony, stripped down to our underwear and climbed under the sheets. There was some privacy, and the Italian Cookie wanted to fool around. I was uncomfortable, but he was adamant and horny. Things quickly went from kissing and over-the-clothes groping to no clothes and the application of lubricant. I wanted him to fuck me but was scared to death for a number of reasons.
It was my first time with penetration, we were on my friend's balcony and there was a big Jamaican woman named Olive on the couch only a few feet inside the screen door. His persistence and throbbing urge to be inside me put my mind and body in a sexual daze, and within minutes my inhibitions flew right off the balcony.
We started going at it, but after a few minutes I couldn't keep going, so I told him to stop. He obliged, but proceeded to flip me over and start rimming me. Being a naive virgin, I didn't know what he was doing back there, nor did I know exactly how clean I was. I was on all fours and nervous as hell, but apparently clean, because he was enjoying himself.
Then, without warning, I farted. Italian Cookie sat up with a disgusted look on his face. He quickly pulled at his tongue the way you do when lint or fluff is stuck on it. I was mortified and speechless.
My first thought was that Olive knew what we were doing, heard what had just happened and was going to tell the world in the morning. Coming back to reality, I started apologizing profusely to the Italian Cookie. Surprisingly, he was very mature about the situation and after that night we never spoke about it. But, of course, I couldn't get it out of my head.
I concluded that it wasn't a fart, but a queef - an anal queef caused by the penetration right before the rim job. Well, at least that explanation helps me sleep at night.
It's been years since that incident, and to this day I don't rim or get rimmed. I'm far from being the nervous little virgin I was back then, but for some reason I just can't get the courage to try it again. Is there such a thing as rimming phobia?
Whenever the subject comes up nowadays with friends or partners, my stance is firm: I refuse to rim. I see nothing erotic in someone licking me where I poo. Oh well, a rimless sex life is no loss to me. I didn't enjoy it anyway.
As I looked around the table, my friends looked shocked, but then we all burst out laughing.
"So that's why you hate rimming," Steve said.
"You should try it again, to get over your fear," said Andrew.
"Yeah, you just haven't been worked by the right guy yet," said a man leaning in from the table next to ours. Apparently, I was loud enough for the whole front section of the bar to hear. Now that's frightening.