By Justin Jones
Bottoming is a lot of work. Being a promiscuous bottom is a WHOLE lot of work (I know this from past experience). Attention to anal hygiene is time well spent, of course—no one wants an accident—but still, it gnaws away at time one might spend doing something more pleasurable, namely: Partying, cuddling, eating, sleeping, cleaning the fridge, walking on hot coals— or doing just about absolutely anything else. For me, the task ranks with folding laundry for the superlative “Most Burdensome.”
I suppose most of us have our own style when it comes to this necessity. For me—to be sure extra-spotless—30 minutes to an hour is required lead-time. This carries over from my days as a slut, when the task had greater frequency (and required more detail), and thus took up even more time. I’ve calculated how much time I’ve spent doing this over the years, and it’s comparable to the total time I’ve spent at traffic lights, or walking to classes (from elementary school all the way through college).
I’m not obsessive about this, mind you, although my attention to the details of the subject has cost me considerable hours of foreplay, and the price I’ve paid in spontaneous romance has been dear. Still, I derive no pleasure in the preparation (as a chef might, say, basting his turkey—although I am a stickler for cleanliness in the kitchen).
When I was with my ex several years ago, I made sure to anticipate the need. I’d wake up before him to perform maintenance (he enjoyed morning bouts), and I’d prep myself before he returned home from work. The system—his libido was so predictable—allowed me to successfully navigate almost never having to excuse myself, Pre-Main Event. Of course, this wasn’t always the case: In a few instances, he surprised me, and—having tempered his lust, so I could get ready for him— we would engage (although the loss of spontaneity made the engagements less passionate).
I bring this up because I met someone recently, an obvious and self-admittedly promiscuous bottom about my age, who said he’d never cleaned himself there. (I can’t recall how the conversation turned in this direction, but he was interested to know more.) How do you do it? He asked me, his eyes wide with wonder.
It occurred to me then that he wasn’t alone—that many young men pursue their bottomness without knowledge of a staple of the Gay Collective Consciousness: Douching. In a way, I envied him. What an effort it takes to go through so much trouble (time and time again) for so much pleasure. (The agony and ecstasy—the agony and ecstasy.)
I walked him through the process: Every time-consuming, graphic detail, just as had been taught to me (albeit at a much younger age), and he took notes on his iPhone, on both the process and name brands.
Cute, I thought, now I’ve made Colt more money. S o , yeah, it’s a burden. But so is f o l d i n g l a u n d r y.
And I’m still waiting for someone to teach me how to do that. Regardless, my closet’s still clean.
Justin Jones, 25, is a writer based in Minneapolis. In addition to his column lovejones, Justin pens Through These Eyes, a bi-weekly column for Lavender Magazine. He writes about things like being alive, being in love, and drinking too much. Facebook.com/JustinJonesWriter.