How ‘riding the chariot’ taught me to love fisting

This article by Kevin Moroso was originally published in Xtra Magazine as part of the Filling Station column.

There I was, on a Saturday night in Washington, DC, just days away from Trump’s inauguration, surrounded by a few thousand guys in leather, feeling depressed and a bit lost.

I’d had a fight earlier with the guy I was seeing. He’d stormed off and wasn’t replying to my texts. So I started messaging guys I knew in the area to see if anyone wanted to hang out.

I got a reply. A Facebook friend from the Midwest, Paul, asked how it was going and what I was up to. I told him I wasn’t up to much and asked if he wanted to hang out. His reply: I’m looking for someone to fist me!

Okay, this guy is super hot, lean but toned, always a big grin on his face, and I’d wanted to get my dick in him for some time. But fist?

I’d only fisted someone once before. It was certainly an interesting experience. A group in Vancouver had organized a fisting event at Steamworks. I was friends with a lot of the guys at that party and I spent much of it observing as they explained their techniques.

After some observation, a big daddy friend of mine called me over to the sling his boy was in. Daddy was six foot three and built like a boulder. His hands were slightly smaller boulders. He explained he’d been working on his boy for months, but that he hadn’t managed to take a whole hand yet. Apparently, that’s where I came in.

The boy would like to say he’d taken a whole hand, and since my hands were slender and gently tapered from my wrists to forearms, daddy asked if I could fist his boy. I spent the next 20 minutes learning what to do, the daddy explaining everything as my slippery gloved hands slid inside the boy.

It was certainly an interesting experience but I wouldn’t say I got a lot emotionally out of it. I was so focused on listening to the daddy and making sure I did everything he told me that I wasn’t able to really enjoy the time. But, as I say, I’ll try anything three times. Not once, three times. You can’t tell if you like something sexual if you only do it once.

And DC was my opportunity to try a second time. I was determined to earn that red hankie.

So I told Paul I’d be into fisting him. Then he said a friend of his also wanted to get fisted, if I were game to do both of them. Well, why not. I was on the verge of crying at this point, so I might as well get my mind off it. I didn’t come to DC to mope.

I got up to their room and Paul introduced me to his friend Taylor, an attractive bearish guy with a trimmed red and grey beard. We chatted for a bit, then they took turns going into the bathroom to make sure they were still clean for some deep penetration. The three of us went upstairs to another room that was apparently set aside for fisting action over the weekend. We knew when we got there — a red hankie dangled from the doorknob in place of a Do Not Disturb sign.

About seven guys were lounging around inside the room when we got there — they had been fisting for much of the evening and were taking a break. We grabbed some drop cloths and I put on gloves. Paul and Taylor got on their knees at the edge of the bed side by side, their butts in the air facing me, Paul on the right, Taylor on the left. One of the guys began pouring J-Lube on my hands and I made sure he added plenty. I coated my hands with the thick stringy lube. Paul said he was newer to this than Taylor so I thought I’d start with Paul as he’d likely be tighter.

I started with two fingers in Paul’s ass, getting his hole nice and lubed up. Then I pulled them out and worked my three middle fingers in. Then four. I was pulling them gently in and out, twisting my hand around and feeling his cavity. I started to work my thumb in alongside, gently, slowly, twisting. Paul’s moans got louder, almost straining. I asked him if I could just leave my hand in so I could begin working on Taylor with my left hand.

As my right hand remained inside Paul, someone applied more J-lube to my left. I did much the same with Taylor as I had done to Paul. However, all of a sudden, I felt a cavity left of my hand, so I began to explore in that direction.

SLURP! My hand was sucked in without any effort. It was as if his insides dragged my hand deeper without my even pushing. Taylor moaned loudly and pulled his head back. I asked him if he was okay and he moaned what I heard as a “Yes.”

With my left hand now deep inside Taylor, I could pay attention to both my bottoms at the same time. I began working both my hands together, twisting, pulling out, slipping back in.

I was doing it. I was riding the chariot. I’d heard the term before, but didn’t imagine I’d be doing it only the second time I fisted. We went on for some time before they asked if they could take a break. I was getting tired, and it was late, so I said I’d probably call it a night.

I left their room feeling a sense of accomplishment. Red hankies had always been the most intimidating of all the fetish colours to me. I felt something this time, though, that I hadn’t felt the first time. When my hand was drawn into Taylor, it felt like we were attached, more than any feeling you get from a cock in an ass. It is incredibly intimate to explore someone’s insides, to see your arm engulfed by someone’s body.

I’m now dying to do it more often. I didn’t need to try fisting three times to find out I enjoyed it — only two. Once I’d gotten over the anxiety about injuring someone, I could just let the moment take me, get lost mentally inside someone’s cavity.

I’m hoping to see these two guys again in a couple of months. I’d certainly like to try again with them, particularly because I feel so comfortable with them now.  Maybe one day I’ll even get fisted as a bottom. It won’t happen any time soon, but I know a cute pup in Seattle with small hands who I might be calling upon.

They took a risk by opening up their relationship, but they didn’t anticipate what could happen

This article by Devon Delacroix was originally published in Xtra Magazine as part of the Hard Labour column.

Standing outside a small, rural bus station, I’m surveying a row of parked cars. I’m trying to find a black Ford SUV and, by coincidence, there are three of them parked next to each other.

I don’t really want to go knocking on windshields, saying “Uh, hey. Are we supposed to fuck?” But after a couple of minutes standing there, a window rolls down and a hand reaches out, gesturing to me to come over.

Stepping into the passenger side, I’m greeted by a dude in his mid-30s with a shaved head and a spray-on tan.

“I was kinda confused because there were three black SUVs all in a row,” I say, smiling.

“Yeah?” he says, seeming totally uninterested.

“And then, I wasn’t sure when I got in,” I add. “Because I thought there would be two of you.”

“Oh,” he says, turning to me with a smile. “My boyfriend is at home.”

After driving for a half hour through fields, past barns and silos, we pull up to their house. It looks like something from Architectural Digest; a bunch of cubes stacked in an asymmetrical pile, seeming oddly out of place in the landscape.

He turns off the engine, we step out of the car, and I follow him inside. Techno beats fill the space, no doubt the result of a thoughtfully-installed whole-house sound system. I leave my shoes at the door and walk through to the living room. All of the furniture is black, white or gray. A selection of art magazines arrange in a fan on the table, looking like they’ve never been touched. A massive TV hangs opposite the couch.

When the boyfriend emerges, I see they’re one of those twin couples; same height, build, facial features and tans, no doubt drawn together by a kind of sexual narcissism — that feeling of wanting to fuck yourself.

They’ve booked me for a two-hour massage, specifying I should spend an hour with each of them. After the initial greeting, they just stand there silently, looking alternately at each other and the floor. I suggest we head to the bedroom to get started. They nod and I follow them upstairs.

Their bedroom has the same black/white/gray colour scheme. One wall is open, looking down into the living room and kitchen. In the corner, a ceramic figure of a naked man with outstretched arms serves as an accessory rack, holding a copious number of bracelets, chains, and leather cuffs. A painting of two naked guys rubbing their erections together hangs above the bed. A glass vase full of condoms stands on the side table, indicating that strangers are likely a regular feature in their bedroom.

I strip the duvet off the bed, placing it on top of the dresser. The techno music is still blaring, so I politely suggest we change to something a little more relaxing. One of them pokes briefly at his phone, and the soundscape switches to mellow R&B.

“So . . . which one of you wants to go first?”

The guy who’d been waiting at home nods and begins stripping off. I spread a towel out on the bed and instruct him to lie on his stomach, with his feet towards the headboard. I’m about to strip off when I notice guy number one, who had picked me up at the bus station sitting, fully clothed on a chair in the corner.

“Uh, so you’re going to watch?” I say, tentatively. He nods.

Feeling his eyes on my body, I strip to my underwear and begin rubbing oil on his boyfriend’s back. Starting from his shoulders, my hands gradually work their way down to his ass. After about 20 minutes, I climb on top of him, straddling his body.

I’m trying to avoid looking at the other guy, but his eyes are locked on me. After briefly massaging his shoulders from this angle, I release my legs to the side and ease my body down on top of him.

This is usually the moment in a massage when the erotic element kicks in. Kissing his neck, I grind my pelvis into his ass, slowly increasing the friction. After a few minutes, I whisper softly in his ear to turn over. Normally by this point the body contact has produced a semi if not a full erection. But when he flips onto his back, he’s totally flaccid.

His soft cock makes me nervous. Guys can be anxious if they’ve never had a massage before but it’s not a big deal and can usually be quickly remedied with the right combination of touch. But I’m conscious of the fact his boyfriend is watching and aware of the lack of visible sexual arousal.

Does he think I’m doing a bad job? Is he worried that his boyfriend isn’t into what’s happening? Is he regretting having me here?

Straddling his body again, I begin massaging his chest, working my way down to his crotch. Stroking his inner thighs, my fingers brush his balls and his cock jumps. I start playing with it and feel him get hard in my hand. I look up and the boyfriend is staring at us, a wide smile across his face.

Even though I’ve had plenty of sexual experiences with multiple people in the room, being observed right now feels oddly strange. There’s always a tiny fear in the back of your mind with a new client, that you might not be able to unlock the specific thing that gets them off. And, as I’m now realizing, being observed only amplifies this fear.

I close my eyes, place one hand over his heart and keep stroking him with the other. The rhythm of the hand job picks up as he reaches full erection. I can feel his pulse rising in his chest and then, with a sharp inhalation he shoots all over my hand. I look up at the other guy who’s smiling widely.

My first trick opens his eyes, glances over at his boyfriend, and they both look away. He goes to the washroom to wipe himself off and the second guy wordlessly strips and lies face down on the bed. I contemplate asking for a break, but my first trick returns in a bathrobe and takes a seat in the corner, so it seems like we’re just going to keep going.

Massages usually follow the same pattern, but there are always little tweaks, depending on the client and their needs. Since the guy I’m about to massage just watched me give a massage, should I try something different? If I do that, will either of them feel jealous, as if I’m more into one of them than the other?

Since he’s already lying down waiting for me to start, I just begin with my regular pattern, working up and down the muscles of his back, first with broad strokes and then finer movements, pinpointing knots and points of tension. I glance over at the boyfriend seated in the corner, but he’s staring at the floor.

I gradually work my way down his back until I’m massaging his ass, my nipples brushing against his back. I continue rubbing his ass, spreading it apart and playing with his hole. His body starts to squirm with pleasure under me. As I stand up, getting ready to walk around and get on top of him, I glance at the boyfriend again. Now, he’s staring out the door of the bedroom, down the stairs to the living room.

I straddle trick number two and continue massaging his shoulders. Abruptly, the boyfriend stands and walks downstairs. Through the open wall at the end of the bedroom, I see him step outside and light a cigarette.

Should I stop the session and let them talk? Maybe since he’s already come he’s just a little bored and felt like a smoke.

Finally unobserved, and without the need to perform for a third person, I feel empowered. I lie on top of him, my crotch pressing into his ass and start grinding my body into his. I begin kissing my way down his back until my tongue finally lands in his hole.

As I’m eating his ass, the boyfriend returns and sits in the chair, but continues staring at the floor. He has the demeanour of someone in the waiting room of a sexual health clinic, nervously avoiding eye contact, waiting for his name to be called so he can escape.

My current trick continues to squirm as I eat his ass and I finally whisper in his ear to flip over. As I stand to let him turn onto his back, the boyfriend also stands, and leaves the room again. I straddle the guy on the bed and begin playing with his nipples. I can see the guy downstairs in the kitchen, bent over the counter staring at his phone.

It seems clear trick number one is not into what’s going on. But it also doesn’t seem like I should disrupt trick number two’s experience by pointing that out. I work my hands down his body until I reach his cock, which is totally hard. I begin stroking him, my other hand pressed into his chest. His eyes still closed, he begins rubbing my thighs, working his way to my crotch, pulling my cock out of my underwear.

We continue working each other’s cock and I can feel his orgasm building, but he pushes my hand away.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t wanna come.”

“Does that mean you’re done?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.”

He sits up, a look of concern flickers across his face when he realizes his boyfriend is gone. Did they not talk about that possibility when they planned this? I’m assuming from the condoms next to the bed that it can’t be that strange for them to fuck other people. Maybe the massage was their first experience with voyeurism? Should I help them process? Or should I just get the hell out and let them deal with it on their own?

I excuse myself to the bathroom and wash my hands, not bothering to take a shower. I dress, grab my massage supplies and head downstairs, where I find them standing in the kitchen, staring at their phones.

“Ready to go?” the guy who’d originally picked me up says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Are you guys okay though?”

The other guy just nods silently.

Driving back through the fields, past the barns and the silos, we sit in silence. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. But for my own peace of mind, I feel like I need to ask.

“So,” I begin. “Was that okay for you guys?”

He shrugs.

“That was the first time you had a massage together?”

He nods.

“But you guys have sex with other people?”

He smiles. “Not since we’ve been together.”

He tells me they’ve been in a monogamous relationship for 14 years. Opening it up has been under discussion, and a mutual massage seemed like a good start.

The gravity of the situation sinks it. This is an otherwise happy couple that presumably have a good life together, aside from a little sexual boredom. They’ve decided to take a risk by opening their relationship in a specific way and they wanted me to be part of it. It’s like I walked into their house, threw a grenade in the middle of the room, and left.

We pull up at the bus station. My hand on the door handle, I turn to him.

“So are you guys gonna be okay?”

He shrugs, not looking at me.

“We’ll see,” he says.

I feel like I should be doing something more, insist he take me back to their place so I can help them talk through this. But the truth is, I don’t really know how to help them process this new phase in their relationship. Is this the beginning of the end of them?

Whatever his mental state, my driver seems thoroughly uninterested in talking to me. He continues to gaze straight forward as I stare at him. Eventually, I realize this isn’t going to go anywhere. If he wanted to process this with me, he would have by now.

“Okay,” I say, opening the door. “If you guys need to talk about this at some point, just give me a call.”

He nods and I step out of the SUV, closing the door behind me. I stand, looking after him as he pulls away from the curb, a light rain hitting my face. He doesn’t look back.