Yesterday my feature article on Femdom Fisting was published, and writing it reminded me of my own early experiences with this activity. In particular, I found myself thinking about the first time I had a real experience with being up to my elbow in a man’s ass, which happened during my college days.

Fortunately, younger Geena kept journals.

I went back and found what I’d written about that particular adventure, and after reading through my old notes, I decided the story was simply too much fun to leave buried in a journal. So I’ve turned it into a secret blog post for my Patreon subscribers.

What follows is my recounting of what happened that day. I’ve changed the names of my roommate and our boyfriends for their privacy, but otherwise I’ve tried to remain faithful to the experience as I recorded it and as I remember it today. Obviously, I didn’t have a recorder running, so I can’t pretend every line of dialogue is word-for-word accurate. I’ve taken a little creative license reconstructing those conversations, but the events themselves happened as described.

And yes, it was quite an afternoon.

Non-Patreon readers can read the beginning of the story and get a little taste of what happened. But once we get to the really juicy fun stuff, I’m closing the door.

That part is just for our Patreon subscribers. 🙂

This story goes way back to my younger days, when my college roommate “Suzie” and I had entirely too much imagination, very little restraint, and boyfriends who were beginning to discover that spending an evening with us could take some unusual turns. We were young, which is another way of saying we were stupid and brave in equal measure, the kind of young where the distinction between a good idea and a terrible one existed only in retrospect. Our apartment was a shoebox with ambitions… cramped but loud, the walls thin enough that our neighbors could have written a dissertation on our sex lives.

One night the four of us were hanging around with absolutely nothing planned. The kind of night that starts with a shrug and ends with someone’s dignity in a compromising position. We’d ordered pizza, the cheap kind that left a film of grease on everything it touched, and we’d opened a bottle of wine that tasted like it had been fermented in someone’s basement next to a collection of vintage board games. My roommate had produced a baggie of weed from the pocket of her jeans, the way some women might produce a tube of lipstick… casually, as if it were nothing, as if altering the chemical composition of our brains was just another Tuesday.

“Anyone?” she asked, holding it up between two fingers.

The boys exchanged a look. Her boyfriend “Jack” had the kind of face that could express three distinct emotions at once: enthusiasm, concern, and the quiet resignation of a man who had already accepted his fate. My boyfriend, “Chris,” meanwhile, had the sleepy eyes of someone who’d been dating me long enough to know that resistance was just the scenic route to surrender.

“Sure,” they said in unison, like poorly synchronized backup singers.

We got stoned on the couch, the four of us pressed together like passengers on a subway at rush hour. The weed was decent, not great, not terrible, the kind that made the edges of the room soften and the jokes get exponentially worse. We laughed about nothing. We laughed about everything. We laughed about a commercial we’d seen for a local car dealer, and the laughter snowballed until my roommate was wiping tears from her cheeks and my boyfriend had that particular expression he got when he was high and trying not to piss himself.

And then, gradually, the laughter subsided. The room settled. The boys leaned back against the cushions, their limbs loose and heavy, and I watched as their eyes took on that familiar glazed quality, like donuts left out too long. Suzie caught my eye across the couch. She had a way of looking at me that was like a secret handshake… a flash of mischief, a raised eyebrow, the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth. I knew that look. I’d seen it before pizza fights and impromptu dance parties and the time we convinced the boys to let us give them matching haircuts that turned out significantly less matching than promised.

“They’re getting boring,” she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“They’re always boring,” I whispered back. “The question is what we do about it.”

Her boyfriend groaned. “We can hear you.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you already know what’s coming.”

What was coming, as it turned out, was the part of the evening where clothing became optional. Or rather, clothing became non-optional for us and mandatory to remove for them. By this point both guys had learned that when the two of us exchanged that particular look… the one that said we’d reached a consensus without actually discussing it, arguing usually wasn’t going to improve their situation. Arguing was just foreplay with extra steps.

“Strip,” suzie said. Not a question. Not even close.

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