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First Anal Stories

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I remember being in high school when my best friend’s mom told us a story of a young woman she knew that did anal for the first time. She had just started college and was in her experimenting phase. She met a guy, dated him, and gave up the butt—literally. Well, things took a turn for the worst and homegirl wasn’t able to go number two properly ever again; She had to wear a colostomy bag. That story was told circa 1999 and has stayed with me since. It freaked me out for dear life and I permanently christened my backdoor as an exit-only lane.
If you’ve been thinking about trying anal sex, don’t let me discourage you. There are a lot of women who love getting it from the back and haven’t had any horror stories to tell. A Cosmo editor spoke with a few gals who have laid out the blueprint of what you should and shouldn’t do before taking it in the rear. These women (whose names have been changed) describe what they wish they knew before having anal sex so you won’t have to.
Kelly, 23
“If you’re trying it in hopes that it will bring a spark back to your relationship, it won’t.”
Danielle, 21
“Basically, like, the more lube the better. You have to lube that sh*t up.”
Emma, 23
“Do not use cinnamon flavored lube. I found out the hard way after my boyfriend used the cinnamon kind without telling me. I screamed and immediately ran into the shower to try and stop the burning.”
Jess, 22
“After the initial pain, there is definitely pleasure…”
Abigail, 27
“That you don’t have to do it doggy-style. In fact, that was way too painful for me the first time I tried. It ultimately worked when we got into missionary with me lifting my legs a bit. That way we could look at each other and he could see my face even if I wasn’t talking. It helped me feel supported and comfortable, even though it definitely hurt the first time.”
Maggie, 26
“That it is mind-blowingly pleasurable. When done with care and open communication, it can be amazing. I had always approached the idea with this stigma, that it was something girls begrudgingly did for a guy, not for themselves. Also, that there should be no shame in a woman enjoying it (which I still feel sometimes)”
Tanya, 25
“Don’t trust a fart for a few hours afterward. You might actually need a bathroom.”
Brianna, 28
“That you don’t sh*t right for days afterward.”
Megan, 23
“He was super respectful and really nice like it was a mutual thing, and so when I hear that some people feel like it’s their asshole being set on fire, it makes me think of when I was a teen and everyone was like, ‘The first time you have sex, you’re going to rip open your hymen and you’re going to cry because it hurts so bad.’ But I had sex with someone who was respectful then as well and wanted me to have a good time too, so it was very much a process of making sure it was good for both of us. Like yeah, maybe anal sex isn’t for everyone, but I also think it’s for more people than we think.”
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Lane Moore
Lane Moore is an award-winning comedian, actor, writer, and musician based in New York City.


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"Apparently, we used too much lube and our lovemaking turned into some sort of freaky colonoscopy/sloshy enema colonic. "
Everything about anal sex is awkward. It's not something that most people have a ton of experience doing, so when it does happen there's a lot of, "Um, is this it?" But beyond that, it can get even more awkward for a number of reasons. Cosmopolitan.com spoke with five women who know those reasons all too well.
1. "Apparently, we used too much lube and our lovemaking turned into some sort of freaky colonoscopy/sloshy enema colonic. " "I'd always wanted to check anal sex off my bucket list and finally it was happening. We'd used a lot of lube and were really getting into it until we noticed a horrible smell. Apparently, we used too much lube and our love-making turned into some sort of freaky colonoscopy/sloshy enema colonic. ACK! Instant buzzkill! My partner pulled his penis out quickly and got in the shower to rinse off. He was almost crying as all that liquid poop washed away from him while I was still cleaning off the mattress as I tried not to throw up. This forever cured me of my need for anal sex." —Becca, 32
2. "I had forgotten that I had stopped by the Indian lunch buffet earlier that day and feasted upon chana masala and palak paneer." "Me and my boyfriend wanted to spice up our sex routine and try it in the butt. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that I had stopped by the Indian lunch buffet earlier that day and feasted upon chana masala and palak paneer, and I accidentally pooped on his bed after we did anal. Not exactly what he meant when he said he wanted to spice things up!" —Michelle, 22
3. "When he tried to put it in, there was so much, um, resistance that he got freaked out and left the room ." "This guy I was seeing and I had been planning to have anal sex in his college dorm. Neither one of us had ever tried it before so we didn't know you probably need a lot of lube. When he tried to put it in, there was so much, um, resistance that he got freaked out and left the room and didn't come back for over an hour. I just sat there wondering if I should go home." —Kelsey, 24
4. "He was really into the idea of me pegging him, I guess because he was drawn to inverting our power dynamic." "The last man I dated was 20 years older than me and had formerly been my high school English teacher. He was really into the idea of me pegging him, I guess because he was drawn to inverting our power dynamic. The first time we tried, however, he arranged himself in an eagerly spread position and I was greeted by a moderate amount of recent shit remnants in and around the opening. In order to preserve his dignity, and out of a level of paralysis about what to do, I proceeded with the light touch and was left with dirty fingers. We never made it to the next level." —Louise, 27
5. " He pulled out way too quickly and a flood of crap started pouring out of me ." "I was hooking up with a guy freshman year of college at his parent's house because they told us they'd be away for the weekend. I'd always wanted to try anal and it was one of those weekends where you're just feeling up for anything. We started getting into it and all of a sudden, we hear the garage door start to open. He pulled out way too quickly and a flood of crap started pouring out of me while he tried to go and bring his parents (who'd just come home early) upstairs before they could see me pooping all over their bed. Never again." —Cassie, 21
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By Tara Austen Weaver
•
Aug 6, 2017

The author around the time she was first assaulted.
The Record's Jeannie Yandel speaks with Tara Weaver about her experiences with sexual assault.

By Melissa Spitz
•
Oct 14, 2016


By Beth Roberts
•
Oct 8, 2015


By Dr. Bob Hughes
•
Aug 6, 2017

Editor's note: Tara Weaver posted this essay on her personal Facebook page after the second presidential debate, when Donald Trump said that his talk of sexual assault was merely locker room banter. More than 4,400 people shared this story, and hundreds commented with their own devastating stories in the comments.
The first man who kissed me when I didn’t want him to was the boyfriend of my babysitter. He lifted me up by my armpits, sat me on the kitchen counter, leaned over me and slid his tongue into my mouth. I was eight years old.
I don’t know why he thought he could do this. I wasn’t acting sexy. I was reading Beverly Cleary books and wishing I could be a horse.
Do you think he had been listening to locker room banter?
The second time I was kissed I was twelve or thirteen. My mother’s boyfriend came into my room to say goodnight. He sat on my bed, ran his hand under the covers and put his fingers up inside me. It hurt. He made me hold his penis and rub it. He told me it was “safe” to have sex with him — he’d had a vasectomy and wouldn’t get me pregnant. He laughed.
I went to school the next day, sitting in class like nothing happened. I told my mother only that he had propositioned me, not anything else. It took twenty years and much therapy before I could tell her the full story, before I could admit it even to myself.
This man had known me since I was nine — he had two daughters. How had this happened? Had he started listening to locker room banter?
I pretended I was okay, but I tried to kill myself not long after that. Twice.
When I was fifteen I was date raped at summer camp by a boy I had a crush on. I said, “No.” I said, “Stop.” I tried pushing him away. Did he not hear me?
Perhaps his ears were too full of locker room banter.
The next day I tried to talk to him, to tell him what had happened wasn't okay. He looked at me with a blank face and dead eyes. “What happened?” he asked.
He acknowledged nothing. To him it was nothing. I was nothing.
I feared I was pregnant afterwards. I wept in relief when I wasn’t.
I blamed myself. Maybe I should have protested louder. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him hold my hand. But I thought he wanted to be my boyfriend. I thought wrong.
I ran into that boy at a Christmas party decades later. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “Long time, no see.”
I started wearing my brother’s clothes—baggy sweatshirts and jeans so big I had to roll down the waistband to keep them up. I gained weight. I didn’t drink alcohol in high school; it would have made me feel too vulnerable.
But simply being a woman made me vulnerable. There was nothing I could do to avoid that.
In college I was careful. If a guy showed interest and seemed safe and we started dating, I pretended to get drunk and pass out, just to see what he might do. Would he put a blanket over me and be kind, would he push me aside in disgust or anger at not getting what he wanted, or would he take the opportunity to go up my shirt or down my pants? I needed to know if I could trust him when no one was looking.
I chose well and never had to deal with the latter. Some guys don’t listen to locker room banter.
When I was twenty, I went running on a bike path along a river in the city where I was a student. There was a park and families came to enjoy the sunset in the evenings. Fishermen lined the water. It was a popular place.
That day had been rainy. The clouds cleared by late afternoon, but when I arrived the park was empty. I had never seen it like this.
As I ran, I heard footsteps that got louder — two men, running directly behind me. Turning my head I got a glimpse of them. They were not wearing running clothes.
I sped up, trying to outpace them. They sped up too. They began to grab my ass.
I whirled around to face them but they grabbed at my breasts. I broke off and ran away from them—faster this time, but they kept up. Their legs were longer, they were stronger, and there were two of them. They kept grabbing at me. I kept breaking away and trying to outrun them. I kept failing.
I could kick them in the shins, I thought, I could kick them in the balls. I had been learning how to play rugby; I knew how to tackle.
That was the thought that leapt unbidden to my mind: I wouldn’t want to hurt them.
I had been raised to see men, all people, as human, to be concerned about their welfare, to be a nurturer, to care. I had never listened to locker room banter.
I was also practical: I didn’t want the encounter to turn violent. They were bigger and they were stronger. If I ended up on the ground, I’d have no chance.
I kept pushing their hands away from my body. I wrenched one arm down so strongly I ripped the man’s watch off his wrist and it fell to the ground. He reached down to grab it, cursing.
In that brief pause it occurred to me to scream — the one thing I hadn’t tried. There was no one around to hear me, but I screamed anyway; I made as much noise as I could.
On the subway home, I sat on the hard, plastic seat rocking back and forth. There were four other people in the compartment: two male riders and a man and woman, holding hands. The train compartments did not have doors connecting the cars. I felt sick, panicked that the couple might get off at the next station and leave me in a closed compartment with two men. I no longer knew what they might be capable of.
I didn’t cry until my roommate came home that night. When I saw her, I burst into tears and she thought someone had died. She was not entirely wrong.
The next day I asked the dean of my academic program to go with me to the police station. We spent the afternoon looking at mug shots of known rapists. There were pages and pages of them.
Had they all been listening to locker room banter?
We didn’t find my attackers; I hadn’t expected we would. I wanted only for this crime to be recorded, to be a number. I wanted my pain to be counted.
The police told me it was the fault of the immigrants.
When I returned to school I explained to my professor why I had missed class. “What were you wearing?” she asked me.
“A long-sleeve, faded red sweatshirt and baggy shorts.”
“See,” she said. “You were practically asking for it.”
Perhaps she had been listening to locker room banter as well.
There have been other instances as well, though less violent. Boys who were dating my girlfriends who also tried to kiss me in secret. There was the coworker who, in front of our shared work colleagues, announced that my breasts were like overgrown melons. He was 56 and a father of daughters; I was 23.
There was the man in southern Italy who grabbed at me as we passed each other on the sidewalk, laughing with his friends. There was the teenager who stood near me at an empty train station on a cold January day in Japan. It was snowy and he was shivering, his thin shoulders shaking. I worried about him. Until I saw that he was masturbating.
I have been catcalled and followed and made to feel unsafe on three continents and in more countries than I care to count. The only thing I have done was to be female and to have the gall to leave the house. Though life has taught me that you don’t need to leave the house to be harassed or hurt.
You might think I’m beautiful, to get this much attention, but I’m not. I don’t wear makeup. I don’t wear jewelry. I don’t make an effort. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I’m overweight; I feel safer this way.
How do I dress? Modestly. I like turtlenecks and long scarves. I rarely show my legs. I buy dresses but can’t bring myself to wear them because they don't feel safe. I wear shoes I can run in, in case I might need to get away.
Most of the time I wear the same black fleece vest that zips into a turtleneck. It’s old and starting to fade. I should get rid of it, but I can’t. It cloaks my stomach, waist and chest. It makes me feel safe. It feels like my armor.
But my appearance is irrelevant and these are the wrong questions to be asking.
The mistake we make is thinking that harassment is about desire, lust or even attraction. It’s not. Harassment is about dominance. It is saying: I am more powerful than you are. I can do what I want.
I once asked a therapist why it is that I have experienced four instances of significant sexual abuse in my life. FOUR. It’s enough to make you think I might have been careless rather than just unlucky.
My therapist answered slowly. “Sometimes, when a person has experienced trauma, their protection instincts are damaged and it leaves them open and more likely to experience abuse again.”
I’ve thought about this a lot. I imagine it might be true for some people, but it’s not my truth.
My abuse has not left me open, it’s made me close myself off. I don’t smile at people on the street. If a man asks me what time it is, I shrug and keep walking. To stop and look at a watch or phone would put me at risk. In a full parking lot, I would never park next to a van.
I am always wary. I cross the street to avoid walking by people in the dark. I avoid walking by large bushes. At parties I listen to multiple conversations at once. I used to think this was my special talent and I would have made a good spy, but it’s typical behavior for abuse survivors. We are on alert at all times. You never know where the threat might come from.
Relationships are hard, even friendships. It’s difficult to trust people. When your human connections have been so violated you become a country unto yourself. You do not reach out, it’s far too dangerous.
I wonder what life might have been like had these things not happened to me. Would I have married? Would I have had children? The idea of walking down an aisle wearing a wedding dress and having people stare at me fills me with horror. Since I was a little girl all I’ve wanted to do is hide. All I want to do is keep myself safe.
Sometimes I see women who are small — thin arms and tiny waists — and I wonder how they can stand to be in this world. How can they possibly feel safe? I think of the words of writer Roxanne Gay, a survivor of childhood rape: “I got to make my body into what I wanted it to be, which is a fortress.”
I recognize other abuse victims, I see myself in them. We have a need to be in control. Sometimes we are anorexic or bulimic, exerting a control over our bodies that has been taken from us. Sometimes we harm or self-injure, treating ourselves as poorly as we have been treated. Sometimes we kill ourselves. When I hear news of a female suicide, I always wonder. To exist in a world that has be
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