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An imperfect life guide for women
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Author | Illustration Sarah Brown

Seeing You at the Party

I stuck my finger in your butt once. But that didn’t stop you from ignoring me at the party. You saw me. I’m sure of it. You said, “Hi” or “It’s hot.” But then you didn’t say, “Hi” after all, you just said, “It’s hot,” like I didn’t know it. Actually, you weren’t even talking to me. I think you were talking to the girl behind me – the sweaty one with the runny lipstick. Then you flaunted away. Like that. And I remember that time I stuck my finger in your butt, and you smiled, and I thought you might be gay. But you weren’t. You were just happy I found my way inside of you. And you were inside of me, right after that. And that’s the most inside we could ever be with each other. Then you ignored me at the party. It was hot.

So I see you, over there. In the distance. Smirking at someone. And then there’s me. Over here, frowning a little at this party. I thought we had done something special together. My finger up your butt and all. It was warm and tight. Hotter than the room we were in. I kind of remember building up the confidence in my head. Soaking in the tension, the moment, before I lunged my pointer finger in the hairy direction of your butthole. Right before, I grabbed your butt like if I tugged it hard enough, it would rip off. You flexed your butt like a statue, like it was a gift you wanted to give me. Bright white and plump, perky and thoughtful. Your body, bulky and slender. Hairy and smooth. You and me on that bed. Being dirty. It was swell. It was a grand old time. A momentous, sparkling, fantastic achievement of gasps, grunts and oh-my-god, then cum, then a dirty towel to wipe it off my belly. How romantic. It was, I remember it. I swear.

But it didn’t mean anything. The ohhhh, the ahhhhh, the cum that erupted like Pompeii. Before it, when you were inside of me, and I was briefly inside of you, and we were doing the do. I felt you there, thrusting and mashing and circling and thumping, below my belly button, between my hips, in the softness of my bony pelvis. You stayed there for a moment, parking it in me like a nozzle left in a gas tank at a gas station. I relaxed a little, chuckled, then blushed. No words to describe the weirdness of a foreign body part in its entireness and full erect form, swimming in the hot tub of my lower stomach fluid, or pussy juice, or whatever. I looked down at you, slamming my body back and forth, an invisible saddle to ride you like you were my big old pony. You were my pony. I genuinely thought it was special.

After I put my finger in your butt, I didn’t know what was supposed to happen next. Like I had mustered all this heroic bravery to put my finger in it once and for all. But then when I got there, I stalled. Nervous and profoundly stumped by the heat of my finger in your sacred place. I reached into your temple and didn’t know what I was looking for. Gold? Oneness? Self-satisfaction? I stopped. Parking my long slender finger like a key in a door it didn’t belong to. It felt strange, being the intruder, not the homeowner. I felt powerful. Like I was meant to stick my finger in your butt all along. But it didn’t bring me the closeness I wanted. I thought I’d get a glimpse of your soul. I’d unlock the mystery of your brain after one courageous poke. All that brain matter, all that heart, and love, left on my finger to look at and admire. Slimy and stinky.

That didn’t happen though. Sad, really. I genuinely tried to break into your temple to be closer to you, and in return you gave me a hot temperature. The same temperature you accused the party of having. You swerved on by, looking stylishly nonchalant, muttering three meaningless words to me. Oh, and then there was this girl with you. Newish, maybe. An attractive young thing, bright-eyed, smart and clever, who may or may not have stuck her finger up your butt too. Full circle. Shit. Chopped liver. Being ignored. I think I feel closer to the chick you’re with, instead of you. We both, me and this woman, have stuck our fingers in the same butthole. Funny really, feeling closer to another woman, instead of the man I wanted to be closest with, over a butthole.

Which leads me to believe that I put my finger in a stranger’s butt. I never knew you. I felt your temperature. Rubbed your back. Stroked your hair, pretending to be a hair stylist. I licked your earlobe. Spat on your dick and pinched your elbow slack because I knew you wouldn’t feel it. And even then, in our physical closeness, that was the closest I could ever get to you. Because I don’t know you and I never will. I don’t know what makes you tick. Whether you’re an Introverted Extrovert or an Extroverted Introvert. Heck, I don’t know your middle name or if you have any siblings. You are a stranger and it’s strange that it never occurred to me that despite our dirty butthole secret, it didn’t hold enough importance to make you greet me like a pal at a party. Or with a hug – that could have been nice.

But no. There was no hug. No handshake or high-five. No friendly talk. No nothing. Was I even there? Was I standing in your blind spot? There I was. In front of you. Bored, a little surprised to see you, with pants on, looking handsome. All dressed up for this party you didn’t see me at. The party you ignored me at. That girl, me, the one who stuck her finger in your tight ass. Better sweep right passed her. No wait, tell her how hot it is in here. Yeah, good thinking. She’ll like that. And then stride on by, no eye contact, and like, cool. That’ll be that. Ouch, so hot. I can still feel it. The stinging. Standing there, surprised, like I thought I deserved more than that. A slap on the back or something. I thought I knew you, after all. But no. I guess not. I put my finger up a dude’s butt and now I feel extra weird about it. Maybe a little empty, hungry, or disappointed and very sad. Deeply disturbed, actually.

So yeah, it’s hot in here and I stuck my finger in your butt one time. 

See you around, pal.

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