By Bill Brent
I’m certainly no beauty. I weigh, oh, maybe ten pounds, am flesh-colored (like, duh!), and have an unimpressive shape. That’s what Bill says, anyhow. Some people are pretty impressed by my shape, though. Bill doesn’t understand why. I have two melon-shaped halves. At the bottom of the cleft that separates them is Bill's anus. The anus is held tight by a band of muscle called the sphincter, also known as the "winky-woo." It's a good thing that the winky-woo is tight, or humans would shit all over themselves constantly Actually, the sphincter is two bands of muscle that intertwine somewhat – the inner sphincter and the outer sphincter. Also, there's a third part, the puborectalis component of the levator ani. Don't ask me what the hell that means – hey, I'm a butt, not a Latin student. Wait a minute … this just in from Bill's brain … it's telling me that the pubo-whatchamacallit thingy is the sling around the junction of the rectum and the anal canal. Got that? No, not that kind of a sling, you perverts. Although I've been in a fair number of those myself. Anyhow, many people, including Bill, find it arousing to stimulate the sphincter by touching it. There are many ways to touch the sphincter. I'll bet you could tell me about a few. Inside the sphincter is the rectal cavity, or rectum. Of course, this is the passageway for poop to leave the body. When the sphincter is relaxed, it also allows objects to enter the body. Did you know that a surgeon can insert his entire hand into your rectum when you're under anesthesia? I think that's rather alarming, personally, but then, after spending a few decades with Bill, there's very little that shocks me anymore. My formal name is Gluteus Maximus, which means that I’m the biggest muscle in Bill’s body, a superficial muscle that gives the buttock its shape. A lot he cares, though – I’d be a better-looking booty if he’d just work out three times a week. I like leg-lifts, dancing, and Kegels. Also quiet restaurants with well-padded chairs … oops, sorry about the brain-fart … for a moment I forgot this is Bill’s essay, not Bill’s personals ad. Anyhow, working out with Bill. He may have lousy gym attendance, but he certainly gives my insides a good workout. Sometimes more than others. It’s almost like a fad with him – he’ll go weeks and weeks without getting poked, then he’ll rediscover the joy of it like he was Columbus thinking he’d just found India. That’s when I know I’ll have a regular date with Bill’s shower shot for the next week or two. What's that, you ask? A shower shot is basically a hose that attaches to your shower head's pipe and shoots a stream of water into the rectum (and up into the colon, if you're piggy enough) to rinse out any poop that might be lingering there. It's kind of like one of those guns that shoots the goo into the jelly doughnut, only the goo comes shooting back out. Bill has had many different kinds of objects in his butt – dildos, a vibrator, butt plugs, fingers, occasionally even a small hand. Mostly, though, he uses actual penises on me. With men attached to them. They kind of squish me, which feels weird, but my winky-woo sure likes the feeling of being slapped repeatedly by a warm, hairy groin. And I guess my big pink cheeks of like the feeling, too. It’s kind of a gentle form of spanking. Reassuring, somehow. Not that I want you to get the wrong idea about me. I’m not usually kinky. Well, not much. OK, maybe a little. But mostly I just go along with what Bill’s brain wants. It’s not like I have much choice anyhow. Once Bill got fucked by a woman with a synthetic penis attached to her hips. That was a particularly frightening episode for me. She went too fast and too deep. I quivered; I tensed; I begged for mercy. (Actually, it was Bill’s voicebox, but I sent in the order.) Finally, Bill’s heart rate reached maximum velocity, Bill’s penis ejaculated, Bill’s lungs let out a couple of yells, then gradually returned to their regular breath rate, and finally my little trauma was over. That was pretty unusual, though. Mostly Bill goes for these guys with big, monstrous penises. He’s such a size queen. Or at least Bill’s brain is. Sometimes Bill’s brain kind of annoys me. But Bill’s endorphins get all the fun, those lazy sons o’ bitches. They just lie around all day … drowsy, no-good chemical ne’er-do-wells … waiting for stimulation … while we anatomical parts do all the dirty work! Especially me, the poop chute. Hey, it's a living. Oh, look, what’s this coming through? Yesterday’s helping of Fruity Pebbles … yeesh, I can't believe he eats that sugary crap. So to speak. And at his age. They use every color of the rainbow flag in those crispies. A subliminal message. I'll bet it's a conspiracy by some evil homosexual cabal over at Post Cereals … Well, all those pretty colors turn to boring brown sludge anyway by the time I get to handle it … lucky me … followed by a big bowl of Wheat Chex … manufactured by the more manly General Mills. Très butch, Wilhelmina, darling. I guess that’s your idea of cosmic balance. Being Bill’s butt is a full-time job, and it’s a very yin-yang experience. He vacillates a lot between being working hard and playing hard; being a slut and being serious. It’s a real pain in the ass, let me tell you. But overall, it's worth the wait until Bill takes me out of his clothes to play with me. Bill's a good guy and I'm proud to be his butt.