A Butthole Party Was the Event I Never Knew I Needed
The evening when I learned to see the anus in a whole new light
I’m blessed with a friend circle composed predominantly of fellow perverts—a descriptor I consider both a compliment and a term of endearment—and therefore do not lack access to events that deviate from your run-of-the-mill social gathering.
There have been private play parties, birthday orgies, indie porn screenings, dirty storytelling slams, and workshops on everything from spanking and erotic humiliation to wax play, DIY whip-making, and so on. But, until last Saturday, I had not been to a butthole party—and, never in a million years had I guessed that I’d come out of it describing it as a wholesome, bonding, cathartic, and even profound experience.
I can sense you already may have some questions so I’ll back up and start by answering the most obvious one:
What on earth is a butthole party?
As far as I know, it isn’t an actual thing (yet), but after this experience, I’m convinced it should be. More on that later…
The event was initiated by a kink and fetish photographer in my circle with the premise that all attendees would volunteer to sit (or, rather bend over) for a close-up portrait of their anus.
Why? Well, as the artist insightfully put it in his welcome speech, “No one in their right mind takes photos of buttholes —unless it’s for art”. He continued to talk about how most of the representation we see of our intimate parts, whether it be in art or porn, tends to focus heavily on penises and vulvas. The anus, being one part we all have in common regardless of the shape of our genitals, is almost always left ignored.
No one in their right mind takes photos of buttholes—unless it’s for art.
As he spoke it struck me that until about an hour before the party, I had never squatted over a mirror to thoroughly examine my asshole. Of course, I’ve seen it, as it happens to be right there, just beneath my vulva, and that I’ve investigated more than thoroughly. This time, I really looked carefully at every detail, from the shape of its puckered folds to its light-to-darker gradient coloration.
While looking, I realized I lacked the frame of reference to know whether or not mine was normal; I guess I hadn’t really studied anyone else’s hole up close either. Did I love it? Maybe not. But I didn’t hate it either.
With an ambivalent/neutral stance on the appearance of my own butthole, I got dressed, (appropriately) plugged the audiobook, Come as You Are, into my earbuds, and hopped on my bike.
What happens at a butthole party?
I arrived at the apartment of the photographer and his partner, freshly showered and neatly groomed, wearing a black dress over an obscure piece of underwear that covered none of that which underwear is meant to cover. The other guests were already seated on the floor, encircling a generous spread of light snacks and wine.
Had it not been for the box of condoms, the bag of latex finger cots, bottles of lube, and the assortment of butt-centric sex toys strewn throughout the apartment, our little gathering could have easily been any old evening with friends.
This was soon about to change… though, not in the way I had anticipated.
I arrived […] wearing a black dress over an obscure piece of underwear, covering none of that which underwear is usually meant to cover.
Exactly what I had anticipated, I can’t say for sure and it was precisely that, which had first intrigued me about the invitation; the thrill seeker in me takes pleasure in not quite knowing what I’m about to get myself into.
My rebellious side, on the other hand, enjoys challenging both my own and others’ comfort levels and ideas about what is socially acceptable. Lastly, my inner exhibitionist was squealing with joy at the thought of having my butthole immortalized, framed, and exhibited in a gallery: What happened at the butthole party was not intended to stay there… And yes, what won’t I do in the name of art? Apparently, the list keeps getting shorter.
After an introduction round—in which the photographer provided more details and instructions, and the rest of us shared our intentions and boundaries, both regarding how and where we were comfortable getting touched as well as what types of photos we consented to have taken of us—we got started.
What won’t I do in the name of art? Apparently, the list keeps getting shorter.
The butthole inspection
Before our “portraits”, we were all to be examined thoroughly by the other guests who were equipped with lube, finger condoms, a measuring tape, and tiny flashlights.
A good friend of mine volunteered to go first, removed her underwear, and placed herself, face-down-ass-up, across a sleek white chaise lounge in the center of the living room. The rest of us gathered around.
“Wow, look at that gorgeously shaped bum!”
“Yes, that garter belt really frames it so perfectly.”
“Check out this stunning curve from the waist to the ass cheeks.”
“Is it ok that we touch you here?”
The comments and compliments started flowing immediately and got progressively more specific.
“Your butthole looks very nice and firm.”
“And the colors are so lovely”
“I never thought of a butthole as pretty before, but yours really is!”
“I think it’s perfect!”
“I feel very on display”, my friend chimed in, “but I also feel completely comfortable with you guys. Thank you for making me feel so safe!”
The caring words and comments continued as we gently touched, caressed, and measured diameters and distances between parts, all while obtaining consent and making sure our subject was comfortable. We observed how her butthole moved when she laughed and even a little when she talked.
Following the examination came the photo session. This took place in the next room, on a mattress, in front of a black backdrop with the photographer and his camera peeking through an LED light ring placed on a tripod. The person getting photographed got to pick two assistants whose job it was to carefully spread their cheeks for the camera.
I never thought of a butthole as pretty before, but yours really is!
Each new session was as attentive and loving as the one before, and by the time it was my turn to go, I was more excited than nervous about having six sets of eyes and two flashlights directed at the most intimate parts of my body.
As I had anticipated after having taken part in three inspections before mine, my witnesses made me feel fully at ease as I lay there with my ass in the air.
“I think you have the most symmetrical asshole of us all,” someone said.
“Yes, and the folds of your rosebud are so even,” another added.
“I really like the colors,” a third expressed, “it’s almost a bit golden.”
“I’m certain I can see your butthole move as you breathe, it’s so beautiful!” my friend said, warmly.
I loved listening to the group's remarks. Now, I don’t know if a symmetrical butthole is anything to strive after or if one color is any more desirable than the next, I really doubt it, besides I couldn’t care less.
What felt special about the commendations was not so much their precise contents, but the feeling of being seen with zero judgment and absolute acceptance. Besides, as weirdly perverted as the scenario may have seemed, there was nothing traditionally sexual about the experience, which made it all the more meaningful; to be observed and to observe, parts that are generally only looked at either in the throes of passion or in strictly clinical settings, such as at the gynecologist’s office. This was neither. Instead, it was something completely new.
All good things come to an end…
The evening continued until everyone had been properly inspected and documented, and ended in the same circle in which we had begun. We never made it to the toys, spanking tools, or the fun game of sexy prompts our hosts had prepared, and somehow it seemed for the better.
“We’re pioneers of butthole inspection,” remarked one of the guests as we were wrapping up, and though his comment was playful, there was some truth to it. Surely, our bodies have been studied in every way possible in the name of science and medicine, but when do we ever engage in this kind of platonic, yet loving, mutual discovery of each other’s bodies? The last time I remember doing that, I was six years old in the bathtub with my neighbor. It did feel like we were scratching the surface of something deeper; something that has gotten lost in a society that hypersexualizes the human body, while simultaneously fearing and even waging war on it.
When do we ever engage in this kind of platonic, yet loving, mutual discovery of each other’s bodies?
Of all the things I had expected this party to be; silly, naughty, a bit raunchy, and perhaps embarrassing, it was really none of those things and everything but. To describe something as obscene sounding as a butthole party as enlightening, healing, and even profound may seem far-fetched, but no other words come closer to how I experienced it—and I’m certain the other guests would agree.
Together we had observed that while everyone’s butts vary somewhat in shape, size, and proportion, as well as in coloration, we appear to be more similar than different, and, all butts, and their holes, are uniquely beautiful.
I hopped on my bike and swooshed home through the crisp Berlin night, feeling warm and fussy, utterly seen and acknowledged, and completely comfortable in my own skin. I concluded that a butthole party was the event I never knew I needed, and that this was hopefully just the first of many.
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