I don’t want to write this post. The very idea of dragging the words from my head makes me want to cringe into a tiny ball. But I’m going to talk about butt plug accidents anyway. My reasons will become clear towards the end of the post but before I begin, a warning and a request. Warning: this post contains scenes that are a bit uncomfortable, especially if you’re not into anal stuff and are easily panicked. Request: if you know me in real life, I would genuinely rather you didn’t read this. It’s mostly because I feel I can be funnier and more honest about this incident if I don’t have to anticipate jokey conversations about it in the pub, during which I have to relive all the feelings that this incident triggered in my fluttery, panic-laden heart. So. If you know me, don’t read this. If you choose to read it anyway, pretend you haven’t. Deal? OK let’s go.
The short version of this is that I had a traumatic butt plug accident. The longer version is that I got a fairly large glass butt plug – base and everything – stuck up my arse.
The even longer version is below.
I take things too far
On Sundays we do anal. I have a routine, which involves douching, a bath, some butt plugs and a fuckload of lube. I’ve detailed my prep for getting fucked in the ass in last week’s post, so if you want the detail go read that first then come back. PLEASE COME BACK.
Anal Sundays are fun. They have become something I look forward to from the second I clock off work on a Friday night. Not just because they give me great ideas for blog posts, but also because I love what anal sex feels like, the challenge of taking it more brutally, and the sound of my other half’s feet stamping excitedly up the stairs as soon as I tell him It Is Time.
Unfortunately we started anal Sundays a while ago, and like all sex things I get into, I have a terrible habit of taking things Far Too Fucking Far. What begins as a fun suggestion swiftly becomes an obsession, and before I know it I am laser-focused on the challenge of not breaking my anal sex streak.
The golden rule of anal
Anal aficionados will know the golden rule of butt stuff: do not put anything in your arse that you aren’t damn sure you can get out of it. The anal passage is not like the vaginal one: once things slide up, it’s possible they’ll keep on sliding until you can no longer reach them to fish them out. Vaginal eggs don’t need a flared base because you can usually ‘lay’ them fairly successfully once you’re done – although my experience with love eggs tells me that it is not always as easy as that sounds. Once something has slipped past the ring of your sphincter, though, the odds of you retrieving it without hassle plummet dramatically. To make sure that butt plugs don’t disappear into the black hole that is your rectum, you need one with a very flared base.
To prevent butt plug accidents, the base of your plug should be wider than the widest point of the toy itself. That’s the headline, and until recently I always thought myself pretty good at choosing butt plugs to ensure that this was the case. However, there’s a glass butt plug we’ve owned for a while which I don’t tend to use that often – it’s very wide and so is more of a ‘challenge/ganbare’ item than a regular-use one. Because we’ve owned it for a while and used it a lot without issues, I’ve always just blithely assumed that it follows this golden rule. On closer inspection – which recent events nudged me to actually do – the base turns out to be roughly the same width as the widest point of the butt plug, possibly even smaller by a millimetre.
That’s what we’re talking about here: one millimetre.
So yeah, I had a butt plug accident
Laugh with me through the pain, people. Because I am a fucking sex blogger, and so I really should be quite knowledgeable about this stuff. One single millimetre (in circumference, not diameter) made the difference between a lovely anal Sunday and a horrible nightmare panic that I will not forget in a hurry.
In the beginning…
All was going well. We were having fun, and were fucking with horn and – dare I say it? – panache. I had the glass butt plug inside, and my dude was fucking me with long, slow strokes in the cunt. I love the sensation of the head of his dick as it presses against the entrance to my cunt – meeting resistance and tightness caused by the solid glass plug pushing back through the wall of my ass. Even more, I love the ‘pop’ as the head slips past it, pressing back against the butt plug through the wall of my vagina, and the way he sometimes gives a little groan in the back of his throat when this happens. Unngh.
Anyway. We were fucking like this, and I was pondering at what point I should pause the proceedings to whip out the butt plug and ask him to fuck me in the ass, when I felt him doing something… weird… behind me. Pressing gently with his fingertips around the entrance to my ass.
It felt odd, but wasn’t a big deal: it was almost like he was inspecting me, and if that’s what floats his boat then I am fully and completely down. I am, after all, an eager and deviant slag, and although I had no idea what he was doing, the fact that he was doing it tripped some pretty nice ‘hot guy using me like a Fleshlight’ type feelings. I had already begun to file it as something I should ask him about later, so I could have a proper wank about the feelings it had started to stir.
Until he poked me with his fingernail.
“OW FUCK ARGH!” I murmured seductively. “STOP. What?! OW!”
Remaining calm, he stopped dead still where he was and told me: “It’s slipped inside you. Don’t panic. Just push.”
Which is absolutely the best advice he could have given, and indeed the advice I’d have given if someone else had asked how to deal with butt plug accidents. I am very prone to panic, but on hearing his gentle voice softly instructing me not to panic, I was immediately suffused with an air of patient calm.
Hahaha sorry no – I shrieked and burst into tears.
How to retrieve a stuck butt plug
I did push, though, as instructed. I pushed hard, while he helpfully put a few fingers into my vagina to see if he could nudge the butt plug out from the inside. A bit like how you might stick your fingers inside your shoe to push a stone out if it’s slipped inside your sock. When that didn’t work, I honed our strategy based on gut instinct, choosing instead to tremble, sweat, panic and scream “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” as I tried to retrieve it alone.
It was a very dark time. It was weird. It was horrible. In ‘we probably need to say sorry for scaring the neighbours’ territory.
He stood next to the bed, wringing his hands and looking pale and definitely NOT TOUCHING ME, while I yelled and pushed and panicked and pushed and ran through worst-case-scenarios in my head.
- Would I have to go to A&E?
- Would I become one of those case studies that doctors tell all their mates about?
- What if even the doctors couldn’t retrieve it in the usual way, and I had to have emergency surgery?!
- I have never been under general anaesthetic before, what if I died?
As a deviant hedonist, I would be unsurprised and – frankly – a little proud if it turned out my fate was to be ‘death by drug overdose at an orgy with the local rugby team’. Or ‘heart attack caused by excessive dick-riding at 4am after a Saturday night drinking binge’. Or ‘toppled off a balcony in the penthouse of a hotel while getting railed from behind by the lead singer of a 90s punk band’. If there were such a thing as an afterlife, and I’d been shuffled off this mortal coil for any of the reasons above, I would surely look down from it and say ‘fair play. I may have died young but I had a bloody good innings regardless.’ But death by butt plug accident? Here? In the bedroom of my own home, with a towel down to catch lube and my panicked, loving boyfriend watching anxiously from three feet away? It just felt like too small a death. Too avoidable a death. Too silly a death.
I cannot – WILL NOT – die of butt plugs.
So. I took a big deep breath, rose up from my hands and stretched out – tall and powerful and majestic (but with one trembling hand behind my bum to catch the plug). Steeling myself for pain I gave a deep, guttural yell – the battle cry of butt plug Braveheart – and delivered one final almighty push…
And the glass butt plug slipped out, along with some other stuff, and splattered to a halt on the towel that lay beneath me.
A brief aside, dear reader, on that tiny phrase ‘some other stuff.’ I shall not be going into detail about what ‘some other stuff’ involved. Needless to say that it was stuff, it was ‘other’ and there was some of it. That’s all you need to know.
What happened after this should have been: relief, a shared giggle, and a discussion about how we prevent butt plug accidents like this in future. But if you have been reading this blog for a while, you’ll know that’s not how my brain lets me do things. Instead of dealing with this like a mature and sensible adult I wept, trembled, whimpered “Get out please get out leave me alone leave me alone go away I love you please go away I love you” and my partner ran away to let me clean things up alone, because frankly at that moment it was all I wanted to do.
Well, that and incinerate every butt plug I owned to prevent the same horror occurring in future.
Butt plug accidents: lessons learned
Serious faces on now, people. I tried to make the above a bit funnier than it was at the time because if not I couldn’t have written about it at all. I found the whole thing excessively traumatic – emphasis on ‘excessive’. Because I’m a sex blogger, and I have read so many articles about safe anal play which emphasise how absolutely vital it is (and it is) to choose anal toys which won’t disappear inside you, that advice had piled up in my brain and taken on monstrous form. My brain had gone ‘you MUST get toys with flared bases, or they’ll disappear inside you’ and warped it into ‘if things disappear in your arse, you will never retrieve them without medical intervention.’
And beyond the vague concept of ‘medical intervention’ there was just this swirling, nebulous panic. So the first lesson I learned is that actually, you can sometimes get stuff out of your arse if it goes up there. Not every single person will end up in A&E. This doesn’t mean you should be blasé about the butthole’s grippy powers, just remember – in the event of butt plug accidents of your own – that your anus is not exactly like the event horizon of a black hole. I think I’d have been less panicky in the moment if someone had explained that to me years ago, so I’m telling you here in case you ever find yourself in the same boat.
The next thing I learned is that there are some really important sex conversations that my partner and I still had not had. This is a hard bit to write: hold my hand. I promise I’ve washed it quite thoroughly. For the rest of that evening, and quite a long time after, I felt uncomfortable around him. I couldn’t stop myself from feeling the sensation of his fingertips pressing around my arsehole, and the knowledge that while he was poking me there I genuinely had no idea why. I’d thought it might even have been quite a… (hurts to think this, hurts to write this)… kinky thing? Having been so soul-shreddingly wrong at the time, for quite a while afterwards I felt consumed by horror and mistrust. Why would he do that without telling me first? Why wouldn’t he immediately warn me that the butt plug had slipped up inside? He was feeling around with his fingers for a while did he…? Did he actually make it worse? Had he accidentally pushed it further inside me?
For a while there, I was scared of him. Which I know is weird. I know. He is not frightening. He would never hurt me like that. His instinctive reaction was incredibly well-meaning: he knew that panic might make things worse, and he also knows what a gosh-darn-it powerful panicker I am. He wanted to solve the problem without causing the screaming-and-trembling that he knew full well was on the horizon. He wanted to help. I’m very used to the phrase ‘my body, my choice’ when it comes to reproductive rights, so it may sound glib to apply that to butt plugs and fingertips, but still. When it comes to my body, I don’t ever – ever – want someone to ‘help’ me with a problem without first alerting me to what that problem is. Never.
The final lesson I learned is that although I do my best to leave shame at the bedroom door, I am not actually immune to it when fucking. The feeling I got when I realised the plug was stuck was intense and irrational shame. The emotion I felt as I managed to push it out – though it should have been pride and glory – was shame. The trembling way I begged my partner not to touch me or hug me or stay in the room as I gathered up the toys and towel and lube and other things? Shame. Abject shame. I felt wrong. I felt dirty. I felt bad. I felt unloveable and untouchable and disgusting. My rational brain knew this wasn’t right, but my heart felt it so hard it made all of my muscles go weak. My toes curled and my scalp actually tingled with it: shame.
I didn’t know how I would ever shake this feeling – irrational and weird though it was. So I swallowed it deep and buried it under smiles and went downstairs to go check on my other half.
“It’s OK,” he told me, as he scrolled through delivery apps to get us some emergency lasagne. “There is nothing shameful about this sort of thing – it brings us closer.”
“Really. I promise. Closeness through shared calamity. We’ll be fine.”
Those were his exact words. I wrote them in my phone so I wouldn’t forget: closeness through shared calamity. And he’s right – as we look forward excitedly to another anal Sunday (with my favourite Doxy butt plugs, instead of that hellish glass one), I no longer feel ashamed, just relieved. That we lived through this weird thing enough that we can joke about it. That it hasn’t stopped us wanting to use butt plugs, just made us more careful about how we go about it. That I can show him this post before publishing, and ask: “are you happy with this? Is it OK?” and he laughs in all the right places.
Chaos through shared calamity.