http://josephsciambra.com/surviving-gaybarely/
In gay porn, the denouement is always the anal sex act. As an inexperienced eighteen year old, I found the aspirations of gay men to be strikingly similar. For an encounter that did not at least include the possibility of anal intercourse seemed incidental and quick. Anal sex lent male homosexuality a certain amount of intimacy. The possibility of that fusion was unbelievably alluring. But I was petrified by the ever-present likelihood of AIDS, thus I refused to risk my life even though I knew I would remain incomplete until I found the courage to submit. A frustrated boyfriend accepted a sort of second-best when I agreed to a form of frottage through which he would thrust his penis between my closed legs. It was an elaborate form of mutual masturbation. Years later, I would tragically discover that the longed for insertive form of this action was similarly shallow.
Only, fear could not squelch this persistent nagging feeling that something remained invariably incomplete within me. I thought about it, and then one day I calmly walked to the local drug-store. Near the gay mecca of the Castro, it was well-stocked with various over-the-counter laxatives and Fleet enemas. For the next hours, I ate very little and washed down a few ex-lax with plentiful amounts of water. The following morning, I had second thoughts when I took the enema out of the box. With its long pre-lubricated syringe, it looked like a quasi torture device. For a few minutes, I leaned against the bathroom sink with every muscle in my body clenched until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Looking back, it was like a ritual cleansing before a ceremony in some pagan temple. I was probing my body to initiate rebirth, except no matter how much I pumped myself full with water and salt, I became like the Dead Sea at Sodom. I floated for awhile, but there was nothing to sustain me. It existed for its own sake.
Practice didn’t make it perfect, and it in no way felt natural. It never got better. The constant preparation and rinsing beforehand made sex seem clinical and almost experimental. For a time, I was tenaciously bisexual and I marveled at the hormonal flow of female sexuality. How they required romance and foreplay, something which gay men tried to do away with as evidenced in the hundreds of makeshift “glory-holes” that had been drilled in public restroom stall walls across San Francisco. With the ultimate in depersonalized no-name, and no-face sex, happening wherever there was an open mouth. For women, the eroticization of the pre-sex process prepared their bodies for possible penetration. No such mechanism was at work in the anus of a man.
One day, I was overly zealous in my cleansing procedures and burned myself with the saline solutions. Friends recommended various home-brew enemas using water and baking soda. Another swore by water and aloe-vera; and the strangest recipe being water and instant coffee. A slightly older confidant who I implicitly trusted took me aside and we had a rather peculiar inversion of the father-son talk. He recommended a good proctologist and described his own trials with ineffective remedies such as various salves; he described in detail the pain he underwent from Vaseline applied to anal fissures.
Even just a once weekly regiment of laxatives and enemas dried out the already thin layer of skin that made up the lower colon. One after another, I caught a series of sexually-transmitted diseases: rectal gonorrhea and then rectal chlamydia. I broke out in a rash. Which, at first, barely alarmed me as sometimes the lubricants I used didn’t react well with my sensitive skin. Topical over-the-counter ointments proved useless and the painful blisters and sores appeared to be moving inside. For awhile, I continued to have anal sex. No one seemed to notice my slightly pock-marked behind within the darkened corridors of the San Francisco sex clubs. Only, the pain became intolerable and I visited a local clinic. I was put on a regiment of strong antibiotics. They didn’t sit well with my stomach and for a few days I suffered in pain with constant diarrhea.
It goes on like this and it's a really good read. He ends up collapsed in a gutter with his intestines hanging out of a prolapsed anus. After surgery he tried getting help from the Church only to be hit on by the priests. This kind of thing goes on everyday and in fact this physically and morally harmful form of degeneracy is promoted as something that's healthy and great. It's not and it's destructive for young men. It's almost as dangerous as drug use but nobody ever talks about it. The next time you see some fag hag championing faggots point them at this article and remind her that just because her hair dresser may seem so chipper and friendly he's dying on the inside and sometimes quite literally.
wut?