Please Enjoy The Fisting, @Salon and @Vice.

Vice.com had a snigger yesterday about how romance novelists don’t know what fisting is and isn’t that funny. Then Salon got in on the act. (Both links via donotlink.com.)

It’s true. Romance novelists, like all genre novelists, get creative with their use of words, and it is decidedly an easy reach to fist someone’s hair or fist all kinds of things, and yeah, sometimes it doesn’t actually work. Some of this comes because there are overeager editors and houses with zeal about NO BODY PART MUST EVER APPEAR TO ACT INDEPENDENTLY, despite personification/anthropomorphism as actual things. Some of it is because it’s convention, because sometimes it does work.

Yet first bro at Vice randomly sampled some authors (not industry names, either), made some sniggering assumptions, and then Salon zombied over and used the moment to gasp at the ignorance of romance authors.

Jenny Kutner, Mike Lee Pearl, having read your articles I’m assuming you don’t know how to research. Because looking only at this one example of your work tells me everything I need to know about you, at least by YOUR metric. You clearly either didn’t go to college, or you went somewhere grossly incompetent, because you don’t know how to write an article or do any research. You think it’s okay to slap shit up and call it good. Fuck those dippy little romance novelists anyway.

Well, fuck you back, without lube up your clenched assholes, with this. HAT TIP. That is not fisting. That is a humorous dildo. This is more of a fisting dildo, though of course human hands may also be used. Please do actual research before you do this at home, journalists. Or, maybe not. Just make sure someone’s doing it to you, not you to anybody else. PLEASE, people, don’t let these journalists fist you until they go back to school.

Many, many romance novelists and readers know what fisting is. Many of us have written and read fisting scenes which also happen to be moving. Sometimes they’re hot. Sometimes they’re tender. Sometimes they’re both. Sometimes they’re funny! Because we do a lot of research, and we work hard, and so do our editors and publishers. Unlike you, we know how to write. We make a lot more money than you do too, sweetheart.

But before you go, Jenny, Mike: please let me illustrate what fisting in romance looks like. I encourage all romance novelists who have fisting examples to do the same.

***

9781611183801_cover.inddFrom Nowhere Ranch, copyright 2011 by Heidi Cullinan

I headed upstairs, where I knew Travis was waiting for me. Haley wouldn’t have known what that extra little growl in his voice had been about when he told me it was time to go to bed, but I did. Before I headed to the bedroom, though, I hit the bathroom at the top of the stairs, did some business and some prep, and headed down the hall to meet him.

As I knew he would be, he was on the bed, lounging, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He doesn’t look particularly hairy when he’s dressed, because he shaves close and generally wears long sleeves, but he’s actually more than a bit of a bear. His gray-brown hair curls in a thick pelt across his chest and down his arms, and right then it caught the dim lamplight and made me want to jump onto the bed and bury my face in it. His right hand was tucked casually under the pillow, but that just thrilled me more, because I knew why he was hiding it, knew what he was wearing there. He had figured this out last week, and now he hid it to ramp me up.

I undressed without being asked, but I did it slow and extra clumsy, letting my eagerness and my nerves show, because I knew that ramped him up. But I was nervous, yeah. Because I saw the canister on the bed stand, and I saw the towel draped over the bed.

When I was naked, I went over to lie down on that towel. I waited a second, looking him in the eye, and then I pulled my legs back, held them open, and waited.

He pulled his hand — cased in a glove — out from its hiding place and reached for the grease.

It turned me on when we did this all silent, no questions, no instructions, just looks and sounds, but it freaked me out too. For him it added to the wickedness of it all, that he was greasing up with Crisco to shove his fingers way up my ass. I lay there, still and quiet, looking into his eyes as he worked the first finger into me. He watched my face for the first few thrusts, but because he couldn’t help himself, pretty soon he looked down and watched. I did then too. It was fucking hot. He’d propped up a few pillows behind my head, but I leaned forward as much as I could to see his slicked-up fingers — two now — going inside me.

“We really are leaving early in the morning.” He kept his eyes on his work, speaking casually, like pushing his fingers in and out of my ass was just something he had to get done before he went to bed. It made my blood hum.

“Where we headed?” I wasn’t able to be casual. My voice was thick, and my words were raspy. He liked this too.

He added a third finger, and I moaned.

“East.” He pushed his fingers in deep and twisted. “Going to check on something to see if it will work out.”

And that was all the information I was going to get about our errand tomorrow.

His pinky worked its way in beside the others, and I gave up, lay back, and sang.

He had not properly fisted me yet, but the mindfuck was that he could have, because my body and my mind were both ready. I was so fucking ready it wasn’t funny. This game would end tonight, I knew, as it always did, with me red-faced and straining, looking up at him in a haze as I begged in slurred speech for him to please put his hand inside me and fuck me. I would tell him how much I loved his fingers scraping inside me. I would describe my insides with crude and ridiculous terms both, because he liked that — why the hell he got turned on by me saying I wanted him to stroke my velvet channel I don’t rightly know, but Jesus did that make him bite hard on my lip. And let me tell you how I wanted that, no matter what you called it. I wanted so bad to look down and just see his wrist or even forearm showing. I wanted to know he was in me. I wanted to feel so vulnerable and safe at once. I wanted it like I had never wanted anything else.

He greased that hand like you would not believe, working each one of the fingers inside me, pairing them, dividing them, teasing them. Two days before, he had worked me over on the couch like this while we watched a porn where two guys interrogated a prisoner who had allegedly smuggled film canisters in his ass. Travis wore surgical gloves, but in the video it had been a black glove. That night Travis had just about made me climb the walls, digging around in my ass, biting my ear as he whispered, “You got anything in there I need to find?” And I’d said, “Yeah. Get in there and get it.” But he couldn’t find it, he said, so he’d have to dig deeper, and pretty soon I was begging and clutching and begging, sure that was going to be the time he went all the way in. But no.

There was no way it was going to be tonight, with him telling me we had to get up in the morning and go “east.” But the game was that I begged, so I did.

“What do you want, Roe?” He had his hand cupped, thumb tucked, four fingers pushed in to the first knuckle. I was so well greased you could have rammed a silage tower up my ass.

“I want your hand in my ass,” I rasped, and tried to fuck myself on his fingers. “I want to feel your fingers at the back of my throat. I want you to fuck me up to your elbow, sir. I want you to tickle me from the inside. I want that big, bad hand punching at me, making me whine. I want you to fuck me with your fist, Mr. Loving.”

It took me a bit to say all that. Speeches are tricky when you are acutely aware of your ass being stretched. If he’d get that hand in, it’d be a fucking relief. I’d be full as fuck, but the pain would ease. But then his fun of torturing me would end. And it was my job to take what he dished out, so I told him what I wanted, then got ready not to get it.

But that night he leaned over me, looked at me with wicked, wicked eyes, and said, “You remember, boy, that I always give you want you want.”

And he pushed inside.

 

3 Comments on “Please Enjoy The Fisting, @Salon and @Vice.

  1. One of the finest written illustrations of fisting. Ever. I loved Nowhere Ranch. You know I’m going to have to read it again now, don’t you? 🙂

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