Num bum blues

CREATED ON // Friday, 06 June 2014 Written by // Barry Lowe

Long-distance travel is not the only thing that numbs your nether regions, writes Barry Lowe.


It will never be an Olympic competition sport, but sitting in a plane or train for twelve hours should be. It has to be one of the worst tests of human endurance known to pampered 21st Century humans.

The first four hours pass with relative ease. The fidgets and attempts to find the right butt cheek to rest on consume the next few hours. The get up and stretch your legs routine follows but that only goes to reinforce how uncomfortable you are.

At the six-to-seven hour mark, it really begins to do your brain in and no amount of wriggling or butt exercise will make the remainder of the journey palatable.  Fortunately, the discomfort is a bit like childbirth, you forget it just before you do it all over again.

I once had the bright idea of a silicone cure, inserting a butt plug before my extended seated period. In my naïveté, I believed the black traffic cone rubbing against my prostate would alleviate the bum numbing experience. Alas, I wriggled even more uncontrollably until the guy seated next to me thought I had an attack of the crabs and asked to be moved. Sure, that was extra space for me, but my underpants were a mess by the time we got to our destination. I didn’t know a penis could produce so much precum, or that I could still have that many ejaculations in a 12-hour period at my age.

Long-distance travel is not the only thing that numbs your nether regions. I once had the misfortune to share a small terrace with a number of young gay guys and I had scored the bed next to the window. My BF of the time was a fresh-air freak and insisted we sleep with the window up. Said BF also had one of the largest cocks of any of my relationships. Alas, I awoke each morning with incredible lower back and coccyx pain from the cold draft through the window. To then have my legs thrown in the air and my arse pounded into the mattress for a morning glory was agony. I wish now we’d just moved instead of breaking up.

I’ve been-there-done-that with the sphincter numbing Vicks Vaporub (or other muscle relaxing gels) on a dark and drunken night in mistake for petroleum jelly in pre-AIDS days. I’m not sure which is worse, a burning knob or a fiery arse furnace. Of course, wetting it only makes it worse. I also had a fuck buddy who didn’t like to use lube; reckoned it loosened a guy’s hole so that there was no traction. Dry fucking was his solution, perhaps a little spit if I clenched too severely. On those occasions I really did wish I was numb down there.

The greatest bum number of all though was Troy. He of the 40-foot cock. Slight exaggeration, but he was definitely on the larger side of Jeff Stryker. Fortunately, he did believe in lube, and lots of it. I still see him having coffee with friends at one of the restaurants along the route to the Opera House, and my arse twitches in recollection. He’d usually do me doggie fashion and could last for hours, leaving my hole numb and exhausted, and so wide I could hear the wind whistling up my butthole every time I walked to the corner shop.


Barry Lowe

Barry Lowe

Barry Lowe writes about sex so he won't forget what's it like. When he's not scribbling his adventures for SX¸ or out doing field research, he's writing about its wonderful variations for a series of smut eBooks, novels and anthologies.

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