The Forbidden Joy of Itching Butthole

Today, is the day I break my silence.

Of all the joys this life has to offer, settling a south-westerly itch may very well bring us closest to the divine. Although this one uniting truth is never spoken, much less written, there is little more satisfying in the human experience.

Every so often, the hole of the butt generates an all-powerful itch - one which can only be met with an equal show of force. Sadly, in today's climate, addressing even the mildest of rectal tingles would be social seppuku.

The shame will have wannabe scratchers checking the coast is clear, even in a bolted lavatory. Then, and only then, will they claw their way down that crevice as might a free-falling climber. 

All the mounting anticipation makes the final release so pure. The frenzy washes away all those long minutes of prickling discomfort. Yet the feeling transcends mere relief, blossoming into its own distinct pleasure. I will be the first to admit, breaking off a piece o’ that ass is absolutely sublime.

Of course, the lowermost back-scratch is a foul and sinful act. As such, each bout has an intoxicating sense of the forbidden. The fact the reprieve is so brief only adds to the guilty satisfaction. So wrong, yet so right, in both morality and reason, I put it to you that scratching anus embodies the very duality of man. 

Cleaving at a nagging crack might be the most intimate human behaviour there is. A rogue guff could flee the barracks in range of a partner - it happens. In a lifetime of morning scrambles, you might even coat a toilet bowl while skirting the reflected gaze of your high school sweetheart. 

Maybe I’m just the naive dreamer, they say I am - but I do not believe anyone is harvesting cornhole in front of their significant other.

To be honest, I’m really going out on a sphincter-tinkering limb here. It’s such a personal hobby there’s not much evidence anyone else even practises it. Just occasional CCTV of an all-too regular McDonald’s customer excavating themself in the queue of some backwoods franchise - inevitably, rounding off with a discrete sniff.

For whatever reason, men are of the strong belief that a transparent shower cubicle offers some kind of protective forcefield. There, we feel we can get away with just about anything. 

So, coast cleared, I pincered up all my digits - except the pinky, of course, it deserves better - into a sort of crude hook. If you’re struggling, picture the naked hand of a world-class avian puppeteer. 

But this show was Rod Hull and Emu After Hours. So I got to scratching up a sandstorm, by way of my parted bollucks. After gouging around back there for longer than even I would care to publish - I did reward Emu with an inquisitive little sniff.

At that exact moment, I became aware we were no longer alone. Turning to see eyes and mouth wide with surprise and delight. 

My girlfriend sensed she’d stumbled upon a moment so rare and private that her presence alone was interfering with the natural order of things - like witnessing the birth of a baby panda in the wild.

I stood there frozen, claw at my nose, fingers still pursed tightly together. As an Italian, she instantly shot that gesture back at me, only with a good deal more commotion - but, I would argue, no more passion.

I’d bet the Italian puppet masters are the most expressive on the planet. That said, I’ll take my Great British shit-hook over Pinocchio, any day of the week, thank you very much.

Later I would make the desperate claim I was exploring deep crotch, knowing full well society will always forgive an itchy nacker. But she saw the extent of the dig. I got caught, brown-handed, dragging my beloved puppet and her iconic 🤌 through the dirt.

And that, my itchy-keister-meisters, is why you always make sure. 

Obviously, if it’s itching because you haven’t wiped enough - which, let’s face it, is no exact science - then it is pretty fucking disgusting. 

Especially for us filthy bidet-phobic Brits. Who think washing a used colon with water to be the picture of extravagance. Let’s make Britain British! Why don’t you give your hole a good scrub before looking down on the rest of Europe, y’pigs. Superior, my backside. We’ve got the dirtiest arses on the whole continent.

Take a moment, and spare a thought for the millions around the world, right now, with no choice but to grin and bear it. 

Stranded there, attempting to itch their butthole with their own butthole, one teasing clench at a time. Or grinding between sitting postures, like unwormed mongrels. 

Hold on, brothers and sisters - and, remember, the longer the itch, the sweeter the scratch.