ON EATING ASS
- Jan Writer
- Sep 28, 2024
- 4 min read
What is the shape of pleasure? Could it be circular — looping infinitely upon itself, always returning to where it started?
There are those who say the human body is a temple, but a temple, too, has its thresholds, its sanctuaries hidden, its altars in the least expected places. In an act so intimate, we discover that orifices are not mere entry points into the physical but gateways into the metaphysical…
…and rimming — an act often veiled in taboo — invites us to reconsider what it means to give and receive pleasure in its most primal and existential sense.
The tongue becomes the philosopher’s tool, a vessel of inquiry. Does it not feel its way, charting the unexplored, rediscovering landscapes hidden by shame? How easy it is to dismiss the act as vulgar, to recoil, and yet, isn’t that the human condition: to flee from what we don’t understand? Why, then, does one recoil? Is it fear? Or perhaps… reverence?
Nietzsche, in his endless dance with existential dread, spoke of the abyss gazing back, but what if we reframe the question? What if, as we approach the body — its edges, its confines — the void ceases to be an enemy, and instead, becomes the soft flesh of being? Can we embrace it without judgment? Is the rim not the edge of the world and the beginning of another?
There’s an echo of something timeless here, a recurring motif in human exploration — the map marked “Here Be Dragons,” where the world drops off into the unknown. We wander close, step away, then step back. The tongue knows this journey all too well. It moves in circles, does it not? A rhythm as ancient as the tides. So why should this act be cast in shadows? A question that reveals more about society’s own unresolved tensions with vulnerability.
Is it vulnerability that unsettles us? Freud might’ve called it a fixation, a manifestation of the libido finding its way into places where power dynamics dissolve. No longer does the giver or receiver exist in clearly defined roles; it is an act of mutual exposure.
And what of love, or lust? Is it not, at its core, about giving oneself over to another, fully, without reservation? The great Sufi poets wrote endlessly about annihilation in love: to lose oneself, to become the Beloved, to transcend through surrender.
Is rimming not a surrender? A complete and utter release of the self, the ego dissipating like a drop in an ocean of intimacy.
But we are not oceans. We are bodies with borders, skin that remembers every touch, every caress. We are fragile creatures. And in this fragility, there is a kind of purity. Rimming, if we dare say it, is an act of trust. The rim is a boundary, and to cross it is to offer more than just the physical — it is an offering of vulnerability, a laying down of arms.
What is it that Dostoevsky once wrote? “Man is a mystery. It must be unraveled, and if you spend your whole life unraveling it, don’t say that you’ve wasted time. I am studying that mystery because I want to be a human being.”
To study another’s body, then, is to study the essence of being. In each fold, each flicker of sensation, we uncover something profound.
The philosopher’s chair becomes the lover’s bed. It is a sacred space, where the intellectual meets the animalistic, and the tongue — our greatest tool for speech — descends into silence, seeking only to know through the flesh. The paradox of rimming is its very simplicity, is it not? An act of such closeness, such raw humanity, and yet we bury it beneath layers of decorum. Society, with its manicured hands, would have us believe there is something dirty about it, something forbidden. But why?
Perhaps this act, so closely tied to the body’s “lesser” functions, reminds us of our mortality. The body, which we dress in finery and perfume, eventually returns to the earth, decaying, becoming nothing but dust. Is this where the fear lies? That to engage in this act is to confront the body in its entirety — both its pleasure and its decay? But isn’t life itself a dance between creation and destruction, birth and rot?
Where, then, does rimming fit into the grand schema of human experience? What of the mind? Ah, the mind! That pretender. It tries to impose order on the chaos, telling us what is dignified, what is base. But in the moment of raw connection, when the tongue meets the flesh, the mind ceases to matter. The body remembers what the mind forgets. It remembers that pleasure is not linear, not hierarchical, but circular.
Should we fear this circularity? Plato spoke of the Forms — the perfect, immutable ideals — but perhaps the perfect form of intimacy is not the chaste union of souls but the messy entanglement of bodies, where boundaries dissolve, and the divine meets the carnal. To circle, again and again, around the same spot, is to acknowledge that life itself is a loop, ever-repeating, yet ever-new.
In the end, are we not all searching for something to anchor us, even in the fleeting moments of fleshly indulgence? Maybe, just maybe, it is in the act of rimming — where pleasure meets taboo, and touch meets thought — that we find ourselves closest to the truths we seek. A truth that is slippery, yes, but no less profound for its elusiveness.
So, why not ask again: What is the shape of pleasure?
If you find my work meaningful and would like to support me, you can do so through the following:
☕ Buy Me A Coffee:
📱 GCash (QR code):
As an independent writer, your support helps in my continued work. Thank you. 🌹
Commenti