Anal Bleaching 101: Is It Dangerous To Bleach Your Butt Hole?

[The following story from Carlton Paul is my favorite piece from the second issue of Das Einhorn, and it appears here courtesy of Das Einhorn editor Paul Bookstaber. Thank you Paul, and thank you Carlton for your words (and the picture of your asshole). And be sure to get the entire second issue of Das Einhorn.]

July 4th, 1985, was the day I fell in love with ass. And by ‘ass’ I don’t mean the butt. I mean the hole, the mysterious, puckered x, unique to every guy, that marks the spot where every red-blooded top wants to bury his bone, and usually his tongue too. The asshole. In this case the asshole belonging to a skinny blonde redneck named Jason.

We were in jr. high school, best friends with benefits, and I had grown bored with his mouth. Jason had a little head that housed a tiny tooth-filled torture chamber, and I was looking for options. I didn’t really want to kiss those braces. It annoyed me that he pretended we were a couple when we were alone. But what frightened me most of all about this arrangement was that I liked it, and that meant that my brothers were right, and I was a giant faggot. I wasn’t a knitting, boa-clad queer, but I definitely had an affinity for sweaty boys.

His parents were having a BBQ when he led me under the house into the crawl space for a surprise. Leading up to this moment I had been distant and mean. I‘d like to think that I have emotionally grown from that young little douchebag place I came from, but truthfully these are still my go-to emotions. A couple of nights before we had argued because I was ready to fuck him and he wouldn’t let me anywhere near his ass. I showed him pictures of butt-fucking that I’d cleverly managed to procure. (Central Arkansas in the pre-internet 80’s was not a gay porn haven.) He called me nasty and declared that I’d have to be happy with blowjobs.

But now he was guiding me into a dark, spider-filled crawl space to give me his virgin ass. Like the little lady that he was, he had arranged a carpet, pillow and candles just so. My teenage cock went rigid. I wonder now who was the one really being seduced there. What I didn’t realize then under that house was that soon I would be a slave to the hole, that holes would boss me around for the rest of my life, and that my adoration/infatuation/obsession with taught PINK man snatch would consume most of my remaining hours on this planet.

We quickly got undressed and then he lay down on his stomach. This was new! Pleased I wouldn’t have to make out with him and his braces, I positioned myself on top of him and started rubbing my dick on his ass. He responded by raising his ass in the air a little. I pushed, but there was no entry. I decided I should kiss his neck to help pry that vise open. I have sometimes been a bit too confident of my own charms, and this was one of those occasions. That ass was locked shut. There was but one thing to do. But was I really going to lick my buddy’s ass?

OH HOLY DAY! Yes… It turns out you can put your mouth on it without tasting shit. Once I arrived at the glorious Y, I set up camp, spread his legs and got myself my first real taste of ass. I arranged the candles so I could see better, and what I saw was Heaven. On such a pale boy, it looked so pink. Talk about showroom new! This image, a pristine butt with its new car smell, would follow me for the rest of my days. Every subsequent ass I was destined to meet over the years got compared to Jason’s. And worse, I would use this memory to torture myself about my own asshole: dirty, dark and dank.

Following my sexy time under Mrs. R’s kitchen, I became curious about my own hole. So I placed a large mirror on the floor of my bathroom and peeked into my nether regions. It was pink-ish. Actually it was more like a nice rosy magenta. Some might have even said mauve. I suppose it looked appealing. But, if I was going to be honest with myself, it was not as inviting as that perfectly pink masterpiece I had just used.

I felt an immediate wave of embarrassment at my less than perfect hole. In the same way that The Captain needed Tenille, I needed a pink hole! The exact shade of pink didn’t matter — bubblegum, blush, bashful — so long as it was pink. The problem was the means of achieving this desired pinkness. None existed, as far as I knew.

My hole woes did not stop me from growing into a functional young homo and falling in love with a successful professional. We got married and I eventually became comfortable letting him munch away on my bum, imperfect though it was. I even let McBigDick fuck my hole at his pleasure. I was a happy “bottom.”

Our monogamy followed the way of all good things and eventually came to pass. AIDS was roaring. I was 28, single, surprisingly HIV-negative and often high. I made a rule for myself that if I was going to be on all kinds of drugs whoring around, then I would be as safe as my condom-hating self could be. No more bottoming. This played right into my well-lubed hand, as it would also serve to protect the dirty little secret that my asshole that was less than perfectly pink.

Fast forward 13 years, and being a top has worked for me. I’m still negative knock on wood. I love to fuck. I love to eat ass. I am a happy man. But my asshole has the hunger of 5 fat kids. I have denied myself that which I yearn for and I’m not exactly sure why. Yes, it’s a bit dark, but in good shape. And over the years I would feed it occasionally, twice a year so as not to hurt anyone. AIDS was the excuse, even to myself; but I could have used condoms, so what was stopping me?

Denial is an interesting thing. We create these personas that exemplify whom we want the world to see, and I had become a caricature of this silly macho-ismo Top who is virtually emotionless and cares only about holding a boy down and using his asshole for my pleasure. I am that, but this isn’t all. I like to cuddle for fuck’s sake. The battle would rage in my mind for my entire 40th year.

I was trapped in my own rhetoric. Where was that sweet compassionate boy I once was? The one who let his partner inside of him? How could I have drifted so far? These questions persist. Why am I constantly trying to prove that I am a top? Do tops have to be distant cold douchebags?

Bottoms do like bad boys, harsh men, aggressive fuckers, but where does that logic leave the elder top’s brain? As my psyche contorted itself over the years to become what I wanted the world to see, what had the cost been?

Had my discolored rectum turned me into an asshole?

There was only one choice. Bleach. That is what my mother does when something has a spot on it. This is the magic fluid that washes away the filth from Powerhouse each night. Maybe bleach would remove my shame and help fix my head.

My quest for a renewed sense of self began at the It’s All About You Salon in the Castro. Yes, they do anal bleaching. No, it doesn’t hurt. Yes, you have to get on all fours and expose your sensitivity to that little queen. No, I wasn’t going to do that.

Next, under the ruse of a cancerous mole on my neck, which was probably there at birth, I scheduled an emergency appointment with a dermatologist. While she was freezing my non-existent cancer I quietly asked, “Is it dangerous to bleach your butt hole?” Dr. Poindexter was taken aback, but tried to play it cool. She replied, “I’ve heard of that but I thought it was a punch line. Are you serious? What is wrong with it now?”

Oh God! I thought I was ready for this conversation, but I was wrong. I sheepishly muttered, “I was just wondering.” Taking the bull by the horns she said, “I can check into it for you, but that is a very sensitive area that I probably would not recommend messing with unless it needs surgery.” SURGERY?! What the hell?! Maybe I was more damaged than I had imagined!

I left my hole to sauté in its darkness. Until one sunny afternoon, out lunching with one of my besties — a doctor’s wife with nerves of steel — I suggested we run an errand after our meal, insisting I was too ashamed to go by myself. He had to join me.

As we entered Rock Hard on Castro I found a new sense of strength and blurted out to the poor, unsuspecting attendant, “I hear you have anal bleach. Can we see some?” It wasn’t that humiliating. I claimed to be writing an article and was doing research. DENIAL.

A sex toy company called Lick & Luck just happens to produce a premium anal whitening formula for the low cost of $50. Had I known I could have soothed my ache for $50 I would have thrown money at it long ago!

The warning on the box is gnarly. The main ingredient is water. It is a white cream. There is virtually NO information online about this product. Aside from high-end female strippers it is mostly untested. The first time I put it on I was so scared I unconsciously clenched my asshole to the point that I could hardly find it. The directions on the box say to apply and leave on your skin. In my mind, you apply bleach and then wash off. You can’t possibly leave bleach on and not remove it, right?! Are they fucking insane? Am I insane? Maybe this is stupid. Maybe I’m a 40 something homo with serious issues who is about to have a blistered asshole.

But it went on nice, ever so cool and pleasant. After a moment, it began to feel a little warm. Not like burning, but an awareness at my hole that I wasn’t used to. I liked it. It was moist, but not too wet or swampy. I had taken ‘before’ pictures and my curiosity was worked. After the first week there was definitely some improvement. But the solution is greatly weakened so as not to irritate the precious membranes. This was going to be a long process.

I began to apply daily because I wanted a pink asshole, and I wanted it now! On day 8, I noticed it was super sensitive to the touch, so I bent over and had a look in my full-length mirror. The horror! The worst had happened. There was a blister! Oh fuck, what have I done? I’m going to be disfigured and grotesque!

My Aquarian nature took over as I let the drama settle all around me. It will be fine. I don’t like it played with anyway. Who the fuck will ever see it? Calm down. I applied a little soothing ointment and got on with my day. Honestly I forgot about it, or I would have whined about it to my boss.

The next day my daddyhole was mostly back to normal, except for being a bit sensitive. I decided it was definitely lighter in shade. For a couple of days I left it alone. Around day 15 I applied again but more sparingly, and with caution. On day 17 I took the ‘after’ photograph. The third photograph is from day 28. I wanted to see if the results stayed or changed.

Confidence is a funny thing. And confidence in the color of your asshole is hilarious. You might not see a difference. It might not taste different. But I know it is different. In my mind, my hole is now as pink as a bow in the hair of a 12-year-old girl. And that makes me feel good about my body. I wore assless pants to the Mr. SF Leather Contest and wondered the whole time if mine was the pinkest hole in the room.

Now, here are a few truths about the asshole. Each one is unique. Some are tight; some are loose. Some are hairy; some are not. But most of all, they come in an array of hues. The color of the hole itself is as varied as the color of our skin collectively. Some are purple, some brown, some even darker brown, and some pink. (I even know one that can sing the star spangled banner, but that is a matter for another column entirely.)

I think they all feel good on the inside, but it would be untruthful for me to say that I don’t greatly prefer the sweet little pink ones. I’m sure you are fine. If you absolutely must have the pink hole of a teenage virgin, however, and you don’t want to do it yourself, then I recommend you visit the It’s All About You Salon on Castro. Like a scene from ‘Deliverance,’ the aforementioned queen with the bleach-filled cream will order you to get on your hands and knees and expose your hole so that he can do unspeakable things to it. Squeal like a pig, boy!! If you’re like me and this isn’t an option for you, then by all means stop by Rock Hard on Castro St. Tell them Carlton sent you.

[Das Einhorn]

6 thoughts on “Anal Bleaching 101: Is It Dangerous To Bleach Your Butt Hole?”

  1. OneOfTheManyChris

    Hate to get serious on a topic which is illustrated by a hairy asshole, but the answer is a solid “yes.” These things contain hydroquione, which is a carcinogen and banned in Europe. US allows a weak version to be sold over the counter but stronger versions are sold illegally all over the place–mostly to dark-skinned women who think men are racist pigs who won’t marry a dark girl. Anyhow, think long and hard about how badly you want a pink hole before you put this stuff on your tender rear.

  2. Esoterica Fade Cream Nighttime $8.99 at Amazon. It’s DIY and it works! It wont turn a dark brown one hot pink but it will lighten 3-4 shades gradually. As with everything use a little common sense don’t try to achieve success in 20 minutes. Stay away from “It’s all About You” (I bet the state of CA would love to know they are bleaching ass holes) and Rock Hard.

  3. Interesting read.

    Don’t get the title though. Of course, it’s not dangerous. Those skanks in str8 porn have been bleaching their assholes and coochie lips for years.

  4. One of my best friends applied kitchen bleach directly to his asshole and rubbed it in. The first I knew was a screaming phonecall informing me of what he had done 20 minutes before, and how his hole was now on fire, burning, and extraordinarily painful. I actually can’t remember the outcome, but he went to hospital that night and had to explain what happened (needless to say I didn’t attend with the stupid cunt). It was a laugh at the time, and he was ok in the end, but damn, even I was surprised at his stupidity.

    He was such a dumb bitch.

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