(Warning. This post gets anal.)

As I was sitting in a TD Bank two days ago, basking in the air-conditioned, pollen-less reprieve from the sun and waiting to cash my paycheck, I was hit with  a sudden, unavoidable truth. A truth that has changed my life forever.

Anal sex hurts.

I know, pretty weird to think about while waiting for an available banker but, trust me, I’m getting to a point.

Don’t get me wrong, anal sex does feel pretty darn good (some would say “ass-openingly good”), but when I was a young, impressionable and darn horny college freshman, nobody prepared me for just how painful it was. Even now, as someone who’s quite familiar with the activity (read: bona fide sexpert), I always say that to like anal sex, you have to be a little bit of a masochist, because the initial pain is inescapable. For someone attempting anal sex for the first time, the sensations rate somewhere around white-hot, searing, invasive, and just plain awkward feeling. Even though I was experimenting with someone I trusted and who knew how to be gentle, it took several [dozen] attempts before I could overcome the pain enough to participate in something that remotely resembled “doin it.”

And I’ll never forget the day I was able to…well, “do it.” There was nothing particularly special about that day. I had classes. Did some studying and some laundry. Met up with my trusted friend and drank a little at a mutual friend’s place. Went back to our dormitory, and drunkenly decided to give the ol’ horizontal mambo yet another try. It started off just as every other attempt – hot foreplay that would have been even hotter if I hadn’t been so mentally preoccupied with the pain I knew was coming. And when the painful part did finally arrive, it was just as intense as it had been the very first try.

Only this time something was different. In my head. I don’t know if it was the booze (though it wasn’t the first time we’d tried it after drinking), or maybe the Greek Classics class I’d had that day was so damn boring that it literally left my body numb, but I was more than ever determined to, as a friend would put it, “have the sex.” I grit my teeth, closed my eyes, and told my friend to not stop no matter what (and considering all the times I’d inadvertently blue-balled him, I knew I didn’t have to tell him twice.)

I can still remember the pain as vividly as if I were right back on that too-small dorm bed. My eyes were tearing up, a different kind of moan was escaping my lips, and my body was quivering with the effort it took to not clench and push away. Every thrust felt like a red-hot knife impaling me, and my mind was screaming “it shouldn’t feel like this!” over and over again. About a minute into it and I was ready to scream out “Banana!!!” despite the fact that we hadn’t discussed a safety word.

And then something happened.

Somewhere between the clinched teeth and cries for mommy (and the realization that crying for mommy when you’re being penetrated is kind of depraved), the intense pain began to lessen. From a sharp pain to just an awkward throb. I relaxed a little, and the pain dulled even more. I loosened my jaw and opened my eyes, and not only did the pain near completely go away, but in its place was a newer sensation that I instantly recognized as pleasure. It was as completely foreign to me as the pain was, but also just as intense. Before I knew it I was participating, I was liking it. And, when we both climaxed, more than feeling completely worn out, I was strangely proud of myself for having finally “done it.”

And then we did it again.

Flash back to me sitting at the bank. You see, I was sitting, as opposed to standing in line, because I wanted to do a bit more than just cash my paycheck. That day, I opened a savings account for the very first time.

For me, this is, as our Vice President would say, a Big Fucking Deal.

Everyone who knows me knows that I’m notoriously bad with saving money. Bad with money in general. And though I’m markedly better with handling my finances now, the one aspect of being a financially independent adult that has constantly eluded me is putting money away. Not just in my checking account to be used damn-near instantly, but in a savings account — to not be touched on a whim (that’s what she said), but to compile and grow for some unforeseeable chapter of my life. A life altering purchase, or just security from the unpredictable.

I’ve always wanted to start a savings account, and I’ve had plenty of opportunities to get the ball rolling. Many times I had stood in line at the bank thinking, “I’m going to ask this woman about starting a savings account. This is the day I’m going to do it. ” But then, like the devil sitting on my shoulder, I’d think of all the things I could use my money for now. I’d think of the new clothes or shoes I could buy. I’d think of the new iPod I wanted, or the recipe I saw on Food Network that I really wanted to try but required expensive ingredients. I’d think about how badly I wanted to buy something – anything – from Ikea. I would let myself get so caught up in the instant gratification of spending my money now that I’d push back from that tiny voice telling me I should be more responsible and put the money away.

That day though, when I went to the bank to cash my check, I was more than ever determined to add one more notch to my bedpost of responsibility (corny analogy?check).  I decided I’d skip the teller completely and instead talk to one of those people who sit at the desks and don’t really look like they’re doing much of anything. And as I sat there waiting, the little devil sitting on my shoulder was working overtime. I could – no, I needed – to buy several new pairs of jeans because the crotch split in my favorite pair the day before. I needed to go to the Major Lazer concert. I needed to get a new desk for my room. I began to cringe at the thought of logging into my account online and seeing a sum of money that I couldn’t just spend. It was my money, I had worked hard to earn it, but I couldn’t touch it. The idea was, in it’s own way, painful and invasive. And as I was flagged over to a woman sitting at one of the desks, and as I pondered how painful it would be to part with my money and not immediately get something in return for it, the thought hit me:

Anal Sex Hurts.

And I sat down in front of the woman, and with a face that I hoped looked mature and not scared shitless, I told her that I wanted to open a savings account. After some typing on the keyboard in front of her she asked me how much I would like to deposit. I started small. I told myself I didn’t need to go overboard and deposit my entire paycheck.

Just 100 dollars would do for a first time.

I sucked it up, clenched my jaw, and held my resolve as she handed me several forms to initial. And when she gave me the receipt that showed my checking account at a balance 100 dollars less than what it could have been, it took all I had to smile, thank her, and walk away.

Her smile, of course, came naturally. She’d gotten what she wanted.

I left the bank, and as I walked down the street, I couldn’t help but feel that I had made a mistake. That maybe I shouldn’t have opened the savings account that week. After I paid my rent, and my share of the utility bills, and a few other necessary purchases, I would be 100 dollars closer to flat broke. It wasn’t a good feeling, and when I passed my favorite H&M on my way to the subway, my stomach sank when I realized that they were having a sale. I was almost considering going back to the bank and closing that account when, once again, the thought hit me:

Anal Sex Hurts.

And then I realized, I had finally done it. That thing I had attempted many times to do was finally a thing that I did. I had put money away in a savings just like a mature adult. Suddenly, I felt less nauseous and wrong. Suddenly, I stopped thinking about all the things that I could have bought with that 100 dollars, and started thinking of all the things that money symbolized now that it wasn’t immediately available for me to spend. The money was the start of future for me. It was the the initial investment in a life altering purchase, and the foundation for what would be my security from the inevitable. That paltry 100 bucks was, in no uncertain terms, a sign that I had grown up just a tiny bit more. And I began to feel good about my decision.

So good, in fact, that when I get off of work today I’m going to the bank. Because, like anal sex, I wanna do it again.