The First Time I Was Fisted in Berlin at 42

By “Markus Miller”

There are moments in your sex life that feel like battle scars — not because they hurt (though, believe me, they can), but because they mark a before and after. For me, that was the night I got fisted for the first time. In Berlin. At 42.

Until then, fisting was one of those “extreme kinks” I’d filed away under that’s too much for me. I’d watched the porn, seen the exaggerated gape shots, heard the horror stories told at brunch — “he wanted to put his whole arm in me, I said hell no” — and decided: not for me. I was a rope guy, a spanking guy, a sometimes-dom, sometimes-sub guy. But not that guy.

And then Berlin happened.

The First Time I Was Fisted in Berlin at 42

The Setup

I’d been living in Berlin for just under a year, long enough for the city to start rearranging the furniture in my head. You go to enough sex parties here and suddenly things you thought were off-limits start looking more like invitations. Rope turns into suspension, spanking turns into caning, and watching turns into… what if I tried that?

The night it happened was one of those infamous warehouse parties where time doesn’t exist. The DJ booth was fog, the air was leather and sweat, and the backrooms were a maze of mattresses. I was drunk on techno and curiosity. That’s when I met him — a guy in his late 30s, sharp jaw, gentle energy. He wasn’t pushy. He wasn’t one of those “you’ll take my arm and like it” types. He just looked me dead in the eye and said:

“Have you ever been fisted?”

The Negotiation

Here’s the thing about Berlin: nothing just happens without a conversation first. That’s what I love about the scene here. People talk. They ask. They check in. So instead of dragging me into the dark corner and opening me up like a matryoshka doll, he sat with me, holding my hand, explaining.

He told me he’d done this dozens of times, that he’d go slow, that it’s about breathing, not force. He explained lube like it was a religion. “You need so much lube it looks ridiculous, and then you need more.”

Something about his calm confidence broke through my nerves. I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s try.”

The First Time I Was Fisted in Berlin at 42

The Moment

We found a quieter room, one red light bulb swaying like a heartbeat. He laid me down and told me to breathe — long, slow exhales, like I was trying to fog up every window in Berlin.

First, a finger. Then two. Then three. My body tightened like it was holding the line. But he didn’t push. He just waited, patient, stroking my thigh, letting me feel the stretch.

When the fourth finger slid in, I gasped so loudly someone outside laughed. My body wanted to reject it, but something else — deeper, more primal — wanted to open.

And then it happened. His fist, gentle but firm, slowly entering me. Not like porn. Not brutal. Not some jackhammer move. It was careful, slow, like my body was deciding second by second if it wanted this, and finally whispering: yes.

I can’t describe it as just physical. It wasn’t pain, exactly. It wasn’t even pleasure in the usual sense. It was intensity. A pressure that started to feel like surrender. Like my whole body had to unclench — not just my muscles, but my ego, my shame, all the parts of me that thought I was “too old” or “too vanilla” for this kind of thing.

And when he was inside, fully, I laughed. Out loud. Because it felt ridiculous and holy all at once. Like my body had become a cathedral and someone had finally found the secret passage.

The Aftermath

Afterwards, we just lay there. He stroked my chest while I stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell had just happened to my life. I was 42, and I felt like a teenager sneaking out to lose his virginity all over again.

Later, on my bike ride home through the empty Berlin streets, I couldn’t stop smiling. Not because I was now “into fisting” (I still don’t know if I am, honestly), but because I’d let myself try something I once thought was impossible. Something my 20-year-old self would’ve judged, mocked, or denied.

I realized then that midlife isn’t a slow fade into boredom — it’s actually the best time to fuck around with your limits. You know yourself better, you care less about what people think, and you’re way more willing to laugh at the absurdity of sex.

Why I’m Sharing This (a little BDSM confession)

I’m not writing this to brag about my extreme kink story. This isn’t “look how hardcore I am.” It’s a confession. I was scared, ashamed even, of my curiosity. I thought being into BDSM was already “enough.” But there’s something about facing the things that scare you — whether it’s a whip, a rope, or a fist — that rewires you.

Berlin just gave me the stage.

The Battle Scar

So yeah, at 42, I got fisted for the first time. And it’s now one of my favorite scars — invisible, but carved into my memory. When I tell the story, some people quietly whisper: “God, I want to try that too.”

To them, I say this: you don’t have to wait until Berlin, and you don’t have to wait until 42. But whenever it happens, don’t think of it as extreme. Think of it as an opening.

Because sometimes, the biggest thing you let inside isn’t a fist. It’s the permission to want what you want.