Mother’s Day weekend got me all nostalgic.

When I arrived home with my two hot roommates, dear old Lydia kicked it into high gear and began to do what mothers do best: embarrassing the shit out of their children. She flipped through gigantic leather albums, sliding out one picture that, due to some incomprehensible maternal reasoning, she thought would be of particular interest to the girls I adore. The photograph depicted me as I lay in her arms, dinosaur book in one hand, bottle of milk in the other. My roommates swooned over my bright red pajamas with sewn-on feet and the size of my gigantic baby head.

I looked at the snapshot of myself passed out, bottle in hand, and wondered if things have even changed.

“And to think,” my mother beamed, “that I used to change those diapers.”

Good to know I can count on mom to remind any group of beautiful women I happen to bring home that I used to make bam-bam in my overalls. Peed myself a lot too.

Jesus, have things changed?

The weekend got me nostalgic for other reasons. Visited an old friend who made his way up to San Francisco, smoked a bit in his apartment as we went over old times. He pointed out the page from the Daily Nexus he had hanging on his bedroom wall, a year-old comics spread featuring the fantastic story of how he spent Mother’s Day, 2004. As I gazed upon the gray rectangles, my head spun with disbelief; how the fuck have I been the sex columnist for the entire year and I still have yet to talk about brachiovaginal eroticism? What kind of irresponsible hack am I?

I feel that I owe it to you, the youth, to drop a bit of knowledge in regards to this most taboo territory. I mean, when it comes to fresh fodder for sex columns, after the last two years of starlets waxing erotically about their sex lives, hot topics are slim pickings. But I figure, what better way to begin wrapping up the year than by exploring something involving serious raunch and paunch? Something that not even the most elite of Isla Vistan ass owners have gotten down with?

Exactly one year ago this week, an ex-roommate of mine engaged in what is, without a doubt, the most extreme form of sexual intercourse ever conceived. Spelling it out colloquially, brachiovaginal eroticism is most commonly referred to as “fisting,” as it involves a complete insertion of the hand into the female genitalia. Despite its name, however, fisting does not involve forcing the clenched fist into the vagina or anus the way I shove my fist through the television every time the giants lose. Instead, all five fingers are kept straight and held as close together as possible, like the head of a goose shadow puppet, then slowly inserted into an extremely well-lubricated vagina or anus. Once insertion is complete, the fingers either clench into a fist or remain straight, perhaps wiggling around like squid tentacles if she was wearing hoop earrings when you met.

I suppose that if you’re craving even more bang for your buck, you could politely ask for some brachioproctic engagement, or anal fisting. When I looked up this move in the Guide to Getting It On, they said that all willing participants should consult a physician if they feel they must explore this option. A move in the bedroom that you should plan out with your doctor first – that, dear readers, is a bit much.

I find the act commendable based on its pure brazenness. We’ve all sized up potential partners, wondered what they’re into or what we could get away with during a nocturnal carnal carnival, but there is something incredibly presumptuous when considering whether or not your entire hand will fit inside of them. How many times have they been around the block? Fist times?

I can understand trying new things, keeping yourself open to new experiences… really, really open in this case. But for me, it feels only rational to assume that anyone I meet who has been explored with an entire knuckle sandwich or desires to be is the sort of person I wouldn’t want to introduce to a friend.

I would like to take time at this point in the column to claim that my knowledge of fisting is all thirdhand. I have never engaged in the act, and the one time I came across it in a porno, I had to look away. The sight of it was just… it’s just so giant desert tortoise.

Daily Nexus sex columnist Dave Franzese still makes bam-bam in his jeans whenever the Dodgers win, assholes.