As I parted my cheeks, I heard her say, “I’m just going to put this here for a few minutes so you can get used to it.” I didn’t know whether to suck my thumb, call 911, or simply let the mystery lady have her way with my derriere. Nothing had prepared me for the protocol of a colonic.
It all started a few weeks ago. One of those daily-deal websites sent me my destiny, and I eagerly purchased a colonic for half price. I told only my closest friends about my purchase, and their reactions were mixed. Those in favor gave me an enthusiastic “Hell yeah!” while a look of bewilderment swept over the faces of others.
On the day of my appointment, I had been busy all day. I looked at my watch and realized I had to rush out the door if I was going to get there on time. Only when I got in my car did what was about to happen hit me. I knew it was too late to change to a later date, due to the clinic’s forty-eight-hour cancellation policy, so off I went to have some total stranger stick a garden hose up my ass. I can’t even poop in a public bathroom. What was I thinking?
I arrived at the clinic to find a very welcoming receptionist. After she greeted me by name, she asked loudly, for all to hear, if I was ready for my colonic. I scanned the lobby to see if I knew anyone. Couldn’t she have whispered? She then led me down a long hallway of white mirrors, flowing white curtains, and polished concrete. This made me realize that I was doing something very hip and modern. It almost relaxed me.
Upon opening the door after a shower, I was greeted by Inga. She was about fifty and had long brown hair and a big smile on her face. She informed me that she would be doing my colonic. There she was—the face of feces, smiling right back at me. The introduction was brief; then she led me to the poop room.
When I arrived, she instructed me to hoist the white robe I was wearing and plant my cheeks on the exam table while she exited the room. And so I did. When she returned, I had my twig and berries covered with the robe, but my cheeks were firmly planted on the table, which was covered with tissue paper. As the door closed behind her, she asked me to roll to my side and expose my ass to her. That’s when it hit me: I should have trimmed. I should have tanned. I should have done ten shots before entering this place. But it was too late—Poopsie was staring at me and waiting for me to roll over. What the hell—I had paid for this humiliation, after all. And so I did as I was told.
Poopsie was a lovely woman who informed me that she was going to be placing a hose up my rectum to rid me of the shit that had built up over the years. Yes, she used the word shit. Wasn’t prepared for that. Couldn’t we have called it something else? Poo particles, fecal matter? Anything but shit. But it was too late. She had chosen the term, and she continued to use it for the duration of our session.
Once the hose was inserted, I wanted to run out the door. But then I realized that I would probably not get too far. There was a hose up my bum, and all my clothes were in a jute basket on the polished concrete floor. And so I lay there. She informed me every step of the way of what was happening. I wish she hadn’t; Poopsie let me know that she had gotten into enemas in the ’80s but had turned to colonic therapy once it became popular. She also informed me that she was always a real crowd-pleaser at dinner parties. I just wanted to know how often she washed her hands.
Warm water was pumped carefully inside me and then withdrawn, based on the pressure gauges I watched. As she poked my abdomen, she asked me not to push, but to let it happen naturally. My poo held on for dear life at first, but then, slowly, it began dissolving. Poopsie squealed like a twelve-year-old when my brownout would make it through the clear hose. She was a special lady. I eventually got used to the warm water being pumped in and out of my ass, and found a sense of pride in watching my body let go of what it was storing.
Once we were finished, Poopsie informed me that she would be removing the tube and that I would need to make my way to the toilet rather quickly. And boy, was she right about that. It was like a poltergeist had taken hold of my body. I spewed like a freshly surfaced whale. I was afraid the water level would rise so much that I would have a gully washer on my hands. And so the flushing began. And continued. And continued.
When I opened the door, there stood Poopsie, so proud of her work. She had a smile on her face and water in her hands. She said only, “Feel better?”
That was the last I saw of the lady who had gone where no lady had gone before, and as I left the building and noticed people working in all types of jobs. I realized I was nothing special to her; I was merely another guy with a hose up his butt who had crossed her path that day. Did I feel used? Not a chance. I had a story to tell and an experience to last a lifetime.