The Armageddon Enema
I shit the bed the other night.
Let me back up. Years ago, when my grandparents were convinced that Armageddon was upon us, a farm was bought, food was stockpiled, and an arsenal of weapons was purchased. These items were stored and forgotten in several "storage hallways" under our houses. Included in the mass purchase were numerous medical supplies such as antibiotics, Band-Aids, and ten-to-twenty Fleet home enema kits. I suppose my family thought constipation would be a problem if the nukes fell.
Flash-forward seven-plus years. I'm at home with my girlfriend. On a recent trip to the farm, I stole several of these unused enema kits for no real reason other than I thought it would be funny to display them whenever we have guests over. I like doing stuff like that. Whenever we have guests over, we'll make sure there's a bottle of Astroglide on display somewhere. This was the same deal. Humorous, but never intended for actual use. Never, that is, until the other night.
I was feeling done in. I couldn't win... I couldn't poop, either. Whenever my girlfriend is in town, we tend to do nothing but eat. I think calzones and an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet were the main catalysts. My bowels were reeling and, unfortunately, clogged. It was then that I remembered the enema kits. I asked my girlfriend to watch (incorrectly thinking the experience might be somewhat sexually stimulating) as I gave myself my first ever enema. My girlfriend snapped a picture of my horrified face upon viewing the "pre-lubricated applicator tip." But there was no turning back.
I improvised some "bowel stretches," thinking they might aid in the whole process. I slung my feet over my head and twisted my back. I attempted a downward dog yoga position. Failed. Went back to regular hurdle stretches. My girlfriend put a towel down and I assumed the "right leg tuck" position. After a brief prayer, I began to slowly nuzzle the tip of the bottle against my anus. My girlfriend laughed.
In retrospect, the enema itself wasn't half bad. Dare I say it was moderately enjoyable? I had no trouble inserting the tip and dispensing a goodly amount of the saline solution into my lower intestines. The instructions encourage "holding the liquid as long as possible until the urge to evacuate is strong." For me, this was approximately four minutes.
I hurried to the toilet and emptied my bowels. I have to say: it was a good poop.
The next twenty minutes were spent in blissful defecation. My girlfriend kept checking on me because I was moaning a lot, but that was because it felt so good. People moan when they feel good; at least, I do. I'm a moaner. Yeah.
In celebration of a successful first enema, we had sexual intercourse. It was GOOD sex, too! I felt lighter and more agile than I had in a while. Things wuz 'aight -- until, at one point, mid-coitus, I sat up on my haunches to plan my next move. I felt a familiar rumble that typically indicates a fart is about to occur. I immediately regretted trusting my instincts.
It was a wad of what can only be described as "butt mucous." It was a tiny brown globule of liquid shit.
I said to my girlfriend, "Honey, I've done something bad."
Her hand covered her mouth and I could see the terror in her eyes. She knew what happened, so she did what anyone in the same situation would've done: she laughed.
My white comforter (now off-white) was soiled with my own shit fluid.
The next few days were spent monitoring my farts; I almost ruined a pair of boxer-briefs a day later. Folks, enemas do the job, almost too well. The lesson has been learned: don't steal enema kits from your grandparents medical supply closet or you'll shit the bed in front of your girlfriend.
Sigh. Lesson learned.