I wasn’t anticipating the release from my cage to be so violent—but I suppose, once the doors are swung open, even the most timid bird will catapult themselves to freedom.
I’d started seeing someone just as the air began to harden and the trees transitioned from their fiery masses to barren claws. It’s that tricky time in the city when the weather necessitates a partner for warmth and a confidant for dormant depression. The cold nights and unpredictable radiators run by incompetent supers demand it.
The Psychiatrist was cute. Nothing that would inspire objectification with likes or obscene emojis—but that’s not what makes a husband...necessarily. He seduced me in other ways. He was exotic, unique. He showed me things I could be a part of, different things I wanted from my life. It was inspiring and convenient, which was necessary given the season. So, I jumped. I embraced the exposure to new ideas, new flavors of tea that surprised and enchanted. I embraced spending time in a different borough, with his friends, holiday parties filled with new traditions—and bottoming. This proved to be the biggest adjustment, for my mind and the rigid walls of my anal cavity. He was big. Not the biggest dick I’d ever taken, but he wasn’t small—and it had been so long since I’d bottomed. The first time we tried was a real doozy. I just...I couldn’t deliver. I couldn’t relax. My hole all but refused to let him in. #winning
Because of the frantic nature of holidays in the city, we’d spent several nights together—but none that ended in successful penetration. The timing was always off. Because of our packed schedules, I never had adequate time to prepare and I was constantly nervous any attempt would end with my lunch painting the walls of his bedroom. The longer we went, the louder I could hear the clock of intimacy ticking down. If we didn’t fuck soon, it was going to turn into a ‘thing’ and there’s nothing less sexy than that. So, I actively began looking for the perfect opportunity—and one night in mid-December, I found it. I’d taken all the proper precautions. I was squeaky clean— ready for him—but we fell asleep on the couch before anything got going. There’s nothing like dating in your thirties...
Almost immediately after this foiled attempt, I had a family vacation planned that would put me out of town for several days. I was worried about this time away—thinking we may have moved past the point of no return. But on day one, just as I began to prepare myself for lapses in texting that would eventually transition to silence, he hit me with an invitation.
“When you’re back, come straight to my place from the airport. I want to see you the minute you’re in town.”
This was my chance. I couldn’t cock this up. My mind started racing…how was I going to make this happen? How was I going to arrive impossibly fresh, ready for the taking? I thought back to my bottoms of yesteryear. There were surely tricks I could unearth from their routines. In an instant, a host of them came parading through my memory. There was The Boy, who should be shot for his inadequate preparation—shit, everywhere. The Alcoholic, but he would wait so late to get prepped I’d fall asleep on the couch. Ooo, what about The Cancer Patient? HE was a champion—my fist would come out clean each time. The minute my mind drifted to him, our sexcapades came flooding back. Then, suddenly, I remembered the evening he’d exposed his secrets. We were laying in a spent heap on my bed,
“How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?”
“How do you power-wash your insides like that? It’s like you don’t even shit out of there. It’s so clean.”
He smiled, clearly proud of himself.
“A bottom never reveals his secrets…” he whispered as he pressed his ass against me with intoxicating buoyancy.
He was a professional.
“Come on…please?” I whispered, my mouth full of his neck.
“Oh innnnteresting. Is that it?”
“I do that first, let it simmer, and then follow it up with regular douching.”
“Fascinating. Well, don’t stop. Whatever you’re doing is clearly working…”
He pushed into me again, cutting me off…
This is where the hard edges of my memory begin to fade, and my mind regresses into the hazy physical recollection of our sex.
Glycerin suppositories… I wasn’t quite sure how they worked—or even what they looked like—but I was willing to give them a shot. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. My insides were going to shine like the top of the Chrysler building. My anal cavity was going to be shockingly devoid of any and all fecal matter. It was going to whistle when I farted.
I did a little research on the suppositories and discovered they were easy to get—CVS or the like should have them no problem. So, I put together a little shopping list and looked for a free moment to ditch my fam. We’d been together every waking moment of our trip and I was worried any detour would raise a side-eye or two—proper planning was key. I patiently waited for an opening, but a clear opportunity never came. The day of my flight arrived and my window for escape was narrowing uncomfortably. Yes, I’m a grown adult—but in my moment of urgency I was reduced to my childhood self, needing airtight explanations for every action, feeling watched with every breath.
As my anticipation mounted, it got to a point where I couldn’t contain it anymore—I needed to make sure this ass was getting douched. Everyone was milling about the suite, focused on their specific tasks. I grabbed the opportunity. I mumbled something about needing to run an errand and was out the door and down the block before any prying questions could come flying at me.
There was a drugstore within eyeshot of the hotel. I only needed a douche and these suppositories—it should be a quick trip. But the minute I crossed the threshold, I was suddenly, painfully, aware of what I there to buy. I pulled my hat down lower on my head, I was no longer in the middle of the gayborhood. I ducked into aisles and hid behind displays. I wasn’t quite sure where I could locate these items in this unfamiliar layout. I made my way to the pharmacy and tried to pair calm movements with the frantic darting of my eyes. I don’t know why I assumed the patrons or employees would care, or even know, but something about being there to buy things to cleanse my ass of shit made me feel watched—judged.
Luckily, a woman came up and distracted the pharmacist and I was able to scoop and swoop my way through the various shelves until I found both items on my list. I accidentally grazed the woman when I was picking up the douche, but my movement was singular and I was out of there and to the self checkout before she could realize what was in my hand.
Back at the hotel, I had the unique challenge of waltzing in with a bag full of suppositories and douche. I had some elaborate story planned, but when I arrived everyone was busy packing—I was able to slip in relatively unnoticed. Apparently, there was a missing shoe that was causing quite a ruckus. I beelined for my suitcase and slipped my supplies safely under my dirty socks, feigning interest in the damn shoe, when I realized the flaw in my plan... WHEN was I planning to actually use these supplies?! I had been so focused on obtaining the necessary accoutrement, I’d lent no thought to the execution of the act. Fuck. I was supposed to be heading to the airport within the hour. Even if I was willing to chance this advanced-level douching—at least 7 hours before the act—there was no way I’d get enough alone time to try. I was sharing a bathroom with three other people. Fuck. What was I going to do? I needed to make sure this one wasn’t going to get shoved into the friend-zone just because I couldn’t get my shit together...literally. Then, from the other room, I heard,
“Make sure you go to the bathroom—you’d hate to have to go on the plane. Those bathrooms are so tiny and gross.”
Then it dawned on me. That was it—my only option. I was going to have to douche on the plane.
This was...not what I’d planned, but what other choice did I have? I had to act quickly. I’d been given a handwritten invitation for alone time in the bathroom—southern mothers are weird—and it was the last chance I’d be alone before it was time to leave. I was panicked. I forced myself to take a deep breath and focus. Ok, first I needed to suppository myself. I dipped my hand into the bag and found the hard cylindrical container. I kept it in my suitcase as I attempted to unscrew the top with one hand. Once open, I violently punctured the protective paper and made my way in. The feel of a glycerin suppository is...odd. They’re like greasy bullets of freedom. Freedom from a shitty hole and a life of celibacy. This promise forced me to ignore the texture and focus on the task at hand. But as I began fingering them free, I was confronted with a conundrum—one or two? I never found out how many he put up there. And if he did tell me, I was too distracted by his sexual wiles to have retained it. What was the right answer? Having to think quickly, I grabbed two and screwed the lid closed. As I did, I heard from the other room,
“Honey, do you need a plastic bag for your liquids?”
I’m always sure to bring little to no liquids with me. And the ones I did bring were all under three ounces. I made a quick inventory just to be sure, but was confident I’d be fine.
“No, I’m good. Thanks!”
I readjusted the clothes in my bag to properly disguise the supplies when my hand hit the box containing the douche. You know, the plastic bottle filled with WATER that’s supposed to be squeezed up your asshole?! Fuck. There was no way I was going to be able to get this full douche on the plane. What was I going to do? Without thinking, I ripped the box open and took it out. I held it in my hand above the two suppositories, disguising the nozzle by shoving it up my sleeve, and rushed into the bathroom.
I turned on the light and stared at my hands slightly greased with glycerin holding an aggressive looking douche.
This is really where life has led me, huh? Cheers.
I had a few choices. I could empty the douche and just figure it out later. I could do a quick one now and sort out the rest of the douching on the plane, or...say fuck it and abandon all hopes for sex. Well, my desire for dick won out and the next thing I knew, I found my face resting on the floor of the cold hotel bathroom while I inserted the mildly lubed nozzle of the disposable douche into my puckered, exposed asshole. To be honest, there are worse ways I’ve spent an afternoon—though this is near the top of the list. I’ve heard of simpler ways with fancy equipment and showerheads, but this was the best I had today. I tried to get comfortable in this bizarre angle one is forced to embrace as they pray to the gods of clean butts—but the half of my body that lay against the tile just couldn’t settle in. I suppose it wasn’t the end of the world, I wasn’t in the position long before my ass started screaming for release. The water’d been held as long as I could and it was time!
I rushed to the toilet as my ass started taking a piss, emptying the water rapidly, aggressively into the bowl. When I was sure the water was out, I heard a knock at the door--
“I’m almost done.”
“Ok, I just don’t want you to be late!”
I knew there wouldn’t be time for another rinsing, so I recklessly shoved the suppositories up my ass—making sure they were at least two knuckles deep—hiked up my pants, completed a sign of the cross, and did my best to wash the shame from my body. Just as my second lathering was coming to a close, finally feeling somewhat cleansed, I looked down and saw the sad, withered douche lying empty on the floor. It stared up at me, dejected—used. He’d done his duty. He should be relieved of any further responsibility, but alas, the two of us still had a journey ahead. I wiped the extra off the nozzle and shimmied the poor thing into my pocket—thinking I was prepped for a day I would soon discover I was in no way ready for.
Thankfully, I was heading out ahead of everyone else. I was able to head to the airport alone—in peace. I said my goodbyes and loaded everything into the car, ready to begin the physical quest towards my adventures in bottoming.
Things were great. There was no traffic, I’d left in just enough time, it was smooth sailing. I was pleased with myself that I’d steered this series of missteps into a successful venture—until we passed Terminal 2. Right around Terminal 2, things...shifted...internally. My previously joyous stomach sounded and felt like a clunky manual transmission on its last leg—going from first to third in one swift and abrupt jolt. I was...going to shit. It was imminent. Shitting would be taking place, and soon—regardless of where I was. I prayed for a bathroom and held my breath as traffic slowed, turning our journey from Terminal 2 to 4 into a Homer-ian trek. Was I going to make it? I couldn’t tell. It was very possible that this half-assed cleansing attempt—in all its good intentions—would end up ruining my pants, this poor man’s upholstery, and my will to live.
The transmission in my stomach continued to violently shift from fifth to first, from second to fourth, offensively alarming my body—turning my insides into the abused vehicle of an inexperienced 16 year old boy. I slowed my breathing and focused on a small cigarette burn on the armrest of the driver’s seat. It was all going to be ok. I was NOT going to shit in this man’s car. And then, just as my constitution was weakening to the point of disintegration, we arrived at my terminal. One step closer to salvation!
I clenched every muscle in my body and threw the door open, yanking my luggage behind me. I was officially on a mission. I’d made it this far—there was no way I was going to shit my pants now.
Like a homing device, I spotted that little desexualized white man on a blue background the second I passed through the automatic doors. I ran like Catherine O’Hara in Home Alone—flailing frantically the closer I got. I slung the stall door open with abandon and tossed my luggage haphazardly onto the floor. Whatever it was going to touch would be better than the alternative. I was not going to let the shit win.
The cleansing had done its job. I was...well on my way to a full evacuation. And, judging from the desperation of my situation, I’m thinking maybe I only need a single suppository next time...just maybe. #Yikes
I took a deep breath and tidied the crime scene my ass had become. It took a minute. My bowels were very clear about their unhappiness. Luckily, this only put me mildly behind and I was able to get to my gate relatively quickly. Though, I needed the rest of my trip to settle into cruise control. There’d been enough excitement for one day. I needed to sink into an easy, unbothered routine—gliding seamlessly from plane, to apartment, to dick.
The boarding process indicated I would get my wish. I found overhead space and an empty seat next to me. It was perfect. I waited until we were two hours into the flight before I decided to tackle the last half of my mission—the final douche. At first, I panicked thinking about that foul airplane bathroom water gracing the walls of my insides, but then the can of ginger ale in my hand inspired a solution. Bottled water! I could totally douche with bottled water! Calmed by my ingenuity, I waltzed to the flight attendant stand with my depleted douche resting in my pocket and confidently asked the dowdy woman for a bottle of water. Without skipping a beat she handed a small, child-sized container to me and I smiled as I turned and headed straight for the restroom.
If I hadn’t seen the flaw in my plan before, the offensively cramped quarters brought my understanding to a new level. How was I going to get into the extreme, head down, ass up position required for proper douching? I wasn’t, was the answer. There was no way. But I’d come this far, there was no way I could turn back now. Come hell or high water I was going to douche in this closet of a bathroom.
First, I unscrewed the lid of the sad little douche and filled it with the water from the bottle. It wasn’t necessarily a smooth process as I ended up with water all over my hands and down the front of my pants—but, hey, better than inviting whatever parasite is living in the water tanks on a plane into my ass, right?
The next part was tricky—the insertion. I pulled down my pants and carefully steadied myself using the sink. I bent my head as close to the floor as I could and jutted my ass as high into the air as was humanly possible. Then I did it. I took that water-bottle-filled douche and squeezed it slowly, steadily into the depths of my colon. Things, though awkward, were working out ok—until I got about half of the water in. At that point there was a loud, seemingly frenetic, beeping. The fasten seatbelt sign had been activated. Fuck. Then I felt the plane dip and my head rattled on my neck until it whacked the door—hard. This was the worst idea I may’ve ever had. The captain came over the speaker to urge everyone to return to their seats—we were heading into a patch of turbulence. But I have half a bottle of water up my ass! We dipped again and this time my head clobbered the ‘vanity’ beneath the sink. Damn it! I held out as long as I could, but the next time the plane zagged, I tossed my weight back onto the toilet and released everything I was holding, douche and water tumbling into the bowl.
This was next level tomfoolery.
In that moment, I convinced myself this was worth it, though—that this guy was someone I could be happy with. If only I had known that while I was being tossed about like a ragdoll, there was no need to stress. That his dick would, in the end, pull out as clean as it went in—and that his texts would disappear just as cleanly a few short weeks later.