Wetlands

The same can be done, of course, with cum that ends up in the pussy. Just don’t wash it away with a bidet! Instead, carry it proudly. To school, for instance. Hours after sex it’ll ooze nice and warm out of your pussy—a little treat. I may be sitting in a classroom, but my thoughts are back where the cum came from: while the teacher is going on about philosophical attempts to prove the existence of God, I sit there smiling blissfully in my little puddle of sperm. The intermingling of bodily fluids between my legs always makes me happy, and I text the source: “Your warm cum is running out of me—thanks!”

My thoughts return to the bidet. I wanted to spend a few minutes reminiscing about the way I manage to fill myself up with the bidet. But there’s no time. We’ve arrived in the surgery prep room. I can continue that line of thought later. My anesthesiologist is already waiting for us. He attaches a bag of fluid to the IV tube in my arm, hangs it upside down from a rolling stand, and says I should start counting.

Robin, the friendly nurse, wishes me luck and leaves. One, two…

I wake up in the recovery room. People are always a bit out of sorts when they wake up from general anesthesia. I think recovery rooms were created to spare relatives from witnessing this.

I’m awoken by my own babbling. What was I saying? Don’t know. My whole body is shaking. Slowly the gears in my mind begin to turn. What am I doing here? Did something happen to me? I want to smile to try to hide my sense of helplessness even though there’s nobody else in the room. My lips are so dry that the corner of my mouth cracks when I do smile. My asshole! That’s why I’m here. It had cracked, too. My hand fumbles for my bum. I feel a huge bandage stretched across both ass cheeks. Through that I feel a thick knob. Oh man, I hope that knob isn’t part of my body. Hopefully it’s something that will come off with the rest of the bandaging. I’m in one of those embarrassing, apron-like hospital gowns. They love these gowns in hospitals.

It has sleeves and from the front makes you look like a tree-top angel. But it’s completely backless except for a little bow tied back there. Why does this piece of clothing even exist? I mean, sure, if you’re lying down they can put one on you without having to lift you. But I was lying on my stomach for the operation so they could get at my ass. Does that mean I was essentially naked for the duration of the operation? That’s not good. I’m sure they talk about the way you look. And you hear it and remember it subconsciously even though you’re knocked out—maybe someday down the road you’ll go nuts as a result of the comments and nobody will understand why.

This airy feeling on my backside reminds me of a recurring nightmare I had as a child. Elementary school. I’m waiting at the bus stop. Just as I often forgot to take my pajamas off before putting on my jeans, today I’ve forgotten to put underwear on beneath my skirt. You don’t notice that kind of thing at home as a kid. But you’d rather die than have people discover in public that you’re bare-assed under your skirt. And this was at exactly the age when the boys think it’s funny to lift girls’ skirts.

Robin walks in. He speaks very deliberately, saying everything went smoothly. He pushes my gurney into an elevator and then along hallways, always slamming his fist on the game-show buttons that open the automatic doors. Oh, Robin. The lingering effects of the anesthesia make for a hypnotic ride. I use the time to find out about my asshole. It’s a funny feeling that Robin knows more about it than I do. He’s got a clipboard with every detail about me and my ass on it. I’m feeling talkative and all kinds of jokes about bum surgery occur to me. He says I’m so relaxed and funny because the anesthesia’s still affecting me. He parks my bed back in my room and says he could talk to me for ages but that he has other patients he needs to check on. Too bad.

“If you need pain medication, just press the call button.”

“Where’s the skirt and underwear I had on before the operation?”

He walks to the foot of my bed and lifts the sheet. The skirt is carefully folded there with my underpants on top of it.

This is the situation my mother always feared. The underwear is folded with the crotch facing up. Right side in, not inside out. But I can still see a shiny stain where pussy juice has soaked through and dried. My mom thinks the single most important thing for a woman going to the hospital to do is to wear clean underwear. Her primary justification for her ridiculously obsessive approach to clean undies: If you get run over and end up in the hospital, they take your clothes off. Including your underwear. Oh my God. And if they see any evidence of your pussy’s totally normal discharge—oh my, can you imagine?

I think mom pictures everyone in the hospital going around talking about her, saying what a dirty whore Mrs. Memel is. Saying her well-put-together exterior is nothing but a lie.

Her dying thought at the scene of an accident would be: How long have I been wearing these panties? Are there any wet spots on them?

The first thing doctors and EMTs do with a bleeding accident victim, before starting to resuscitate? They have a peek at the blood-soaked underwear so they know what kind of woman they’ve got on their hands.

From the wall behind me Robin pulls out a cable with a call button on the end of it. He lays it on the pillow next to my face. I won’t need that.

I look around my room. The walls are painted light green—so light it’s barely perceptible. Supposed to be calming. Or optimistic.

To the left of my bed is a built-in wardrobe. I don’t have anything to put in it, but someone will bring me things soon, I’m sure. Beyond the wardrobe the room goes on around, probably to the bathroom—or let’s call it the shower room.

Between my bed and the wardrobe is a rolling metal nightstand with a drawer. It’s extra tall so you can get at it from the high hospital bed.

To the right is a long bank of windows hung with white, see-through curtains that are weighted at the bottom to keep them hanging crisply. They’ve got to look neat and straight. Like concrete. They mustn’t billow in the breeze if the window is open. On the sill is the container of diapers and, next to it, a box with one hundred pairs of rubber gloves in it. It says so on the box. Though there’s probably fewer than that in there now.

On the wall opposite me is a framed poster—you can see the little metal tabs that hold the glass. It’s a photo of a tree-lined avenue, and written in yellow letters at the top it says, Walk with Jesus. What—take him for a stroll?

A small crucifix hangs over the doorway. Someone has decorated it with a bough. Why do they do that? The boughs are always from the same kind of plant. The kind with little arched leaves, dark green, with an artificial shine to them. The boughs always look like they’re made out of plastic, but they always turn out to be real. I think they come from some kind of hedge.

Why do they stick pieces of greenery on crosses? The poster and the crucifix have got to go. I’ll convince mom to take them down. I’m already looking forward to that discussion. Mom’s a practicing Catholic. Wait. I’ve forgotten something. Up high is a TV. I hadn’t looked up there. It’s suspended in a metal frame and tipped way down toward me. It looks as if it could fall on me at any moment. I’ll ask Robin to shake it later. Just to make sure it’s secure. If there’s a TV, there must be a remote—or do I have to get somebody to turn it on and off for me? Maybe it’s in the drawer. I reach over and pull it open and am suddenly aware of my ass. Careful, Helen. Don’t do anything stupid.

The remote is in a plastic compartment in the drawer. Everything’s cool. Except the anesthesia is wearing off. Do I need to ring and ask for painkillers already?

Maybe it won’t be that bad. Right, I’ll wait a bit and see how I feel. I’ll try to keep my mind on something else. Like, say, the last unicorn. That won’t work. I clench my teeth. My mind is fixated on my wounded ass. I’m tensing up all over. Especially in my shoulders. My good mood has disappeared. Robin was right. I don’t want to come across as a whiner, though—especially after yapping so much to Robin. I can hold out a little longer. I close my eyes. I put one hand gently on my bandaged ass and the other on the call button. I lie there and the pain throbs. The anesthesia is getting weaker and weaker. The wound burns. My muscles cramp. The throbbing gets faster.

I push the button and wait. An eternity. I panic. The pain is getting worse, stabbing at my sphincter like a knife. They must have stretched the sphincter wide open. Of course. How else would they get in there. Down my throat? Oh God. The hands of a full-grown man went into my rectum and went to town with scalpels and retractors and suture thread. The pain isn’t directly on the wound but all around it. A blown sphincter.

He’s finally arrived.

“Robin?”

“Yes?”

“Do they stretch your butthole open wide enough to fit multiple hands into it?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. That will be the source of most of the pain when the anesthesia wears off in a few minutes.”

Hmm. In a few minutes? I need pain medication right now. The thought that it might take a while for painkillers to work scares me so much that I think I’m going throw up. I’ve held out against the pain too long and now I’ll have to wait ages for this shit on my ass to stop hurting. I’ve got to learn to give in to pain and become a patient who’d rather ring too soon for medication than have to make it through the minutes it takes for the stuff to kick in. There’s no medal for holding out against pain, Helen. My asshole has been fatally distended.

It feels as if the hole is as big around as my entire ass. There’s no way it will ever close normally again. I think they purposefully inflicted additional pain during the operation.

I was in this same hospital a few years ago. It was the greatest acting job of my life. I was failing French class and was supposed to take an exam the next day. I hadn’t studied and had been skipping class. I had faked being sick for the previous exam. I had pretended I had a migraine so mom would give me a note. This time it had to be something more convincing. I just needed some time to study.

An excused absence would mean I could make up the exam some other time. First thing in the morning I told my mom I had palpitations in my lower left abdomen. And that they were getting worse. Mom started to worry because she knew this was a sign of appendicitis. Even though the appendix is on the right side. I know that, too. I started to double over in pain. She drove me straight to the pediatrician. I still go to the same doctor I went to as a child. It’s closer to home. He laid me on a stretcher and began to press on my abdomen. He pressed on the left side and I shrieked in pain. He pressed on the right and I didn’t make a sound.

“It’s unmistakable. Acute appendicitis. You’ve got to take your daughter to the hospital right away. There’s no time to stop off at home for her pajamas. You can drop them off later. This kid’s got to get to the hospital. If it ruptures it’ll infect the entire body and she’ll need a blood transfusion.” I thought to myself, What kid?

Off to the hospital. This one. Upon arrival I put on the same show. Left, right, all the right reactions. Like a game. Emergency operation. They cut me open and find an appendix that’s not infected or swollen at all. They take it out anyway. You don’t need it. And if they left it in and sewed you up, you might just come back at some stage with real appendicitis. Which would be doubly annoying. But they didn’t tell me they took it out. My mother did.

When she caught me lying another time, she said: “I can’t believe anything you say. You lied to me and all the doctors just to get out of a French exam. They took an uninfected appendix out of you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mothers know everything. The doctors told me outside the operating room. They had never encountered anything like it before. So I know what a liar you are.”

At least I knew it was out. Before that conversation with my mom I figured the doctors had opened me up, seen it wasn’t infected, and left it in. So I had always worried I might really get appendicitis. And what could you say then, when you’d supposedly already had appendicitis? So that’s what had happened. Good to know. A lot of needless hours of worrying. Right after you’ve had your appendix taken out, it hurts incredibly badly to laugh, to walk, to stand, to do much of anything, because it feels as if the stitches are going to rip open. I tensed and curled up just like now with my ass. Is it possible the doctors recognized my name? Did it cause a sensation in the hospital back then—that a girl would endure an operation just to trick her teacher? Did they go out of their way to make this operation particularly painful—oops, I slipped—as payback? Am I paranoid because of the pain? Because of the painkillers? What is going on? It hurts so bad. Robin. Bring the pills.

Here he comes. He hands me two tablets and says something. I can’t concentrate. I’m writhing in pain. I slurp the pills down. Please, let them work fast. Now. To calm myself down, I put my hand on my pubic mound again. I always did this as a kid, too. But back then I didn’t know it was called a pubic mound.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most important part of the whole body. Nice and warm. Perfectly positioned for your hand to reach. My center. I stick my hand into my underwear and run my hand around. This is the best way to put myself to sleep.

I root around like a squirrel down there, and just as I’m falling asleep I have the impression there’s a log of crap poking out of my ass. The bandages feel exactly like that. I dream that I’m walking across a wide field. A field of parsnips. I can see a man in the distance. A Nordic walker. One of those guys who hikes with a pair of ski-pole-like walking sticks. I think: Look, Helen, a man with four legs.

He approaches and I can see a giant cock is hanging out of his form-fitting sports leggings. I think: Nope, a man with five legs.

He walks past me and I turn and watch him go. It pleases me to see he’s pulled his pants down in the back and a huge log of crap is hanging out of his ass, bigger even than his cock. I think: Wow, six legs. I come to and I’m thirsty and aching. The hand on my pubic mound wanders to the back to feel my wound. I want to see what they did back there. How can I have a look? I can look at my pussy if I bend way forward, but I’ve never been able to see my own ass. A mirror? No, a camera. Mom needs to bring me the camera.

Will she be here when I wake up? Message.

“It’s me. Can you bring the camera when you come? And can you wrap up the bulbs in my room without breaking the shoots? And bring the empty glasses, too, please. But hide them when you come in, Okay? You’re not allowed to have anything but cut flowers here. Thanks. See you soon. Oh yeah, can you also bring about thirty toothpicks? Thanks.”

I grow avocado trees. Besides fucking, it’s my only hobby. As a kid avocados were my favorite fruit or vegetable—whatever they are. Cut in half with a dollop of mayonnaise in the hole where the pit’s been removed. And a bunch of hot paprika powder sprinkled on top. I would play with the pits afterward. My mother would always say kids didn’t need toys—a rotten tomato or an avocado pit did just fine.

At first the pit is shiny and slimy from the avocado oil. I like to rub it on the backs of my hands and up and down my arms. Spread the slime all over. Then you have to dry the pit.