Even though my colon detoxification program was cleaning me out like Tori Spelling after the divorce, I still wasn't satisfied. In order to get the full intestinal cleansing experience, I made an appointment at my local alternative medicine clinic, where a complete stranger would charge me $125 to shoot water up my ass."Eat lightly on the day of your colonic session," warned the web site for the natural health clinic. "Do not eat anything two hours before your appointment." This sounded like a challenge to me, so I stuffed myself with Apple Jacks, Big Macs, Stovetop Stuffing, Hot Pockets, and Fresca. The web site also warned not to eat gas-producing substances like apples or broccoli, so I went to the store and gorged myself on apples and broccoli:
The natural healing clinic was a mile away from public transportation, which meant I had to walk to the colonics appointment. I had to go so badly that it hurt, and I stopped frequently so I wouldn't soil myself. Boston was in the middle of a heat wave, so sweat was dripping down my asscheeks by the time I arrived at the run-down clinic.
"Well, hi!" I heard a female voice call out as I stepped inside. "I didn't know you went here."
I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the dim New Age lighting, and eventually made out the face of one of my co-workers, "Jane."
"Hi," I said nervously. I really did not want to see anyone I knew.
"I love this place," said Jane. "I have the best chiropractor. Oh, here he is now."
A large, jovial man dressed in a flowered shirt came out of one of the offices off the lobby. The clinic was apparently leased out to various alternative health practitioners, the ones who could afford to pay the rent. "Hello," the chiropractor greeted me cheerily. "Have you been helped?"
"No," I said, waving him off. "I'm OK."
"Who are you here to see?"
"I'm don't remember her name," I said, hoping he would stop this line of probing. I would be probed enough later.
"Well, what are you having done?"
"I, ah..." I looked at my co-worker, and then back at the chiropractor. So much for patient confidentiality. "I'm getting water squirted up my fanny." I thought the word "fanny" would be funny, but it just came out pathetic and creepy.
"Okay," he said, "you want Lisa." My co-worker looked away, pretending like she hadn't heard the conversation, even though she was standing right between the two of us.
This was humiliating. "What the fuck, hoss?" I wanted to shout at the overweight quack. "Have you people never heard of HIPAA?"
"No," he would have responded. "For we are not a licensed medical facility."
They went to a private room, probably to laugh at me, and I sat around feeling embarrassed until Lisa the ass washer finally came out. She was running half an hour late (this was like visiting a real doctor, after all). Lisa was a slender, middle-aged woman with a low-cut top and generous cleavage. It was the standard doctor's uniform ... in pornos.
Lisa led me to a dingy room which had last been painted during the Carter administration, and asked me to remove my clothes from the waist down, leaving the room. "Wrap this blanket around yourself when you're done," she said.
I did as I was told, snapping a few pictures while I waited:
"Here's how this works," Lisa explained when she came back. "I'll insert this nozzle, which will bathe the inside of your colon." She held up a clear plastic probe. "It's like an electric toothbrush."
"An electric toothbrush up my fanny," I said. The word was growing on me.
"Now, most people clench up the first time..."
"The first time you stick the toothbrush up their fanny."
"Yes. But I'll help you through it. Just roll on your side, and breathe deeply."
Awkwardly, I got onto the table, rolled over and took a deep breath. And for a few moments, I felt what it would be like to be a gay man.
"This is the part that makes most people uncomfortable," she said.
"Except Tom Cruise," I clarified.
She twisted a bit more, but was running into problems. "You seem a little tense," she said.
"I can't imagine why," I responded. "Maybe because I'm laying on a cold table while a stranger shoves a Water-Pik up my ass."
"OK," Lisa said at last, "I think we've got it." She went to the machine, a medical contraption out of an Isaac Asimov novel, and twisted a valve. "Now we're going to start the water. Let me know when you feel the urge to evacuate."
"Now," I said immediately. "Forty minutes ago."
"Okay," she said, surprised. Lisa turned the valve again, and the tube switched from pumping water to draining it. She began kneading my abdomen like a fresh batch of sourdough rolls. "Goodness," she said, watching the output tubes, which were illuminated by white flourescent lights so you could get a good look at things:
"It looks like you've been eating cucumbers," she said, clearly pleased. "I see the seeds."
"Hey, do you see any American currency?" I asked.
"No," she said, "but this is great." Gas began bubbling through the tube. "A lot of people don't do this well their first time."
"I have a gift."
"This certainly is a lot," she said after a few more minutes of kneading. "Did you eat today?"
"Smorgasbord."
"Wow." She was clearly in awe. "This is incredible."
"More than you've ever seen?" I asked, hopefully.
"In quite a while," Lisa said, looking concerned.
"Yes," she added a few minutes later, clearly worried.
It's difficult to make small talk with a large-breasted woman giving you a colonic. "How much do these machines cost?" I asked her.
"I don't know," she said, "this thing is about 50 years old."
I pictured half a century of shit washing through the machine, and wished I hadn't asked the question.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.
"A few years. Of course, I've been getting them every few weeks for the last decade."
"So you like it up the butt." I would have said this if I had had the courage. Instead, I just wondered what kind of weird childhood trauma made her want to continually wash out her pooper. A weasel had probably been involved.
We continued the pump-and-dump routine for another half hour, until finally Lisa announced I was done. Disposing of the equipment, she told me to wrap the blanket around my waist and use the rest room down the hall. This meant I would have to walk by the main lobby, wearing only a shirt and a blanket.
I stepped outside the room, where I immediately ran into my co-worker Jane. "Oh, hi," she said, clearly uncomfortable. The hallway was narrow, with just enough room for the two of us to pass. And speaking of passing, I was about to explode.
This was a terrible moment in my life. "How's it going?" I asked, my bowels gurgling. We could both hear it.
"So, do you plan on coming back?" she asked. The small talk was painful.
"I'm, ah, I'm not sure," I responded. It was excruciating, both mentally and physically. I wanted to die.
"I really like this place," she said, not wanting to make eye contact, but not wanting to stare at the blanket. No one knew where to look. "My chiropractor is great."
"Great," I said. "Great." A little dribble of poo water ran down my leg. "Well, it was good seeing you."
"You too," she said, as I hustled away, probably leaving a trail.
I made it into the bathroom, where there were two stalls: a urinal and a toilet. Unfortunately, the toilet was being used by the fat chiropractor, who was taking a leak. Come on, motherfucker! You've got paying clients here that need to evacuate thirty gallons of water pumped up their breadbasket: use the fucking urinal.
I patiently waited, clutching the filthy blanket to my waist. Finally he finished up and turned to me. "Oh, hey man," he said. "Listen, if you ever need a good chiropractor, give me a call." He left without washing his hands.
I sat down and released everything in the universe. I was Shiva: creator, destroyer, preserver of worlds. Or possibly I was Shiva's less successful brother Shitva: crapper, defiler, and pooper of worlds. I passed the entire energy of the cosmos through my cornhole, which left it a bit sore and chafed. In the end, I had nothing left in the end. I had factory showroom intestines, buffed to a high-gloss finish. My bum was so empty you could eat off it, which would be deliciously ironic.
I got dressed and met with Lisa in her office for a final consultation. "I'm going to diagnose you with mild constipation," she said.
"Mild constipation," I repeated, thinking to myself: if you only knew.
Feeling thankful that my experiment was complete, I settled the tab and said goodbye. Call me crazy, but I didn't shake her hand.
