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Culture, Reality

Best of 2012 | Full of Shit

by Bartlett / Illustration by Alastair Laird / 30.12.2012

Originally published 29 August 2012

You’re so full of shit. That’s what she tells me, my sister. And so I’m in Tableview, on my way to a colonic irrigation. I’ll soon find out just how much shit I’m full of. Then we’ll see. Her and I are always on this tip to out better each other. It’s like…
‘Hey sis, where you been?’
‘I just did a ten-day Vipassana meditation that my sangoma recommended I do as part of a spring detox cleanse.’
‘Oh yeah? Well when I was doing down dog in a kundalini yoga class the other day I was able to lick my balls and my base chakra at the same time. I can recommend that too.’
‘You’re so full of shit…’

Ominous storm clouds are brewing on the R27 up ahead as I enter into whatever the fuck kinda place Tableview is. The day is looking badass. I’ve eaten nothing but pawpaw, lemon, lettuce leaves and steamed veg for two solid weeks in preparation for this day, and I can’t wait to get a hose shoved up my bum. Let’s firehose that intestine down, I say. I met this one cat who’d been on anti-depressants half his live and then shat out a nugget of lithium after his colonic. Who knows what beasts lay in my belly. Lego men from my childhood? Demon tapeworms from my third world travels? Killer prawns from two weeks ago? The mind boggles, the bowels rumble.

The front door of suburban middle-class mediocrity opens, revealing an absolute belter of a colonic irrigation technician. You’ve got to be shitting me. I’ve been so caught up in fantasizing about the flush itself that I’ve given precious little thought to the flusher. Blonde hair, blue eyes, big tits. Nurse’s uniform. And a mangy Labrador that gets to sit in on the proceedings.

Please disrobe in there, weigh yourself on the scale, and then wrap this towel around your waist.

I come out of the adjoining toilet and lie down, face up, on a massage table. Erotic thoughts of a happy ending colonic are fighting with pragmatic pleas to my subconscious not to get a fucking boner right now. A blunt pain in my anus puts paid to it all, and all I feel is that pain. Oh this pain, in my ass. How do you gays enjoy this shit? Oh this pain. Sorry to all my ex’s who I convinced with my up-the-bum-no-babies peptalk. How it was about some deep carnal trust. Frontier country, more like. Oh this pain. Oh this pain.

My sphincter’s chugging plastic hose cock, going all Deep Throat Nine on me. It’s too much to swallow. The nurse’s blue eyes are boring into the back of my head as she turns on the tap and turns up the orchestral mood music on the stereo. Carmina Burana this, bitch.

Sors immanis
et inanis,
Rota tu volubilis,
Status malus,
vana salus
Semper dissolubilis,
et velata
michi quoque niteris;
nunc per ludum
dorsum nudum
fero tui sceleris.

and empty fate,
Thou, turning wheel,
art mean,
good health at thy will.
Veiled in obscurity,
thou dost attack me also
To thy cruel pleasure
I bare my back.

I studied Latin at school, sung in the choir, and still I didn’t wind up gay. Questioning that now though. The irony of the Old Spice music playing in the background isn’t entirely lost on me in these moments of prostate pleasure and poephol pain. Bare my back, for realzies. She’s the giver and I’m the receiver. The dog is something of a voyeur, a casually masochistic onlooker.

Blue eyes starts going at my stomach with her elbows, massaging out all the air pockets. Some travel upwards as burps, most travel downwards as farts that are actually shits that feel more like sharts. There is no dignity in this. The only place lower than this rock bottom would be if I pitched a tent. Because the belter’s wieldy elbows are busting moves below my belly button, dancing their way down my garden path.

Does anything weird ever go down with your clients, I ask.

Define weird, she counters.

I see what you mean, I concur.

An hour goes by. Plenty fecal matter goes by too, in a see-through tube that I stare at via an enlarged mounted wall mirror. The kind that dentists use. But instead of ‘say aaahhh’, I say ‘aaarrggghhh’. No Lego men or tapeworms or killer prawns. Just stubborn, well-coloured stools.

And you need to chew your food moreI can tell that you eat too quickly.

How’s about I take you out to dinner and you can see for yourself?

That’ll be R400 please. You can pay the dog.

Alone in the company of my own asshole again, I shit up another storm in her bogs while the dog writes me a receipt. I can tell that they’re out there, laughing at me. I weigh myself again and I’ve dropped 1.4kgs. Boom baby, who’s laughing now?

I’m back in the car on the R27, and it’s all sinking in. The challenge of delayed gratification and the process of detoxification that led up to the aqua ass rape. The violence of the insertion. The meek surrender to the violation and the cheap thrill of it all. The sinking feeling now has a wetness to it. I’ve turned off the road and I’m now driving into the sea in Table Bay, heading straight for the Mother City and her gentle, warm bosom. She will console me tonight.

Only I’m not in the sea at all. The wetness is only in my pants. It’s an uncomfortable wetness, not warm and gentle at all. I must’ve gone and shat myself again. I look down. There in my lap sits my sister who looks up and chastises me.

You’re so full of shit.

*Illustrations © Alastair Laird.

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