Turbulent Waters: A Story of Male Bonding and Survival.

It was probably around ten in the morning. A beautiful morning, the sun was shining brightly through the windows and life seemed good. I was on my way back to his room. I’d probably be with him for a while now. I didn’t want to do it to him, but I reminded myself that I was the one doing it and at least I wasn’t having it done to me. That was fine, he needed me and without him, yeah him and all of the others, I wouldn’t be working. I wouldn’t be where I was. I don’t know where I’d be, but I wouldn’t be there.

I entered the room where he was lying in bed waiting for me. I smiled and he smiled back. I had pulled the door closed to give us a little bit of privacy. I then walked over to the other side of the bed and began to pull the sheet down to expose his hip, upper thigh and firm butt. The skin was pale from not seeing the sun in forever, always looking like the forbidden zone. I asked him if he was okay and he vigorously reassured me that he was. I said again, “Are you sure?” Yes, he was sure. He said that he was ready. I slathered my fingers with lubricant and began to probe around the crack of his ass. He seemed all right, he seemed like he was comfortable enough, but you can just never tell with this sort of thing. They always SAY that they’re okay and then something terrible and humiliating pops up, or rather…pops out.

I situated myself next to him on the bed. I began to insert it into his rectum and told him to take a few deep breaths. He was doing okay and still seemed relaxed. It was small and thin, so it probably wasn’t that uncomfortable yet. I hadn’t really got it going. I asked him one more time, “Are you SURE that you don’t want a bedpan here just in case? It’s a long way to the bathroom.” He was in the bed next to the window, while the bed next to the bathroom was vacant from having a patient in it, none the less it still increased the distance between us and the final destination. He reassured me again that he was fine and that he could handle it. Let me repeat this for effect, as I often do. He said that he was FINE. I don’t think that he really understood just how much fluid was in the soapsuds enema bag. He was probably in denial. If I remember correctly it was 2000 cc’s, which is a lot.

So, one of my gloved hands was holding the tube in place, while the other was regulating the flow of the liquid. I was gently letting the warm soapy water through the tube and talking in a soothing voice to him. I was hoping for the best and trying not to think of the potential disaster that was looming on the horizon. Actually, it wasn’t “looming on the horizon”, it was brewing right next to me. The room was at the end of the hall, so it was quiet and peaceful down there. The stillness in the air was apparently unaware of the turbulent winds and water that were percolating just a few degrees south of his equator. I began to release more water into his bowels and Mr. Man still seemed okay. All the while, I’m quite aware of the catastrophes that can erupt yet Hurricane Lotzapoopoo hadn’t begun to rear its ugly head, or its ugly…whatever.

I had begun to allow more warm liquid into his rump. He still seemed okay for the moment. He was staring off into the yonder, probably wondering what the hell happened to his life, where did he go wrong with his bowels? What happened to lead him to this point? I was also staring off into the yonder, wondering what the hell happened to my life, where did I go wrong with his bowels, hadn’t I fed him enough prunes? What exactly happened to lead me to this point? How was it that I was in my early 20’s and was being paid to administer enemas? Wasn’t I supposed to be a pilot in the Coast Guard by now? Wasn’t I supposed to be thinking of political aspirations and feeding my second African nation? Wasn’t I supposed to be starring in my second film with Meryl Streep? We were supposed to be old friends by this point, sharing a cup of tea and commiserating on the use of hormones and pesticides in all of our foods and how Al Pacino was REALLY starting to get on our nerves. But the problem here was that WE WEREN’T!!! And I WASN’T a pilot and my only REAL aspiration at the moment was to try and out-drink my friend Heather (not many could). And I NEVER even wrote the phone number down from Sally Struthers’ commercials, LET ALONE sent any money. Now, I know, I know, Sally Struthers was eating all the profits, (that was a cheap shot, sorry Sally) but DAMN IT! I was behind! What had I been doing all this time? What happened to me kicking ass? Instead I was just wiping it.

All of a sudden, my intense contemplation of my mismanaged philanthropic existence was broken by a “Whoa. Whoa! WHOA!” And thus the preliminaries of the quick emergence of biological warfare began. This poor devil leapt from the bed, sheets and blankets falling in a crumple to the floor. His gown blew up around his abdomen in his fit of desperation to get out of the bed. I am left with tube and bag in hand. I’ll refrain from any more description of the tube. You’ll be getting your fill in the next couple of lines…so to speak. As he began his trek to the bathroom, he was clenching his butt-cheeks with all the strength that he could muster and running on his tippy-toes. This valiant effort was no match for the ugly rearing head (or…whatever) of Hurricane Lotzapoopoo.

As he ran on his tiptoes, back arched, squeezing his ass with all of his might, fighting, pleading with space and time to move out of his way, a high arching spout of water, among other things, came shooting out of hither yonder. I had never seen anything quite like this before. Another first, life is always so full of them. The water was dispersing from his end as though it were a hose with part of the spout covered by your fingers in order to create some pressure. As he raced to the bathroom, it resembled the tail of a comet as it goes speeding by the earth, a wake of particles and…well…stuff, following it’s blazing master reeking havoc on it’s unsuspecting path (I could hear the lineoleum groan), although, he wasn’t going to orbit the toilet and come shooting out again. At least I hoped not. The door slammed shut behind him as loud as any finale to a fireworks display and no less dramatic. There was an exception however. There were no crowds of drunken citizens applauding the display. There were no parking lots of honking cars beeping their approval, or car alarms bellowing their disapproval. There were no barking dogs, no screaming babies demonstrating their extreme dislike for the whole event. There was just me, standing there; the tube in my left hand, the regulator in my right. Hurricane Lotzapoopoo had blown through the room leaving a disaster in its wake. And the whole thing happened in no more than 4 seconds.

After the bathroom door slammed shut, I stood bewildered and bewondered. Just then the door to the hallway slowly opened revealing a respiratory therapist standing there with his equipment. His eyes panned across the room assessing the situation, amazed while taking a tally on the devastation. His line of sight came to rest on me, the only witness to the display. He kind of nodded and nervously looked away as if I were going to attempt to recruit him for the clean up crew and said, “Um…I’ll come back.” And quickly shut the door.

Now I know, I should have desired myself to be anywhere other than where I was; flying that Dolphin helicopter for the Coast Guard, talking with Meryl, drinking with Heather. The great destroyer was on the throne and he was moaning, groaning and making all kinds of racket. The room was strewn with debris; crap EVERYWHERE, a real shit-hole. But I wasn’t thinking; oh my god, I can’t believe that I have to clean up this mess. And I wasn’t thinking; I asked that fucker if he wanted a bedpan. And I wasn’t thinking that I wanted to be anywhere other than where I was. Okay, maybe my hands and my nose were wishing to be somewhere else. But, the rest of me could only think that I HAD to make him feel okay about this, as “okay” as I could. For I think that we can be assured when I say that quite a bit of his self-esteem went down the toilet that day. And if it wasn’t down the toilet, it was on the floor. Besides, I was also certain that he would have traded places with me in a heartbeat, or in a fart, whichever came first.

So, I went and got the mop and some towels. I kept thanking the stars that he didn’t have a roommate. I leaned towards the bathroom door and asked if he was doing all right. He grunted out a yes, probably damning me to hell under his breath. I started cleaning up the remnants of Hurricane Lotzapoopoo and was chuckling to myself, a somewhat detached, nervous chuckle. He finally emerged, reluctantly. I had cleaned up everything and so at least he didn’t actually “see” the damage, although I’m sure that he had a pretty good idea. I helped him over to the bed and sat him down on the edge. He was damp with perspiration and looked exhausted. He was avoiding eye contact. I leaned over to him and said, “You know, you put on a pretty good show.” And we laughed…we laughed hard. There was really nothing else to do.