After the operation and the explanation by the esteemed Dr. Notz, I should now be crapping merrily.
Welcome back, dear readers! We rejoin Helen as she chews over the fact that she will be discharged from the hospital when she has a successful bowel movement. Nurses keep coming in to ask her if she’s had one, and she’s absolutely terrified to do it.
If I were to press a log of crap past that wound, my God, what would happen? It would rip me open.
I would definitely not want to be shitting through that either. I can’t imagine it’s terribly sanitary to do so, either. Aren’t you not supposed to rub human feces in an open wound? So then do you have to use iodine or something afterwards to clean it? That would suck, a lot.
The hospital has had Helen on whole grains and granola without milk to try to get her to shit.
The urge to crap should be greatly heightened that way. They’re chucking bombs in the top but down below I’m all cinched up with fear. I’m not going to crap for days. I’ll just do as my mother does – wait for everything to dissipate.
Oh, that’s why your mother is so full of shit.
Can you eat pizza while you’re waiting to take a crap?
I think the cheese would cause blockage, but maybe depending on the toppings… why am I thinking about this?
I don’t ask anybody; I decide that it’s important for rectal healing to eat things you like. I call my favorite pizza delivery service, Marinara. I know the number by heart. It’s easy to remember, like those phone-sex lines.
I feel like that sentence should be the other way around, that phone-sex lines are easy to remember like pizza delivery numbers… but this is Helen we’re talking about.
She orders a pizza and two beers, trying not to sound excited, and tells them to deliver it to the front desk. She’s pretty rude about it.
There’s an urban legend that made the rounds a while ago; I think a lot about it. Two girls order a pizza. They wait and wait but the pizza never comes. They call the delivery service a few times and complain. Eventually the pizza shows up.
I’m afraid of where this is going.
It looks a little funny and tastes odd.
My fears have been confirmed.
By coincidence, one of the girls is the daughter of a food inspector, and instead of munching the rest they put it in a bag and take it to dad.
They all think maybe the pizza’s gone bad or something. Instead it comes out in the lab analysis that there are five different people’s sperm on the pizza.
Remember how Helen was rude to the pizza delivery guy? Yeah.
This is how I picture it getting there: The guys at the delivery service are annoyed by the phone calls. Since the complaints are being made by girls, the delivery guys have rape fantasies.
Really? A fantasy about guys having rape fantasies? I don’t know why I’m still surprised by Helen’s fucked up brain.
They talk about it, come up with a plan, and all whip out their cocks to jerk off on a pizza. The pizza baker sees all the other guys’ cocks. And not just in their normal state. Fully erect. Being jerked off and coming.
Thank you for that visual, Helen.
That’s why I’m envious of men. I’d like to see the pussies of my friends and schoolmates. And the cocks of my friends and schoolmates. Especially when they’re all coming. But you hardly ever have the chance. And I don’t dare ask.
At least she has the decency not to ask. Could you imagine one of your classmates just walking up: “Hey, I’d love to see your cock/pussy while you’re coming.” Not sure exactly what words I would use to respond to that.
I only get to see the cocks of men I’m fucking and the pussies of women I pay.
I want to see more in life.
How about literally everything else in the world other than genitalia? We’ve got a pretty good idea that Helen is fucked up because of her parents’ divorce, and her mom’s shitty parenting and murder/suicide attempt. This led to rebellious behaviour and promiscuity, but nowhere do I understand how it at all led to Helen’s obsession with genitalia.
Also, how many times have we used the words cock and pussy in this blog post?
That’s why I love to break into the public pool and go drunken skinny-dipping after a night out clubbing.
The whole trespassing thing is a little problematic. But at least you get to see a few cocks and pussies.
Aaaand again. Note to self: no skinny-dipping with Helen.
Anyway. I’m always extra mean whenever I order pizza. And I complain even when it doesn’t take long. I’d love to eat a pizza with sperm from five different guys on it.
Is this a fetish? I hate my morbid curiosity, but give me a minute while I google this…
Okay, wish I didn’t, but what can you do? I can’t find a proper name for this, and ended up sifting through a bunch of sites where people talk about how much they’d love a fast food employee to jerk off into their sub. The web site Is It Normal? rated it 64% normal to want ejaculate in your food. So, gross, human race, thanks.
It would be like having sex with five strange men at the same time. Okay, maybe not exactly sex. But it would be like having five strange men blow their loads in my mouth at the same time.
Whatever floats your boat, I guess.
That would be something for the memory vault, right? To be able to say you’d done that: well done.
Your parents would be so proud.
I can’t even walk. So there’s no way I can pick up the pizza. Shit. Now I’m leaking.
I feel bad laughing, because poor Helen, but the delivery of that line was so sudden and awesome.
She decides to get Robin to get the pizza for her.
The emergency buzzer. Is that wrong? Oh, well.
Probably, and I’m glad that she thought about that, if only for a second. I can honestly say I’d be desperate for a pizza at this point, too. Though one without sperm, thank you very much.
A different nurse comes in. His name tag says Peter. It makes me smile. I like the name Peter. I was with one once. I called him Piss Peter.
I really, really don’t want to know why he was called Piss Peter. But I bet we’re going to find out.
He was really good at going down on me. He would do it for hours. He had quite a unique technique.
He would clamp the dewlaps between his teeth and his tongue and then rub his tongue over them.
I’m sorry for any ladies that like having teeth on their vaginas, but this is a big no-no for me. Honestly, if a dude ever bit my ‘dewlaps’, I’d break his face. Ow, man.
I usually came multiple times. Once so hard that I pissed in his face. He was mad because he thought I had done it on purpose.
OH MY GOD, THAT IS HILARIOUS. Oh man, I would be so embarrassed, that’s horrible, but seriously, how many times in the history of the world would that happen? What a fucking story. Must have been a really awesome orgasm.
I patted him dry and apologized. I thought he should be proud. Nobody else had ever accomplished that. To make me come so hard that I lose control of my bladder.
At least she tried to comfort him afterwards. I can imagine he would have been pretty pissed (har har) that it happened, and instead of laughing at him or being embarrassed she stroked his ego. Sometimes Helen can be pretty cool.
After a while he realized how impressive it was. I learned from that day from Piss Peter that it burns when you get piss in your eye. How else could I ever have found that out?
I’m honestly surprised that she hasn’t gotten a golden shower. I figured if she gets hot over eating a pizza with a bunch of random jizz on it she would be into getting peed on.
Helen asks where Robin is, and Peter tells her he’s the nighttime nurse. She marvels at the fact that she’s managed to whittle away so much time just thinking about stuff. I marvel over the fact that I whittle away so much time reading about your thoughts, Helen.
She tells Peter she was going to ask Robin to go pick up her pizza at the front desk, because she can’t walk. Peter tells her she’s supposed to be eating high-fiber foods.
“Yes, I am. Doesn’t pizza have any fiber?”
Super idea. Play dumb.
“No. It’s actually counterproductive.”
Counterproductive – against production.
Thanks for clarifying.
Everybody here thinks only about bowel movements. It’s my choice.
“But it’s also important to eat things your stomach is accustomed to. Sudden changes in diet aren’t good, either, for encouraging bowel movement. Please.”
I love how Helen is able to pull complete and utter bullshit out of her ass (har har) in order to manipulate a nurse, who should totally know better. The phone rings; the pizza has arrived.
I hold the phone to the side and smile at Peter, eyebrows raised in question marks.
“I’ll go get it. We’ll see what happens,” he says, smiling handsomely as he leaves.
Seriously? That was it? The force is strong in this one.
I’m lucking out with these male nurses. They’re much nicer than the female ones.
It’s funny that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Luck.
Helen notices that at nighttime the window is like a mirror, and turns so that she can check out her asshole in it, but it’s too blurry. She likes lying that way, facing the door, so that she can see everyone who comes in the room.
But can everybody outside see me now?
This coming from the girl that stands at the door of an apartment building licking goo off her hand from her vagina.
Oh, who cares.
At worst they’ll think it’s a poor little crazy girl, who, out of her head on medication, left her bare ass facing the window – and they’ll feel sorry for me. That works for me.
This is where we start to get some confirmation that Helen desperately wants attention. Even thinking that a stranger would have pity on her through the hospital window comforts her. Rooted in her childhood, the need for attention has her going to stranger’s places to get shaved by men significantly older than her. It makes me wonder if the appeal of having five men come on a pizza is less about sex and more about feeling important enough that five people would take the time out of their day to do that to her.
Here in the hospital I’m becoming sort of a nudist. I’m not usually like that. Well, when it comes to things pussy-related I guess I am. But not when it comes to my ass.
Showing the pussy is okay, but not the ass. Helen has standards, guys.
The reason I have such a healthy attitude about my pussy while I’m normally so uptight about my ass is that the way my mother raised me made it difficult for me to crap. When I was a little girl she told me all the time that she never went to the bathroom. And never farted. She held everything inside until it disintegrated. No wonder I had trouble.
So, we know that Mrs. Memel is full of shit. Either literally or figuratively, either way it’s true. Helen laments that because of this, she’s ashamed of farting or shitting in public bathrooms.
As if crapping is a crime. My schoolmates always laugh at me for my exaggerated sense of shame.
My dad’s side of my family is European. And I know a lot of Europeans. And we are all totally comfortable talking about shit (literally) at the dinner table. I can see how Helen’s schoolmates in Germany think it’s funny that she’s so shameful of her pooping habits.
She confesses that she doesn’t like to get dressed in her room at home, because of all of the celebrity posters in there. She feels like they’re watching her, but around men in person she doesn’t care. I don’t even understand that at all.
Peter returns with the pizza and beer and puts it on the table next to her.
He looks me in the eye the whole time. I stare back. I’m good at that. I think he likes taking care of someone roughly the same age as him. It’s nice for him.
I can kind of see that. If all you get are patients that you don’t have anything in common with, having a patient around your own age must be refreshing. But I highly doubt that this poor guy has anything in common with Helen. For humanity’s sake, I hope nobody has anything in common with Helen.
“You want one of the beers?”
“That’s nice of you, but I’m working. If I walk around here with beer breath there’ll be hell to pay.”
I hate being told no.
And the personality thickens. She manipulates him into getting her the pizza, even though he’s not supposed to, and then tries to get him to drink with her. When he gives a totally valid answer, she knows that he’s right but hates that he didn’t do what she wanted him to.
At least she has the sense not to press him, and actually mentally berates herself for not thinking about how he can’t drink on the job.
His gaze starts to wander. Is he looking out the window? Past me? Wait, no, he must be looking at my peach reflected in the window. His nightshift is starting off well. I like Peter.
First of all, peach is an awesome word for pussy. Second, she likes him because he’s creepily staring at her vagina in the window? Definitely loves attention, no matter where it comes from.
Peter leaves and then returns with silverware, because the pizza isn’t cut, and then leaves and comes back again with a plastic baggie. Here we go, guys.
“It says here I’m supposed to give this to you. Something to do with the operation. Do you know anything about it? Did they find something on you and need to return it?”
No, they really didn’t need to.
“I wanted to see the wedge of skin after they cut it out of me. I couldn’t let something be cut out of me while I was unconscious and then not see it before it was tossed in the garbage.”
But Helen, WE don’t want to see it. Or be told about it. Or have anything to do with it. Really, we don’t.
Peter tells her that when she’s done, he needs to dispose of it properly. He hands it to her, and she stares at him until he leaves. She notices that her pizza is probably getting cold, but says that she’s heard that if food is too hot it masks the flavours.
So we’re doing this now. Joy.
The baggie is see-though, zipped shut. A little slide is all it takes to open it. Inside is another bag, smaller and white instead of see-through. I can feel the cut-out piece inside it. No more packaging. If I just pull it out it’ll make a mess here in the bed. I rip off the top of the pizza box. It’s easy. It’s perforated along the edge, probably for just such a situation. When you need something to put a bloody piece of flesh on.
Do I need rubber gloves to pull this thing out?
No. It’s from my own body. So I can’t catch anything, no matter how bloody it is.
That’s not really the point.
Okay. So out it comes. It feels like liver or something else from the butcher shop. I lay out all the pieces on the cardboard. I’m disappointed. Lots of little pieces. No wedge. Dr. Notz’s description made it sound as if it would be a thin oblong piece of flesh that would look like the venison filets mom makes when we have guests in the fall and winter. Dark red and slick before being roasted, kind of shiny, like liver. But this here is goulash.
No, not goulash! Don’t ruin goulash!
Little pieces. Some pieces have yellow spots – the infection, no doubt – that look the way freezer burn does in commercials. They didn’t cut it out in one motion, not all together in one single piece. Of course, I’m no dead deer, but a living girl.
Perhaps it’s better that they took care of it in small increments. And paid attention to the sphincter. Rather than carving out a magnificent anal filet just for the sake of good presentation. Relax, Helen. Things are always different than you anticipate.
This book is so weird.
At least you tried to picture something, imagined the smallest details, asked questions to verify things – and now you know more as a result.
Good life lesson, I guess?
I learned that from dad. To try to figure things out so thoroughly it makes you puke.
Seriously? Is that exactly what he said to do?
Helen is happy that she got to see the pieces, folds them up in the cardboard, and puts it on the nightstand.
My fingers are covered with blood and goop. Wipe them on the bed? That would make a real mess. Not on my tree-top-angel outfit, either. Same mess. Hmm. Well.
It is all stuff from my own body.
Really, NO, Helen.
Even if it’s infected.
I lick my fingers off one at a time.
I’m always proud of myself when I come up with an idea like that.
How many other ideas like this have you HAD?
It’s better than sitting helplessly in bed and hoping somebody comes by with wet wipes.
Or, you could have thought about that before you started pawing your own infectious ass waste? You’re in a hospital, for fuck’s sake! There are sanitization aids EVERYWHERE!
Why should I be disgusted by my own blood and pus? I’m not squeamish about infections.
I’m not squeamish about infections either, but I have no desire to eat them.
When I pop pimples and get pus on my finger, I happily eat that.
I hate this, but it’s such an excellent sentence. Fuck you, Charlotte Roche. You are so disgustingly awesome.
And when I squeeze a blackhead and the translucent little worm with the black head comes out, I wipe that up with a finger and lick it off. When the sandman leaves puslike crumbs in the corners of my eyes, I eat them in the morning, too. And when I have scabs on a cut, I always pick off the top layer in order to eat it.
Okay, I think we get the point.
I don’t like eating alone. It scares me. When you stick something in your mouth, you should be able to tell someone else what it tastes like.
Gee, I wonder why you’re alone? Nobody wants to sit here and hear about what your ass pus tastes like.
My ass begins to twitch. What have you learned, Helen? Don’t suffer any more than necessary.
Helen pushes the emergency buzzer and tells Peter she needs more pills, but he can’t find anything on the chart he’s been given that would allow her to have any pain meds. She starts to panic, and Peter leaves to call the doctor at home.
I’m feeling sick with fear.
Maybe it’s the ass pus in your gut?
I was operated on today and I can’t get any pain medication on the first night? I open both beers with the handle of the fork. I’m one of the few girls I know who can do that. Very practical. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go. I drink the beers down as fast as I can, one after the other. My ass is getting worse and worse, and my insides are cold from the beer.
At least beer shits are soft, so it shouldn’t hurt too bad.
Peter, Peter, Peter, hurry up. Bring me mediation.
Okay, so this is how fucked up my mind can be sometimes. When I thought of Peter, I thought of Peter Rabbit, and rabbit made me think of the rabbit in Alice In Wonderland that was late. And then I laughed, because I pictured him in a nurse’s outfit being late to bring Helen her ass medication.
The mind of a writer is a very fucky place, my friends.
I close my eyes. The pain is getting stronger and I’m beginning to cramp up. I know this drill. I cross my hands on my chest and I’m nothing more than my ass.
I hear him come in and, with my eyes still closed, ask whether I’ll get something.
“What are you talking about,” says a female voice.
And that’s the end of the chapter. I have to say, it’s not a strong end, also the first time I’m bothered by grammar. I feel like that should have been a question mark instead of a comma, and it bugs me. Anywhoo, our end of chapter hook is ‘ooooooh, it’s a girl, who is it?!’, but I don’t really care because I’m still grossed out by the pus eating and I’m done with this book for another post.
Whew! Next chapter we learn about this mystery woman, and one of Helen’s deep rooted fears! Until next time!