Trudging Through The Wetlands – Chapter Nine

Welcome back! When we last left Helen, she finally got her pain meds. Turns out, two tablets make her sleep through the whole night.

It doesn’t smell good in here. It’s not gas this time. It can only be my ass. What else?

Yup, it’s going to be that kind of chapter.

I feel around in back and find it wet. Blood? I look at my fingers. Not red. A hint of light brown. I smell them. Definitely crap. How did that get there, inspector Helen?


It’s brown water that smells like crap. In the photo yesterday my butthole was wide open and I think everything must just be running out because the hole is still not tightly closed the way it normally would be. The seal isn’t watertight. I christen the stuff coming out “ass piss” and I’m already used to it.

That is one of my favourite paragraphs so far.

I figure out a folding technique for the bandages: I hold my ass cheeks apart and shove my folded masterpiece up as close to the wound as possible so it stems the flow of ass piss. […] I gingerly let go of my ass cheeks. They hold the bandages in place. All set. Problem solved.

You’re a trooper, Helen.

It really doesn’t smell too good in this room. I’m afraid my ass is definitely air-incontinent. A constant flow of warm air is coming without warning out of my intestines. You can’t even call them farts. My ass is just wide open. Farts have a beginning and an end. They noisily find their way out, sometimes with a lot of pressure. That’s not the case here. It smells like warm pus mixed with diarrhea and something acidic that I can’t seem to identify.

Very informative narrative essay on not-farts.

Now when somebody enters the room they know as much about me as if under normal circumstances they had shoved their head up my ass and taken a big whiff.

Why would anyone want to do that? Who wants to know something like that about a person? Really? Anyone?


Helen manages to get herself out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom.

Three yards. Plenty of time to think of something nice. The smell of this watery ass piss seems familiar to me.

Oh joy. Whenever Helen wants to think about ‘something nice’ it’s always something really gross from her sexual history.

When I know I’m going to have sex with someone who likes anal, I ask: with or without a chocolate dip?

Called it.

Which means: some guys like it when the tip of their cock has a little crap on it when they pull it out after butt fucking – the smell of the crap their cock’s pulled out turns them on. Others want the tightness of the asshole without the filth. To each his own.

I will never look at chocolate dipped doughnuts the same ever again.

For those who would rather have it clean, I ordered something from an online gay sex shop.

Oh, no.

It looks like a dildo with holes in the tip.

Please, no.

First I unscrew my friendly showerhead so I can attach the threaded base of this device. It’s handy that everything is standardized.

Yeah, real handy. Seriously, Helen, you really don’t need to describe this to us.

Then it’s time to clean the rectum. I smear the tip of the steel thing with Pjur lube.

I don’t think the Pjur company wants you advertising them in this way.

Ahhhaha ‘Back Door’ lube!

Then I work the thing past my cauliflower and shove it in as far as I can. At least that’s the way I used to do it – the cauliflower’s gone now. Should make it easier. Pushing it in turns me on – usually when something goes up my ass like that it’s a cock. Is that Pavlovian conditioning?

I hate/love you, Charlotte Roche, once again for simultaneously grossing me out and making me laugh my ass off.

Though I don’t think he’s too happy that his theory has been applied in this way.

I turn on the shower full blast, but not too hot because I don’t want to boil my innards.

Well, at least she’s being careful about that.

This is the best part of my internal cleansing. It feels like you’re being pumped up like a balloon. […] I get a strong urge to crap.


I turn the water off and crouch down as if I’m going to piss in the shower. I push all the water out of my intestines. It’s like pissing out your ass. Like having severe diarrhea. You need to take out the hair strainer and the tub stopper because a lot of crap comes out, in big and small chunks.

Worst. Roommate. Ever.

I repeat this process three times until there are no more mini-chunks of crap visible. No cock, no matter how big or long, is going to unearth anything in my rectum now. I’m perfectly prepared for clean butt sex, like a blow-up doll.

I think blow-up dolls are easier to clean.

Ugh. Unless you have a lot of them.

If somebody does like a chocolate dip, I’ll only do it if I’ve already had good sex with him a few times. It’s a real sign of affection.

Yeah, that’s love. Yum.

It takes a lot of trust to let someone decorate his cock with my crap.

Disgusting greeting cards: Happy Anniversary! I love you so much, let’s decorate your cock with my crap!

It doesn’t get any more intimate than that as far as I’m concerned. Everything smells like my innards during sex like that, too. I have to smell my own innards the whole time.

How is that sexy?

He only has to have stuck it in for a second and come in contact with the crap. Then when he pulls it back out and we try out another position, his cock functions like a fluttering crap-scented air freshener.

Why fluttering? I’m seriously picturing a poop shaped butterfly right now. Also new band name: Crap Scented Air Freshener.

Alas, nobody has photoshopped butterfly wings onto a log of shit, so here’s a picture of an awesome Mr. Hankey cake instead.

Right now, though, I can’t imagine ever doing it again. Either thing. Ass cleansing or ass fucking. Which would be a shame.

No, not a shame. I’m so happy right now. Helen (FINALLY) makes it to the bathroom, pulls her gown out of the way, and realizes that squatting is too painful.

I’ll have to stand upright and straddle the toilet bowl. That works. This is how French women piss, right?

I’ve done this before in grungy downtown Guelph bar bathrooms while drunk. Oh god. I have something in common with Helen Memel. Shoot me now.

I get most of the piss in the toilet. Am I supposed to take a crap like this? Can’t possibly imagine that. Though I can’t imagine taking a crap in any position. I’m not ready to try. Naturally, I don’t wash my hands after pissing.

Helen not washing her hands after pissing is the least of my worries. After handling her chunks of infected ass would have been nice.

She talks about how at home she liked to read the labels of the shampoo bottles in the bathroom.

My favourite is a bubble bath: “Toning and Invigorating”. […] And ever since this word entered my vocabulary, I’ve been calling my brother Toning instead of Tony. He doesn’t find it amusing. But I do.

I really do too. Not sure why. This is a totally useless paragraph, but it made me laugh and I had to share it. Helen starts to make her way back to bed.

I never would have thought the butthole was so integral to the process of walking.

Shit, are we going to get more chocolate dip musings on the way back? I really don’t think I can handle that.

I have plenty of time to think about all the things I want to do today. I’m sure my mother and father will visit. I’ll get them back together.

Oh, Helen. It’s times like this that I genuinely feel bad for her.

I also need to set up my avocado pits and fill the glasses with water. I’ll have to find a hiding place for them or they’ll be taken away.

This chick really likes avocadoes. If they do take them away, I hope they end up in the biological waste bin. Because we all know where those have been.

I’ve made it as far as the Jesus poster. I take it off the wall and carry it with me toward the bed. It’ll fit perfectly between the metal nightstand and the wall, where no one can see it. Beautiful.

High five, Helen. She painstakingly makes it back onto her bed.

What’s this? There are drops of liquid on the floor. A long trail. From the bathroom to the bed, with a detour to the wall.

I feel like a Hansel and Gretel joke should go here.

It’s drops of pee.

Disgusting greeting cards: Follow the trail of pee I’ve left you for your anniversary surprise!

Pictured: Romance.

I didn’t wipe. Never do. But usually it goes into my underwear or whatever I’m wearing. Here I’m not wearing anything down below so it all drips onto the floor. Funny.

Helen spends some time counting the droplets, knowing she can’t go wipe them up, and then thinks about how the light reflects off of them.

My father is a scientist and he taught me that some beams of light are broken and diffuse in a drop of liquid.

Likely prettier than Helen’s pee.

She goes on to give us a science lesson on shiny pee droplets. They should be using this book in schools. Doctors and nurses come in and out, tracking through the pee trail.

All these people have my pee on the bottoms of their shoes. That’s my kind of humour.

Le sigh.

Helen overhears someone talking to Dr. Notz about how she can be discharged after a successful bowel movement. She immediately continues thinking about her avocadoes, and how she is going to water them. She decides on the mineral water that the nurses keep refilling for her to drink.

They all walk out again, my pee emissaries. Finally I can start working on my project.

Oh, they were all in the room. So they were talking about Helen as if she wasn’t there, and she was completely ignoring them while trying to figure out how to successfully nurture hidden avocado pits. Okay. Why the fuck am I reading this book?

Helen decides to put the glasses with the pits inside on the windowsill and screen them from view using the bible from her nightstand drawer.

A Bible. Of course. These Christians. Always trying to get you. Not going to get me. But as a screen it’ll do. I prop it up in front of the pits, open, but upside down so the cross is on its head. That’ll piss them off, right?

Helen is such a shit disturber. … I feel like that was a poor choice of words.

I googled ‘fist-bite’ and this came up. LOOK AT THIS SHOE!

She is excited that her ‘family’ is all set up, and that she’ll have something to do by caring for them. The phone rings, and it’s her mom. She wants to know when Mr. Memel is coming to visit.

“You mean your ex-husband? The one you used to love so much? At four.”

“Then I’ll come at five. Will you make sure he’s gone by then?”

Helen says yes, but then calls her father and tells him to come at five. She wants so badly for her parents to be in the same room together. I can’t believe Mrs. Memel’s reply to the fact that her daughter is so obviously distressed about her parents being separated. This is exactly how not to treat your kids when you get divorced. Just sayin’.

Dad shows up at five and brings me a book about slugs. I think maybe it’s a reference to my butthole and ask about it.

And this is how we meet Mr. Memel. I’m glad that Helen can ask him that kind of question. I hope they have a good relationship. He tells her that she asked about slugs once, so he figured she’d be interested in the book.

I’m sure I did [ask about slugs] – that’s the only sort of topic I can talk about with dad.

Not about real feelings or problems. He’s never figured that out.

Sigh. I guess they don’t have a super close relationship. I’d have thought they would, considering she has such a shitty one with her mom, maybe she’d have bonded more with her dad. At least he’s visiting her and being nice, though.

That’s why I talk to him a lot about plants, animals, and environmental pollution. He would never ask how my openly gaping wound is doing. I can’t think of much to talk about with him. The whole time he’s sitting there in the chair at the end of my bed, I keep expecting a knock at the door followed by mom entering the room.

She can’t even think about anything to talk about with him? I don’t get why she wants her parents to get back together so badly. She doesn’t seem to have a relationship with either of them. Why does she care whether or not they’re together?

I hate awkward pauses. Though as a personal challenge, I try to keep them going. For that, dad is the perfect partner. He just doesn’t need to talk, I guess. I look at him and he at me. It’s horribly quiet.

Such a weird family.

He doesn’t look unfriendly or anything. Actually quite friendly and relaxed. I have no idea why. I guess I could ask. Perhaps I’m afraid of the answer. But that’s definitely not a reason to leave someone, just because he sits there, looks at you, and doesn’t say anything.

Actually, I would think some women would like that.

There must be a better reason that that. Maybe their love faded. If you really want to promise something worthwhile, try this: I will stand by you even if I no longer love you. Now that’s a promise. That really means forever.

But what is the point of that? I’ve known couples that have had their relationship go down the tubes and tried to stay together for their children. It doesn’t work. It’s just a poisonous environment for the kids. Better to split amicably, before you hate each other, and show your children that you’re rational human beings. It obviously will still suck for them that their parents are no longer together, but they’ll understand eventually that they’re lucky to have parents that are responsible adults and can still be friends. Then later in life, if those single parents find the person that they’re supposed to be with, their kids will see what real love is like and be glad that their parents are finally happy.

I don’t know, maybe I live in a make-believe land of rainbows and puppies, but I feel like that’s a better alternative to staying together and hating every second of it. That would be torturous to your children.

In short, Helen, don’t try that vow.

Mom comes too late. She’s still not there at six. Dad leaves. Failed once again. They repel each other like two negative poles of magnets I’m trying to push together.

Maybe that’s an indicator that you shouldn’t be doing it.

My goal is that they see each other and, years after separating, fall head over heels in love again. And get back together. Highly unlikely. But anything’s possible. At least that’s what I maintain. Though I’m not really so sure.

I think Helen needs to be more focused on what she’s going to do with her own life. At eighteen, in the hospital because of asshole misuse, and her only life goal is to get her parents back together. I want to jump into this book and shake some sense into her. Not literally, because I don’t really want to touch her.

A lot of time lapses between dad’s departure and mom’s arrival. I speak even less with mom than I did with dad. She thinks I’m upset because she’s late. […] She doesn’t know what I know. That she just missed her future husband. I don’t let on. She can go ahead and try to convince herself that my bad manners have to do with my pain.

And we’re done with chapter nine. Some grossness, and some more insight into Helen’s relationship with her parents. A well balanced chapter! Next time, Helen gives Robin a boner. Dun dun dun…


One thought on “Trudging Through The Wetlands – Chapter Nine

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