Along with a small bottle of liquid Docusate to help soften my shit, a suggestion was given by the coloproctologist to take up two to three warm baths a day, as the main cause for the prolonged healing time for anal fissures is spasms, or contractions of the rectal muscles. The warm water supposedly helps relax the sphincter and increases blood flow. I’m on my third bath when I reach under the water and feel something graze my finger. I assume it might be a soft slip of skin, or long pubic hair, but as I clamp it between both thumb and finger, I realise it’s the twine.
I release a good three inches before deciding to stop to retrieve the container given to me by the doctor at his surgery. I return to the bath and sit there examining its contents. The twine is thin and light blue in colour, and as I twirl and shake the container, a strange distance develops between the surroundings and myself. In the first instance, I appear uncertain of how I ended up in the water to start with. Then, between my legs, I notice a long blue vein vacating my arsehole.
I place the container on the side of the bath and pick at one end of the vein until it reaches the water’s surface. After further scrutiny, I realise it is identical to the twine resting beside me. The doctor was right. There is twine shoved up there. I began to slowly draw out the twine, so much that I have to coil the slack around my wrist. As it shows no sign of an end, I stop pulling, reach over to a pair of nail scissors on a small shelf behind me, and sever the connection.
Maggie once told me the only reason she stayed with me was because she never wanted to catch Chlamydia. Being married is supposed to stop the risk of pussy-rot. It didn’t for Maggie.
I’m starting to think the constipation is just fate’s revenge for my infidelity. In the past, my cock obstructed the course of our happiness together as man and wife, and now the result of a poor diet brought on by divorce proceedings brought on a turd that obstructed my colon. Makes sense.
I look down. Bewildered. Why wrap my wrist in blue thread?
I leave the bathroom in a robe Maggie bought me for Christmas last year, back when I had a job and her skin was unmarked by scar tissue. In the bedroom the curtains are drawn. Dark outside. I check the clock on the bedside cabinet and it reads: 10.30pm. Have I slept a whole day? Probably. With little else to do I mix a little Docusate with seven ounces of milk, drink it, and do twenty lunges, as this helps to stretch the colon muscles and aid digestion. I then lie on the bed and fall asleep.
The blonde and I never worked out. Affairs demand a lot by both involved. They require time and lots of energy. Doing nightshifts for the cab company in my hometown meant I had very little of both. We fucked a few times in some travel tavern on the outskirts of nowhere, and afterwards I’d lie next to her and she would ask silly questions like, “If you had to fuck one animal, what would it be?” Or, “Would you rather be sodomised or have all your toenails removed?”
After she lit up a cigarette and passed it to me, the filter reeking of my semen, I had to leave her.