Ally_Kat
06-02-2005, 07:12 PM
Guts by Chuck Palahniuk from March 2004 issue of Playboy
Inhale.
Take in as much air as you can.
This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and
then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging."
This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the
prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive
hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac.
He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes
out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little
private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the
supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly
rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All
the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big
evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the
ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with
grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm.
Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down,
right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the
dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty
clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry.
No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring
knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for
his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's
grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner,
even birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents'
grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.
That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de
l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's
too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to
say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say
something lame. But the moment you leave the party?
As you start down the stairway, then magic. You come up with the
perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid
things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate
things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most
of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they
beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their
kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid
dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put
some pants on their kid. They made it look better. Intentional at
least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the
Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do
here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the
public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy
tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as
your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the
kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother
says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then inserts this metal rod
inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod
inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back
French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.
After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school.
That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next
couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.
He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on.
He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got
for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the
phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother
in the Navy.
On the phone, the kid says how the day before he was just a little
stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was
lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines,
getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy
brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks
around for something that might do the job. A ballpoint pen's too big.
A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle,
there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just
the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the
candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and
smooth and thin.
Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the
piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out
the top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've
totally reinvented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are
getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good
squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.
The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep
inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it's supper time. She says to come
down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people,
but we all live pretty much the same life.
It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax, so he
figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his
back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the
background, you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.
The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside
his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the
minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and rougher, coated with
crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining
of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are
backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.
This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black
X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax
glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way
Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for his bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid
mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.
Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A
candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to
be big trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking
off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents'
swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and
slip off my swim trunks. I'd sit down there for two or three, four
minutes.
Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to
myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my
stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe
each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even
with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ
almighty, my mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister,
thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed
retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the
uncle.
In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool
filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and
sitting on it.
As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?
Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute
you'll never be a lawyer.
One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light
blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent
except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are
looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a
neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The
steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding
my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are
gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be
home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch
another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like
taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten
out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until
bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs
straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete
bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from
being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.
It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the
bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people
get stuck this way, sucked by circulation pump. Get your long hair
caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of
people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even the French people talk about
Everything.
Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half
standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot
under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not
touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking the water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway
to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head
getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn
and look back but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of
snake, blue-white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool
drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking
blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from the
little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away,
disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white
skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea
serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been
hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of
it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as
long as my legs now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With
another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still
feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a
long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my dad
makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship.
With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me.
What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of
water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big
problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the
far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working unraveling
my insides until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit
and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way
your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it
fecal matter. Higher up is chime, pockets of a thin, runny mess
studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts
floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out of my ass, me
holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get
my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my
yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from my neck. Still, getting
into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin
condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear
it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then try to tear it.
Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you
can't hold on.
A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on
itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered
to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite
of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby
they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they
hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for
them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating
here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted
sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel,
collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged,
torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped
swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A
Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my
head", Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my
asshole".
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their
leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out
of being dead.
Hell even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is you have to twist around. You hook
one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You
bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew
through anything to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if
you expect a kiss good night.
If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got
in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said,
"You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And
she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me?
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner
parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast
they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around
inside my guts for longer than couple of hours, it comes out still
food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up
and find it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so
great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky
to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never
got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew
up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day
when I was 13.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that
swimming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog.
The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the
pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished
out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange
vitamin pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was
fucking nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We
couldn?t trust that dog alone for a second."
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and
we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my
folks never mentioned it again.
Ever.
That is our invisible carrot.
You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.
I still have not.
Inhale.
Take in as much air as you can.
This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and
then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging."
This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the
prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive
hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac.
He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes
out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little
private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the
supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly
rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All
the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big
evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the
ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with
grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm.
Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down,
right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the
dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty
clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry.
No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring
knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for
his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's
grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner,
even birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents'
grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.
That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de
l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's
too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to
say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say
something lame. But the moment you leave the party?
As you start down the stairway, then magic. You come up with the
perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid
things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate
things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most
of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they
beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their
kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid
dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put
some pants on their kid. They made it look better. Intentional at
least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the
Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do
here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the
public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy
tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as
your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the
kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother
says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then inserts this metal rod
inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod
inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back
French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.
After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school.
That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next
couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.
He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on.
He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got
for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the
phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother
in the Navy.
On the phone, the kid says how the day before he was just a little
stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was
lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines,
getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy
brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks
around for something that might do the job. A ballpoint pen's too big.
A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle,
there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just
the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the
candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and
smooth and thin.
Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the
piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out
the top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've
totally reinvented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are
getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good
squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.
The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep
inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it's supper time. She says to come
down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people,
but we all live pretty much the same life.
It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax, so he
figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his
back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the
background, you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.
The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside
his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the
minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and rougher, coated with
crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining
of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are
backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.
This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black
X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax
glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way
Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for his bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid
mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.
Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A
candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to
be big trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking
off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents'
swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and
slip off my swim trunks. I'd sit down there for two or three, four
minutes.
Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to
myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my
stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe
each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even
with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ
almighty, my mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister,
thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed
retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the
uncle.
In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool
filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and
sitting on it.
As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?
Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute
you'll never be a lawyer.
One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light
blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent
except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are
looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a
neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The
steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding
my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are
gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be
home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch
another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like
taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten
out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until
bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs
straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete
bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from
being so long in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.
It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the
bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people
get stuck this way, sucked by circulation pump. Get your long hair
caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of
people do. Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even the French people talk about
Everything.
Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half
standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot
under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not
touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking the water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway
to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head
getting loud and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn
and look back but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of
snake, blue-white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool
drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking
blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from the
little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away,
disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white
skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea
serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been
hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of
it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as
long as my legs now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With
another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still
feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a
long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my dad
makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship.
With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me.
What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of
water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big
problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the
far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working unraveling
my insides until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit
and you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way
your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it
fecal matter. Higher up is chime, pockets of a thin, runny mess
studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts
floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out of my ass, me
holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get
my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my
yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from my neck. Still, getting
into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin
condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear
it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then try to tear it.
Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you
can't hold on.
A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on
itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered
to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite
of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby
they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they
hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for
them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating
here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted
sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel,
collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged,
torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped
swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A
Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my
head", Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my
asshole".
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their
leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out
of being dead.
Hell even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is you have to twist around. You hook
one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You
bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew
through anything to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if
you expect a kiss good night.
If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got
in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said,
"You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And
she learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me?
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner
parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast
they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around
inside my guts for longer than couple of hours, it comes out still
food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up
and find it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so
great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky
to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never
got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew
up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day
when I was 13.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that
swimming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog.
The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the
pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished
out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange
vitamin pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was
fucking nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We
couldn?t trust that dog alone for a second."
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and
we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my
folks never mentioned it again.
Ever.
That is our invisible carrot.
You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.
I still have not.