Monday, July 17, 2017

One more time with feeling

This time of year, you may as well behold me hunkered in the dread trenches of summer school, already having wiped two cavernous anusi, one traditional and one aftermarket, before the sun has even peeked above the morning gloom.

No, you can't have breakfast first, I tell my hungry belly. In fact it's better that you don't.

Of the traditional anus, there isn't much to say, other than that its owner is particularly gregarious while I work on him, insisting on reaching back and patting my head, or feeling around for my stomach, which he has grown fond of, and likes to rub with a soft hand while muttering nice tummy.

"Please don't touch me."

"Sorry," he says, but not in the apologetic way.

How dare I. How dare I prefer you not bring fingers just now exploring your bristling manhood and trace them along my skin and clothes.

Earlier in the week, as I bent over a desk to sign a medication form, he approached me from behind. I felt him grip my waist and attempt to, ahem, conjugate my verb, as the teens call it.

"You need to back off RIGHT NOW."

"Sorry." Again, he doesn't mean it.

People think the developmentally disabled are angels, but they're not. They have the same capacity for heart breaking goodness and unwelcome, over the clothes rutting that all humans do.

Maybe it was my fault for wearing khaki shorts.

The aftermarket anus proves to be much more involved. Its owner, a quiet Asian man, has had to suffer this fool as gladly as he could, trying to be patient while I struggle to figure out his new-fangled ass.

Upon first reveal, I wasn't even certain what I was looking at.

Mounds of rippled scar tissue, folds where folds shouldn't be. And some kind of plastic box under the skin, settled over the spot where the vanilla orifice usually resides.

"Where's your butthole?" I asked, somewhat rhetorically.

A man of limited vocabulary, based entirely in echoes of what others say; he takes up my question with a steady refrain of baht-hole? baht-hole? baht-hole?

I eventually found....something, and attempted to clean it.

"Ow."
"Sorry!"
"Ow.Ow."
"Sorry! I don't....I can't seem to...."

I felt bad. Until an hour later, when he is told to put away his Ipad and starts yelling Ow! over and over again.

Turns out that's his code word for "leave me the hell alone."

Fair enough. If I had a makeshift baht-hole carpetbagging in my perineum, I would prefer to be Ow as well.

The summer crawls on.

As I write this, a student who refers to himself only in the third person sits nearby.

His favorite game is to take a ragged blanket he found in the supply closet and drape it over his head. If allowed, he would sit that way for hours: