Sunday, January 10, 2010

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At the age of 16, my anus started to itch and burn. It was a sporadic problem, generally associated with spicy food or long bike rides. The cliché “it’s hard not to scratch an itch” became very true. It was an irritating itch that drew my hand towards it. If I fell asleep with an itchy bum, I awoke with a stinky finger.

Digging at my ass while in Home Economics is considered pooh-pooh. If you have never attempted to touch our anus through a pair of jeans, I suggest giving it a try. It is located surprisingly close to your genitals. If I reached in from the front, I had to nearly bend over, and when coming from the back I had to raise my right leg. It was impossible to do without someone noticing my contortions. I came up with two ways to scratch my anus while in school. One was to find a secluded place and dig in. The second was to go into a restroom stall, drop my pants, and grind my ass with a wadded up handful of notebook paper.

During a flair-up a hot bath would help. I touched my anus while in the tub and could feel a swollen ring. It felt like a rubber band had been placed beneath the skin. Later, I stood on my bed, dropped my towel, placed my head between my legs, and spread my cheeks. My profile was reflected in the mirror above the dresser. The irritation shone red next to my ashen skin, like I had been branded with the letter O, like a circle had been drawn around my anus. In six months, the burning itch grew more regular and I started having ribbons of blood in my stool. There was something seriously wrong with me; perhaps it was a tumor or ringworm in my ass. I was defective.

I had been living with my grandmother for two years. It was evening when I approached her. She sat in the living room wearing polyester pink pajamas with matching slippers. Diagnosis Murder was on the television and a lamp illuminated her brown curls. I told her the symptoms, about the itching, the burning, the blood, and the swelling. “I need a doctor,” I said.

Grandma nodded and then uncrossed her legs. “You got yourself a Hemorrhoid,” she said.

“What? No,” I said. I was only 16 years old. How could I have a Hemorrhoid?

“Believe me,” She said. “It happens.”

She left the room for a moment. Then she returned with a greasy aluminum squeeze tube of Preparation H. She informed me about what it does, how to apply it, and suggested that I clean the applicator before and after use.

She gave me a hug and I could tell that she felt we had bonded. 

1 comments:

Ty n Casey's Mom said...

So vivid . . . I felt like I was there! LOL!