This tale takes place before the Corona/Covid-19 Pandemic. Before the great, "Toilet Paper Depression". A time of care free abundance and adult presents from a Christmas, one year ago.
A bit of a backstory needs to be told. You see, I had long ago earned a nickname while still partying with my Father and his Club.
It was around these times and adventures that my stomach issues transferred into my adult life. You see, included in the plethora of medical issues that make up my life, I suffer from extreme Anxiety. "NO WAY", you scream! But yes, my darlings, tis true. I absolutely loathe public events, people, people I don't know, being touched or bumped into, and most importantly, I loathe being too far from my own bathroom. That is, until I have a bit of social lubrication to loosen the gears.
Once I establish that you are part of my 'pack', I'm relatively relaxed, love PDA, and thoroughly enjoy my amazing friendships that have sincerely kept me afloat, feeling adored, and also out of prison.
It was a friendship, just like this, that led to an evening of partying and motorcycle riding until the early morning. I decided to sleep at a friend's house before driving back into the City. No real story, until I awoke with stomach cramps and the sensation that the Hangover Shits were going to start rocking either a couch or a porcelain bowl. Most may say, "big deal". Well, you're FUCKING RIGHT IT'S A BIG DEAL!
I assessed the situation. I have never really been a good pooper. I go for weeks at a time between deposits. I've spent summer breaks on liquid diets because school stress shifted my intestines and I was unable to process solid foods.
My poop also has anxiety. I could be ready to go and a gentle breeze can pass by and, like your typical house cat, poop gets freaked out and runs back upstairs.
Alas, I know I won't make it home.
I'm sweating. Everyone is up. There's only one fucking bathroom. They have kids. Annoying kids, hollering, "Aunt Lari's up! Aunt Lari's up! She's in the bathroom, want me to ask if she wants pancakes?" Decision is made! I run, en pointe, into their bathroom.
I hear feet running down the hall.
NO! God, NO! I don't want your fucking food. No food. I can smell food. PLEASE, GOD, DON'T COME TO THE DOOR!
I rip off my belt, bring my shirt up and tuck it through my bra. I unbutton all 3456789 of my 'button fly' buttons and as I try to wrangle my spray painted jeans down, my cigarettes and lighter come out of a pocket and go skittering by and under the door.
Just as I touch down, in the grip of a frenzied sweat, I hear, "Aunt Lari! Your lighter is on the floor. Do you want pancakes? Mom has sausage too. How many do you want? Do you want your lighter? I have your lighter. Do you eat sausage? Will you do my hair? Aunt Lari? Are you ok? Can you hear me? Moooooooom.....she's not answering me!"
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
I'm rocking like the Andrea Gail in 'Perfect Storm'. I'm in so much pain. I eek out something like, "I'mfinenofood! I'mfinenofood! Gimmeoneminute!"
To save you all the painful images of myself twerking, shaking, walking my feet up the wall directly in front of me....I, after a very long period of time, am barely able to produce so much as a damn fart. I hate my life. I'm in pain. I want to be home.
I get dressed, in my sweat soaked clothing, and prepare to bum rush their front door.
I make my way out to the kitchen and begin to hurriedly collect my lighter, leathers, and keys. I give a bogus explanation for my quick departure and, just as I head to the stairs to walk down and out, hear, "Mommy look! There's a BUNNY TURD!"
Yes.
Everything you're thinking.
Actually, add more to what you're thinking. You can't possibly think anything that did not cross my mind in those .0009 seconds.
I swiftly turned around, all eyes are on me.
I flushed! I know I did! I washed my hands. I left everything the way it was! What the fuckin' FUCKKKK?
I try to beat the entire family to the bathroom. My friend and her husband beat me. They're cracking up. I'm livid, embarrassed, my stomach is slapping bass, I miss my Mom.
I reach the doorway. As my friend explains that you have to hold the handle all the way down, which in my rush I did not, her husband states, "Christ! Can't blame the terlit. Nothin' to flush! Usually people clog it. That's the smallest turd I've ever seen! Even corn is bigger, how would it hold corn?"
Ah, there it was.
"How WOULD it hold corn?"
Everyone is laughing, except me and my stomach. My eyes are burning, I want to cry but laughter pops out. As they let me rush out the door, I hear, "See you soon, Bunny!"
My alter was born that day. From then on, every time I walked into a room or saw someone in public and was referred to as, "Bunny" or "BunnyRush", vapid men and women would assume it was a nickname for sexual prowess, for being a 'Playboy' (not to be confused with Playgirl). For the very few of us who knew, and believe me, my story did make its rounds to a select group of friends, it was literally THE best nickname in the world.
Nothing made me feel more powerful, during my attempt at escaping the greasy clutches of some drunk dumbass, then finally telling the story of how I 'earned' my nickname. It was magic! The pudgy grips released, the sour breath fading receding from my face, as they stared in what I can only describe as magnificent horror.
Almost 20 years later, I have begun to leave "Bunny" at home and refer to myself as "Lari". My life has changed.
With the loss of my Father, we have also lost the relationships and lifestyle that once was a daily part of our lives. My daughter is older and our relationship comes first. I live each day striving to overcome ailments that most of you may never see even in your 80's.
WHICH NOW BRINGS ME TO MY VIOLATION.
I loathe the bathroom experience.
I loathe germs. I loathe the 'icky'.
I can not bear to touch my ass with dry toilet paper. Put ketchup, or whatever condiment you can think of, on a wad of tissue and rub it onto a counter top. Does it go anywhere? NO! It doesn't! It just gets smeared around. It is unsanitary, I can't even stand typing about it.
I take the 'Zamboni' approach.
Nothing like a nice, water soluble, wet wipe to take that layer off, leaving you clean and...well, not 'icky'.
I take a pack everywhere, in case of emergencies. Rather than an hour trying to dry wipe something, you get a couple wipes and boom, slick as glass!
My best friend RANGER used to brag all the time, while deployed in Korea, about his adoration for the wonder that is the 'bidet'. So much so, that after a time, I asked for one for Christmas.
A year ago, I was frustrated. As an adult, just making it in the middle class world, what could I possibly ask for, for Christmas?
A BIDET!!!!!!
It would solve all my problems! It would be like magic! It would save on toilet tissues and wipes! What a great present to ask for!
And even better to actually get!
Boy hooked that bitch right up! I read the directions, so I knew exactly what I was doing. Or did I?
After a few years of GI doctors, tests, scans, and medications, I have a diagnosis and treatment plan for my anxious stomach. A good diet and meds have kept me pretty straight and I anxiously awaited my first bidet experience. No stress. Yet.
The time had finally come. I was ready. I walked into the bathroom like Connor McGregor. I think I actually skipped. I delicately pumped a mist of PooPourri, slid both thumbs into my leggings and dropped trou.
As I sat on my throne, relaxed, yet giddy with anticipation, I completed my "Bunny" mission. I flushed. I cracked my knuckles, as I shook my head cockily and smirked. , Little did I know, that once I accessed the control panel, much like Han Solo, I'd propel my ass into Light Speed.
Now, there is only a switch and a lever. The switch was set to Female, so as to reach my anatomical areas accurately. The lever is what you are to pull to release the stream of water. Gently lift, is my suggestion. If not, "stream of water", is an insult to the force that lunged from within my toilet.
I yanked that bitch straight vertical. Full throttle.
I, literally, shit * you * not.
If I could have pictured myself at that first instant, I can only picture the Fontana del Tritone, a magnificent fountain in Rome (look it up).
The water turned into a solid, with jagged edges. It leapt into my asshole and damn near shot straight out of my mouth.
This bastard took on human form and straight up, MAN SHOVED me half off the toilet. I went to stand up and it shot straight up the crease of my back, stabbing me in the kidneys. I felt like I was shot in the back of the head. I hopped back down and this monstrous energy shot straight into my right ass cheek, water spraying everywhere, the pressure burning and shanking me like a new 'fish' in prison. I was violated to my very core. Seriously though... TO. MY. CORE.
All I needed was a bikini and I would look like those douchebags with the water jet boots in Miami.
I was drenched. I was in pain. I was furious, looking at the water all over my walls and floor. I realized I had to push the lever back down. Now this took probably 30 seconds. But to me, it will be remembered as a significant period in my life. Those next few days, I jumped every time Boy offered me a glass of water. I walk differently now, though I have stopped shaking and crying at night when I lay down to sleep.
"Bidet" and I now have a mutual understanding.
Once I learned how to gently lift and adjust the lever, this bidet has become insanely invaluable. Especially right now.
However, I have to give the warning to all who enter our bathroom. "Please don't play with the lever. You will be covered in water and you will be the one that cleans it up." And this warning has been tested. Several of Wednesday's friends have come over and used the toilet properly. But that curiosity gets the best of them! As soon as we hear the toilet flush, we wait. And without fail, especially if it is a first visit, we hear a squeal! Then after a few minutes, they creep out looking for Wednesday. Their shirts, pants, and socks soaking wet.
So, while Amazon is still delivering, get yourself an attachable bidet. They're about 40$, unless you're into the high tech stuff. It's water on your asshole. They all do the same job, but choose what you will. But DO NOT CHOOSE to go forcefully into that good cleaning. Be gentle and most respectful of the stream.
I hope you found a reason to smile, at my expense, while our world is upside-down? I will be working on new blogs when I can. Please stay safe, think logically, and STREAM ON! xoxoxL~
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