My First Hemorrhoid Ever

Hemorrhoid - a mass of dilated veins of swollen tissue at the margin of the anus or nearby within the rectum – usually used in plural – called also piles (from Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary) 

As an educator, it is my responsibility – my duty – to act as a liaison between my students and the mystic labyrinth of the “real world”.  Who better to slay the dragons of puberty, to clarify the conundrum of coitus?  Anyone … anyone …?  No, there is no better pedagogue of HPV than the man who is himself scarred with experience (story here).  It is therefore my obligation that I bestow you, dear reader, with the same advice my students have heard time times a million again: DO NOT TRY AND POP A HEMORRHOID! 

Still not convinced …

It was springtime, and the morning Blue Jays whistled my dream away.  Someone once told me a dream lasts only seven seconds.  He was a crackhead, though, so I’ve never really bet on that one.  Regardless, the morning Blue Jays whistled my dream away. 

I shuffled to the bathroom, like every other morning of before, to revel in my inaugural defecation.  The seat was cold, and the paper plentiful, however; something was not right.  Something was most certainly wrong.  Something hurt.  Bad.  Very, very bad.   

Do you remember when you went bowling as a child, and you would throw the ball between your legs?  Picture that stance, only instead of looking at the pins, imagine looking between your legs behind you.  …Have it?   Good.  Now, picture me in this position, balancing on my bathroom counter, spreading my butt cheeks, straining to examine my inflamed anus in the mirror. 

Yes, something was most certainly wrong.  It would be befitting that you at this moment envision a scream.  “What the fuck is that!?”  Drool dripping down my face.  Cough, cough.  Head reddening, veins bulging, again, louder, slower, “What the fucking fuck is that!?!”  Imagine an expression of confusion, curiosity, disgust, and fear.

Gently, apprehensively, I stroked my new ass tonsil.  I prodded and then flicked the flappy, red corn kernel that protruded from my poop chute.  And then I fashioned an underbite.  And I took that globule of grossness betwixt my thumbnails, and I squeezed the shit out of it.

Jesus fucking shit fucking cock mother fucking piss on my fucking shit holy shit god damn mother fucking shit!  Shiver.  That did not go as planned. 

But there are times when one must persevere no matter the sufferance.  Like when training for a heavyweight boxing bout.  Or when preparing for the MCAT exam.  Or when popping a pimple that just really, really, really (that’s three really’s) hurts (most often back geysers and those vicious little devils vacillatingly tempting the brim of the nostril).  And so I continued to squeeze.  And pinch.  And poke.  And stretch.  To no avail.  I then jabbed my new hemorrhoid with a needle.   Blood slowly seeped from the puncture, but relief there was not.  It seemed this pimple was here to stay.  There are times when one must persevere no matter the sufferance, but there are also times when one must consider such an idea retarded.  And so, after an excruciating four minutes, I gave up.  And I resumed my shit.  Excruciatingly.  Wiping was treacherous, so I skipped it altogether. 

The day wore on like a sandpaper thong.  There was no ignoring the mysterious and unpoppable pimple that commandeered my asshole.  By noon, I couldn’t sit down, and by 2:00, walking was on a need-to-do basis.  On my bus ride home from work, it was well known that I sat on a crayon.      

Keys fumbling, I opened the door to my apartment and rushed to the bathroom.  Rushed being relative.  I contorted into position and holy mother fucking god mother fucking damn.  My ass pimple was the size of a cherry.       

No, it couldn’t be.  These sorts of things just didn’t happen to me.  I was clean, and young, and …not fat and repulsive.  I didn’t live in a trailer park or eat TV dinners.  I didn’t have a mustache, Toby Keith records, or an affinity towards wall to wall wood paneling.  I flossed and shopped at the Gap.  No, it couldn’t be.  It was a pimple, right?  A really, really, really, really, (that’s four really’s) big pimple, right?

Wrong. 

Holy shit.  I grabbed my sweatshirt and waddled to the convenient store at the end of the block.  Bells clanked as I opened the door.  Aisle seven.  There it was – Preparation H – glimmering like a Chernobylian child.  I can understand the profitability in branding a name, but no, not with hemorrhoid cream.  Such the product should be disguised and marketed as toothpaste, wink.    Looking left, looking right, I slipped the darling tube into my pocket.  And I walked to the register.  And I put a Snickers on the counter.  And I pulled out my wallet.  And heart pounding, I waited. 

Sharice glared.  “You gonna pay for that?”  

Fuck.  A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  I blushed and blundered and then began to reach into my pocket.  And then someone called my name.

“Mr. Kimble?”

I swung around. 

“James?”  It was one of my fatter students, James.  “What are you doing here?”

He stuck his finger in his ear and gyrated, like he always did.  “I’m just getting some milk for my mother,” he responded.

I put my arm on his shoulder and turned him around.  “They’re all out, James,” I said, slowly sliding a twenty dollar bill across the counter.  “Scurry home now; we have a very important lesson tomorrow.”