[Intestines] Author: Unknown

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

Intestines
Author: Unknown
Word Count: 6205
Inhale.
Inhale as much air as you can.
This story should be about as long as you can hold your breath, and then a little longer. So,
listen as soon as possible.
A friend of mine, when he was thirteen, heard about "anal penetration." It's about inserting
a dildo into your anus. Apparently, if you stimulate the prostate enough, you can have a powerful orgasm without using your hand.
At that age, this friend was a bit of a pervert. He was always looking for a better way to release his pent-up desires. He went and
bought a carrot and a bottle of Vaseline. To do a little personal experiment. Then he imagined what it
would look like at the supermarket checkout: that carrot and that bottle of lubricant rolling alone on the conveyor belt to
the cashier, seen by all the customers in line, everyone knowing his
big plan for the night.
So, my friend bought milk, eggs, sugar, and a carrot—all
the ingredients for carrot cake. Plus a bottle of Vaseline.
It's like he was going home to shove a carrot cake up his ass.
When he got home, he shaved the carrot into a short stick, smeared it with oil, and slowly sat on it. And then
—nothing. No orgasm, nothing but pain.
Then this kid, his mom called him to dinner. She said to come downstairs, right away.
He managed to pull the carrot out and wrapped the slippery, dirty thing in his dirty
clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he went to look for the carrot again, only to find it gone. While he was eating dinner
, his mom took all his dirty clothes to wash. She couldn't have missed the
carrot, carefully trimmed with her kitchen peeler, shiny with lubricant, and smelling terrible.
My friend waited for months under a cloud of uncertainty, waiting for his parents to come and yell at him. But they
never did a thing, not even a little bit. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot still
hangs in mid-air, through every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every time he and his children—his
parents' grandchildren—hunt for Easter eggs, that ghostly carrot still hovers over everyone's
heads.
It's terrifying beyond words.
There's a French saying: "esprit d'escalier
." It means the moment you find the answer, but it's too late. For example, you're at
a party, and someone insults you. You have to talk back. Under pressure, everyone's watching you, and you
can only stammer. But as soon as you leave…
as you start walking down the stairs, and—like magic—you know the best thing to say. The best thing to
say to refute them.
That's what "esprit d'escalier" means.
The problem is, even the French don't really have a word to describe the truly foolish thing you do under pressure. Those
stupid, reckless things you actually thought of or did.
Some of them were so low-level they were beyond description, so low-level they couldn't even be mentioned.
Looking back, child psychologists and school counselors now say the last
peak in teenage suicides was when kids suffocated themselves while masturbating. Parents found them
with a towel around their necks, tied to a bar in their bedroom closet, dead, dried semen everywhere.
Of course, the parents would clean up, put pants on their kids, and make the situation look… better.
At least that much of it. Like the typical heartbreaking teenage suicides.
Another friend of mine, also a classmate, whose brother served in the navy, said that Middle Easterners use guns
differently than we do. This brother was stationed in several camel-producing countries where they sold something in the markets that looked
like fancy letter openers. Each of these fancy tools was simply a thin, polished copper
or silver rod
, about the length of your palm, with a large head at one end—either a large metal ball or
a curved handle like a sword hilt. The older brother, who was in the navy, said that after Arab men got their penises hard, they would
insert these thin metal rods all the way in, and then use them to masturbate
, making the orgasm much more intense and pleasurable.
This was the same older brother who had traveled all over the world who sent back French proverbs, Russian proverbs, and helpful
masturbation tips.
After that, the younger brother missed school one day. That night, he called to ask if I could
get him a week's worth of homework because he was in the hospital.
He had to share a room with some old men who had undergone gastrointestinal surgery, and he said they would share a television.
They only had a curtain for privacy. His parents wouldn't visit him. He said on the phone that his parents should really
kill his brother in the navy.
The kid told me on the phone—the day before—that he had taken some drugs. In his bedroom at home,
lying in bed, he lit a candle, looked at some old porn magazines, and prepared to masturbate. This was after he read
a letter from his brother in the navy, which contained useful information about how Arabs masturbate. The kid
was looking everywhere for something that could do it. Ballpoint pens were too thick, and pencils were not only too thick but also too rough. But
the thin, smooth strip of wax running alongside the candle was probably just right. The kid used the tip of his finger to
scrape the long strip of wax off the candle, rubbed it between his palms to make it smoother, longer, smoother, and thinner.
He was a little dazed and lewd, and he inserted that thing into his erect penis through the urethra, deeper and
deeper. He left a bit of wax outside and started masturbating.
Even now, he says those Arabs are really fucking clever. They completely reinvented
masturbation. He lay flat on the bed, and the guy was getting so into it that he forgot to pay attention to the wax. Just as he was about to
ejaculate, he noticed that the wax sticking out from his head was gone.
The thin strip of wax had slid all the way in. It had gone all the way in, deep into his
ureter, where he couldn't even feel it.
His mother was calling him from downstairs for dinner. She said she'd come down, right away. The boy with the wax and the boy with the carrot
weren't the same person, but our lives were pretty much the same.
After dinner, the boy's stomach started to hurt. It was the wax, so he thought maybe it would
melt in his stomach and make him urinate. Now his back hurt, his kidneys hurt. He couldn't even stand up straight.
The boy was making a phone call from his hospital bed; you could still hear the ringing of the phone, someone screaming, and
the sound of a game show on TV.
An X-ray revealed the truth: a long, thin thing bent in two, inside his bladder. This
long, thin V-shape had absorbed all the minerals from his urine. It grew larger and rougher,
encased in calcium crystals that pulsated everywhere, damaging the soft tissue lining his bladder, blocking his urine flow
, and causing backflow of urine into his kidneys. The little bit that could leak from his penis
was red with blood.
The boy, his parents, his whole family, stared at the black-and-white X-ray, doctors and nurses
standing beside them. The large white "V" formed by wax was so bright everyone could see it, and he had to tell the truth
. This Arabic masturbation technique, his brother had told him about it in a letter from the navy.
Now, he was crying on the phone.
They used his college savings to pay for the bladder surgery. Such a stupid mistake, and now
he could never be a lawyer again.
Putting something inside yourself. Getting yourself stuck in something, whether it's a candle in your
penis or your head in a noose, we all know it's a big problem.
The thing that got me into trouble, I call "diving for pearls." In other words, I masturbated underwater, sitting in
my parents' swimming pool, at the bottom of the deeper end. I would take a deep breath, kick the water, dive to the bottom, and
take off my swimming trunks. I would sit there for two, three, or four minutes.
Because of masturbation, I developed a very large lung capacity. As long as no one else was home, I would
spend the whole afternoon doing this. When I finally ejaculated, my semen would be a large, milky-white mass
suspended in the water.
Afterward, I would dive down again, scoop it up, and wipe it on a towel. That's why it's
called "diving to find pearls." Even though the pool water had chlorine, I still worried about my sister, and also, Almighty Jesus,
and my mother.
At that time, the thing I feared most in the world was that my teenage sister, still a virgin,
whom I always thought was just getting fatter, would give birth to a mentally challenged baby with two heads. Both heads looked
like me. I was both the father and the uncle.
In the end, however, what you encounter is not what you fear.
The best part of "Diving for the Pearl" is the inlet of the pool's filter and circulation motor. The best part is
sitting naked on it.
Like the French say: who doesn't like having their ass sucked?
The problem is, one minute you're just a kid wanting to have some fun, the next you're
no longer a lawyer.
One minute I'm sitting at the bottom of the pool, the sky is rippling, and from eight feet above my head,
it's a pale blue. Except for the sound of my own heartbeat, the world is completely silent. My yellow
striped swim trunks are pulled around my neck for safety, in case a friend, neighbor, or anyone else
suddenly appears and asks why I didn't go to soccer practice. The inlet is rhythmically sucking me in, and I'm
pressing my skinny, white butt down to enjoy the feeling.
One minute I'm taking a deep breath, holding my penis in my hand. My parents are at work, my sister is at ballet class
, and no one will be home for hours.
My hands brought me to the brink of orgasm, then I stopped, swam up for a deep breath, and dived back down
to sit on the bottom.
I did this over and over again.
That's probably why girls want to sit on your face; the suction feels like you're constantly taking a
dump. My penis was rock hard, and my anus felt like it was being licked and sucked; I didn't need air. I could hear
my heartbeat. I stayed underwater until I saw stars. My legs were stretched straight, my knees
scraped against the concrete bottom. My toes were blue, wrinkled from being in the water for so long
.
Then I brought myself to orgasm, and large spurts of white semen began to spray out. Pearls.
Just then, I needed some air. But when I tried to kick and swim upwards, I couldn't. I
couldn't get my feet under my body. My butt was stuck.
Emergency services will tell you that about 150 people get stuck like this every year, sucked in by the circulation motor
. If your long hair or your butt gets stuck, you'll drown. Countless people
die every year, mostly in Florida.
People just don't talk about it; even the French don't talk about everything.
I knelt down, tucking one foot under my body, and as I half-stood up, I felt something
pulling at my buttocks. I put my other foot under my body and swam up the pool bottom. I left the bottom, no
longer touching the concrete, but I couldn't breathe.
I treaded the water hard, paddling with my arms, reaching about halfway above the surface, but couldn't go any higher. My
heart was pounding louder and faster.
Bright lights kept flashing before my eyes, and I turned to look behind me… but it made no
sense. The thick rope, like some kind of snake, bluish-white, with visible veins, came up from the outlet and
bit my buttocks. Some veins were oozing blood, the red blood appearing black underwater.
It floated out from small cracks in the snake's pale skin and disappeared into the water. Beneath the snake's thin, bluish-white skin
, clumps of half-digested food were visible.
This was the only plausible explanation: some terrifying sea monster, a sea serpent. Never in broad daylight...
The thing I'd seen earlier was lurking in the dark depths of the swimming pool drain, waiting to bite me.
So… I kicked hard, kicking at the slippery, elastic, knotted skin and the veins on it, as
if an even longer piece was being pulled out of the drain. Now it was about the length of my leg, but it was still tightly gripping
my anus. I kicked again, an inch closer to where I could breathe. I still felt the snake
biting my butt and pulling me down, but I was an inch closer to escape.
You could see corn and peanuts tangled inside the snake's belly. You could also see a long, bright orange
ball. Like one of those large vitamin pills my dad forced me to take to gain weight so I could win a football
scholarship. It had added iron and omega-3 fatty acids.
Seeing that vitamin saved my life.
That wasn't a snake. That was my large intestine. My intestines were being pulled out of my body. It was what doctors called
"prolapse." My intestines had been sucked into the drain.
Emergency personnel will tell you that a swimming pool pump can pump eighty gallons of water per minute. That's about
four hundred pounds of force. The biggest problem is that our internal organs are connected. Your butt is just
the other end of your mouth. If I let it go, the pump will continue—tearing my internal organs out—and eventually
my tongue. Just imagine the force of four hundred pounds, and you'll know how it would empty you out. What
I can tell you is that your intestines won't feel much pain. Unlike the kind of pain your skin feels
. What you digest, doctors call "excrement." Above that is chyme, a pile of
paste mixed with corn, peanuts, and round green peas.
Floating around me is a soup of blood and corn, feces, semen, and peanuts. Even if my
intestines were pulled out of my butt, and I clung to the rest, even in that situation, the first
thing I'd want to do is figure out how to put my swim trunks back on.
God doesn't want my parents to see my penis.
I clenched my fist against my anus with one hand and pulled my yellow striped swim trunks down from my neck with the other.
But putting them back on was still an impossible task.
If you want to feel what your intestines feel like, go buy a box of those little sheep intestine condoms,
take one out, stretch it out, fill it with peanut butter, smear lubricant on the outside, and put it in the water. Then try
to tear it, try to pull it in two. It's so tough and elastic, and so slippery you can't
hold on to it.
A sheep intestine condom is intestines, after all.
Now you can understand what I'm dealing with.
If you let go, your intestines will be gone.
If you swim to the surface for air, your intestines will be gone too.
If you don't swim upwards, you'll drown.
It's a choice between dying immediately or dying a minute later.
When my parents come home from work, they'll find a huge, naked fetus, curled up in a ball, floating in
the murky water of their backyard swimming pool. A twisted, vein-filled intestine was tied to the bottom of the pool.
Unlike the child who hanged himself while masturbating. This was their precious child, brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago.
Their child, whom they hoped would win a football scholarship and earn an MBA. The child who would take care
of them in their old age. Their all their hopes and dreams. Floating there, naked, dead. Surrounded by
milky pearls formed from wasted semen.
If not, my parents would find me wrapped in a blood-soaked towel,
halfway between the pool and the kitchen telephone, a severed intestine
protruding from the leg of my yellow striped swim trunks.
That's something the French wouldn't talk about.
My brother, serving in the navy, taught us another saying. A Russian proverb. Like we
say, "Who wants this is like wanting a hole in their head." Russians say, "Who wants this is like
wanting teeth in their ass."
"Ah,
you've all heard those stories about wild animals biting off their own legs when they fall into a trap. Hey, any coyote
will tell you that a few bites are better than death.
Damn... even if you're Russian, maybe one day you'll want those teeth too.
Otherwise, what you have to do is—turn around. Hook one hand behind your knee and lift that
leg up to your face. Then try to bite your ass. When you can't breathe,
you'll bite anything to get another breath.
This is something you wouldn't tell a girl on a first date.
You wouldn't say it if you wanted her to kiss you goodnight.
If I told you what it tasted like, you'd never eat squid again.
It's hard to say which thing my parents found more disgusting: how I got into trouble, or how I
saved my life. After the hospital visit, my mom said, "You had no idea what you were doing, baby
, you were so shocked." And she learned how to make boiled eggs.
Everyone found it disgusting or felt sorry for me…
I needed that, like teeth growing in my ass. Now, everyone keeps saying I look too thin. They 　　get really angry
when they're silent at dinner because I don't eat their stew. The stew is too much for me, and so is the roasted ham. Anything that 　　stays in my stomach for over two hours without being digested comes out undigested. Lima beans or large pieces of tuna cooked at home 　　, when I stand up after a bowel movement, they're still in the toilet. 　　My digestion isn't as good since my colon removal surgery. Most people have about five feet 　　of intestine. I'm lucky I only have six inches left. So I never got the football scholarship, and I 　　never got an MBA. My two friends, the Wax Boy and the Carrot Boy, grew up 　　and got bigger, but I never gained a pound more than I did at thirteen. 　　Another big problem was that my parents spent a lot of money renovating the swimming pool. In the end, my dad only told that...

The guy who came to fix the swimming pool said it was a dog. Our dog had fallen in and drowned. Its body was sucked into the drain
. Even after he opened the filter, pulled out a slippery tube, a wet section of intestine,
and a large orange vitamin pill inside, all my dad said was, "That dog is fucking insane."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, I could hear him saying, "That dog, you can't let your eyes off it for a second
..."
Then my sister's period didn't come.
Even after they changed all the water in the pool, even after they sold the house, and we moved to another state
, and after my sister had an abortion, my parents never mentioned it again.
Never.
That was our invisible carrot.
Now you can all take a good, deep breath.
Because I haven't taken a breath yet.
[The End]

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