It was more than a few years ago and I had just moved in to a new studio apartment just north of Chicago. I was also in the middle stages of my first big break up and the feelings of excitement and creativity that usually fill me when moving to a new space were very much stifled by feelings of depression and anger. Still, it had been nearly two months since I’d last had sex and I decided that my new apartment also signified that it was time for a new guy. I wouldn’t be picky, I was consciously aware that the last thing I wanted interfering in my day-to-day my life was another boyfriend; no, all I needed was a simple rebound to fill the gap in between my sheets for a night.
I agreed to go out with Keith, a bronzed Ken doll I had met at some gay party a friend had dragged me to shortly after the break up and right after I’d moved back to Illinois. I remembered a chiseled jaw line, dimples, and a set of scientifically enhanced white teeth. He had approached me where I was standing in front of the speakers. I was in no mood to be around other people, let alone hundreds of gay men, and so I had grabbed two drinks from the bar in the kitchen and taken post at the loudest spot in the room in an attempt to defer anybody from talking to me. I glared at him as he spoke words I couldn’t hear over the pulsing Kylie Minogue song blasting out of the speaker between us. Clearly he misinterpreted my facial expression as interested because he grabbed my phone and put his number in to it under the name “Keith – stud.”
“Is that what they call this place?” I shouted over Madonna’s Ray of Light.
“Huh?” I couldn’t hear him but I could interpret his confused facial expression. I had a feeling it was the same as his neutral face.
“This place… is it called ‘stud’?” Surely he would only type the word ‘stud’ in to remind me the next morning of where we had met.
“No!” Keith shouted back, “Me! I’m a stud!”
“You are?” I asked, not convinced. He was too busy dancing to hear me and I used his distracted state to disappear and find my friend to take me home.
A couple of weeks later I was desperate and decided it was time to ‘just get it over with.’ ‘It’ being the first encounter of my rediscovered single-hood, a state of being I didn’t appreciate then as much as I would later in life. I texted him and had to send him several photos before he claimed to remember who I was and agree to take me to dinner and a movie. I had never alluded to dinner and a movie, let alone conversation, but went along with it anyways. Why intentionally cheapen an already poor situation?
I decided to use the occasion to try something I’d always had a mild curiosity towards, a curiosity that had sky-rocketed when I noticed that the offices across the street from my apartment offered the service – hydrocolonotherapy. Also, after two months of abstinence, I decided an enema would be a polite thing to look in to considering the only thing on my agenda for the impending ‘date’ involved my new bed and various positions of sodomy. I called to book an appointment immediately.
I take pride in the regularity of my bowels, but this also gave me reason to book my butt’s RotoRooter appointment as close to my appointment with Keith as possible. I figured an hour would be plenty of time – the office was, after all, across the street from my apartment where Keith would be picking me up, and I didn’t feel as if I needed to devote very much time to getting ready considering I wasn’t really out to impress him enough to come back for seconds.
My doctor – or whatever title those colon cleaners hold (I highly doubt it’s ‘doctor,’ probably more like ‘plumber.’) – was running about thirty minutes late… he of course joked that he was running behind which actually made me like him more. I let him know that it was my first time and that he should probably take it slow. How the process works is as follows: a tube is inserted in to your ass and water begins to flow, you can’t really feel the water unless it’s too cold or too hot so you’re not even sure that anything is happening until your butt starts to leak signaling that it’s full, the tube is then removed and you sit on the toilet and let the fluids, etc. fall out. The process is repeated a few times until the fluids that fall out are completely clear.
Oddly enough, on what was supposed to be the last cycle, nothing came out. At this point I was already late and really needed to be on my way. The doctor assured me that this wasn’t entirely irregular that I could just take care of it later on my own on any given toilet whenever my colon was ready. I ran out of the office and saw Keith sitting in his idling Trans Am across the street in front of my building.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I opened the car door and slid in.
He glanced me over, “You look nice,” he commented sarcastically. I was wearing a t-shirt, a pair of jean cut-off shorts (jorts, if you will), and a pair of converse without socks – my typical summer uniform. It hadn’t dawned on me that I should wear anything else for this event until I looked at Keith. He was in preppy dress shorts, a button-down long-sleeved shirt, and it looked like he had just shaved. Overall, he looked terribly uncomfortable for an August evening in Chicago.
“Thanks,” I said dryly, immediately realizing that I was embarking on S.S. Terrible Idea. Without the booze, the loud music, and the dim lighting, we clearly had even less in common and he seemed a whole lot less interested than he had at the party. He arched an eyebrow towards me before he took off down my residential street at a speed only appropriate for Daytona. Good, I thought, the faster he goes, the faster we can cut to the chase and just go back to my place and get this over with.