Fire in the Hole: The Colonoscopy Diaries (Part 1)

I experienced the first big whiff of my own mortality and inevitable slide into old age a few years back when my doctor jammed his finger so far up my rectum he seemed to be shaking hands with my prostate.

I recall a low, guttural growl emerging from me and something like "Christ, Doc! You setting up camp in there?" escaping from my lips. Along with a whispered, "I've always loved you, you demon."

He was a persistent and thorough one.

A rugged man with masculine needs and desires.

I nicknamed him "Doctor Thick Fingers" after that incident and continued to see him in the subsequent years (professionally only, of course) for our annual anal love fest. Once someone violates you like that, it's best to stick with the abuser you know rather than risk being victimized by some other avid sadist with a medical degree.

That particular part of my body had been strictly an output device for so many years I never realized the horrible, terrible possibility of an alternate direction.

The worst of it was, since my cherry broke that fateful day, there has been no shortage of medical people lining up to try and cram something up my ass. The Huns at the gates of Rome, as it were.

This whole obsession and focus on my pooper began innocently enough with some blood work I had done during my first physical exam in over twenty years. I had put a lot of hard and dirty living in during that period and was expecting a stern upbraiding from my physician.

I was awaiting the diagnosis of cirrhosis of the liver or oncoming dementia from a latent strain of syphilis lying dormant in me since college. None came. I was apparently clean and fit as a fiddle.

There was, however, the matter of my cholesterol count, which the doctor pointed out had drawn audible gasps from the lab crew and nurses. Even he admitted to being gripped by THE FEAR upon viewing the results.

My LDL reading was off the charts. Somewhere above the count for an insatiable polar bear who feeds exclusively on seal blubber (and has really let himself go) yet significantly lower than John Goodman's or Andy Reid's. I don't want to get into specific numbers. Let's just say if it was my batting average, I'd be making millions in the Majors right now.

The Doctor was concerned and called for a thorough examination, thus my regrettable phalangeal cornholing at his hands. And, at times, it did feel like entire hands.

Now, you may be saying to yourself at this point that I am simply sharing these experiences for a few cheap laughs and to satisfy my proclivity to talk about ass every chance I get.

Fair enough.

I am not one of those ridiculous, dying, performance artists (usually rotting from AIDS or stomach cancer) who insist on promoting their internal (and egotistically external) suffering in the marketplace of theater, film, music, literature, poetry or television. A misplaced sense of self-importance reaches new heights of absurdity when one's prognosis is set to musical comedy or spoken word performance.

My potential death means nothing.

Nor does theirs.

I had a bit of a scare.

Nothing too serious mind you. No, no. Shhhhh. Don't cry. It's all going to be okay. Daddy loves you very much. He's not going anywhere. You must hear me out.

This past year's physical revealed some traces of blood in my stool. My new doctor (with long slender fingers!) said that it was probably nothing to be overly concerned about, but that I should go see a specialist as a precautionary measure. He speculated the presence of blood could be caused by anything from benign polyps, a fissure or even a small ulcer. I offered that it was probably from the sheer number of fingers that had been slamming against my rectal walls recently. Something was bound to give.

I would like to mention at this point that my new doctor's digit width had very little effect in reducing the pain of my prostate exam. I'm beginning to see why the gals in porn get a little extra scratch for the brown-eye scenes. Money was the first thing I screamed out for when I was so unholy invaded. And to think, it was I who was paying him for the indignity.

The experience also left me questioning the sanity of "size queens". Those people who prefer male genitalia to resemble a hydraulic crane in both size and function. Just what the hell are they trying to prove? Should sex be based on a dare? If it takes an orange highway pylon to get you off, Girlfriend, you may be headed down the path of irreversible nerve damage. Believe me, this has nothing to do with feelings of inadequacy on my part. It's about tabs and slots. All fetishes aside, I'm looking for a dwarf GP with abnormally small fingers.

Craig's List perhaps.

The specialist recommended a colonoscopy.

"Will there be lots of drugs?", I blurted out far too quickly and eagerly.

He frowned and assured me I would be quite mentally removed from the proceedings.

I scheduled it a few weeks down the road and got my prescription "bowel prep kit" to study up for the big game.

NEXT: The floodgates open.