This Beetle Goes to the Proctologist

*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.

It was Andrea’s birthday so I took her to a restaurant on the water dam’s quay at Sebastian—since it is the closest thing to an ocean. The tropical breakfast amid the freezing air enlightened our tongues—shrimps and octopus’s tentacles. Andrea’s wide grin rekindled my faith in humankind; her body, seemingly of a Greek goddess, warmed by a white turtle neck sweater, a glitter black skirt over her most perfect behind, a pair of invisible nylon tights imprisoned her sexy legs, and the winter boots I gave her last year were her footwear choice. Her fingers ruffle through her ironed hair as her eyes remind me why I am still living for. How can a beetle like me walk with a doll like her?

I excused myself and went to the bathroom to complete the last task on my morning routine—going number two before noon.

Blood. All I could see was red, shiny blood in the toilet paper folded into squares.

I lumbered towards the table—not capable of poising—and sprawled in the chair with a pale look.

“Harry? Are you OK?” Her endearing voice soothed.

“Blood…” I spurted, somewhat dementedly, like the hunchback elder with cataracts on both eyes straight out from a horror movie who is staring at the reaper’s empty sockets.

“Blood?” She asked startled.

“I shat blood.”

“What the freak?”

“When I wiped my ass I saw blood, and poop.”

She subtly pushed her shrimps away. I continued. “As I further wiped, it was only blood.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No…”

“Is it like a haemorrhage or something?”

“No, nothing gushed.”

“I think we must take you to the hospital.” She stared at me with unceasing preoccupation.

“I think I am going to die.”

“Harry, calm down.”

“I always knew I would die by the ocean.”

She chuckled. “This is no ocean.”

Andrea drove me back to the city as I googled ‘Proctologist nearby downtown’ and made a phone call.

“What did they say?” Andrea wondered, her eyes fixed on the road.

“The doctor can see me as soon as we arrive.”

I felt my soul departing from this hairy and flaccid body. I always knew I would die bleeding myself to death.

“Andrea.”

“Yes, Harry?” She smirked—embracing herself for another hypochondriac thought. Her eyes spun towards mine, then at the street.

“I am sorry, I didn’t want to ruin your birthday.”

“It’s OK, darling.”

“It is so bizarre that I somehow manage to ruin all of your birthdays, last year I made you cry accidentally…”

“It’s OK, Harry.”

“And this year, I am going to leave you widow…”

“Don’t say that, Harry.” A sadness emerged behind her eyes. “It can be anything from a scratch or a little vein that popped.”

“Or bowel cancer…” I said solemnly, with the phone’s brightness over my face.

“You know what worries me most?” She said.

“What is it, my love?” I queried—deeply frightened because if she also thinks that I am going to die! Oh, boy! That means this must be it.

“The wedding salon’s contract clearly said that we won’t get our money back in case of cancellation!”

“Andrea!”

She giggled. I crossed my arms and stared at the window like an irritated adolescent.

“Do you want doughnuts?” She offered.

The pastries felt extremely good in my belly while waiting in the reception room.

“What flavour are your Timbits?” I asked my beautiful fiancée.

“Strawberry jelly. You want one?”

She handed me a perfect round dough, my instinct was to press it as if I were torturing an inferior, vulnerable being. I discharged all my resentment towards life in this little ball.

“Don’t make a mess.” She advised Andrea knows me so damn well.

Too late. My nail had already pried a small hole from which red jelly poured out, and since the ball had the same skin colour as me, I tried not to shed some tears.

“Harry De Santos?” The receptionist called.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Andrea proposed.

We entered an elegant workspace for someone who repairs asses—the walls were replaced with window panes and had a beautiful downtown view—I don’t know what I had imagined for a man who inserts fingers on older men for a living. Maybe like graffiti.

After a brief greeting, the proctologist cut the crap. I mean, he cut and literally went right to the crap.

“Doctor, I am dying! I saw blood all over the toilet paper!”

“Was it bright red or dark red almost black?” He inquired solemnly.

“Bright red I think.”

“That is good. It is not coming from inside.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Have you felt any little zits around your anus?”

“Hemorrhoids? No…”

He mused. “I think we must check you, to make sure.”

“OK.” I swallowed because he was muscular to be a doctor.

“Please, take your pants and undies off, and lay facing down on that bed.” His thick finger signalled.

Andrea smiled nervously. The doctor washed his hands, coated them with latex gloves and poured lubricant on his fingers.

“Please, put the pillow under your bladder.” He commanded.

It made my cheeks point directly at his face. It could not get worse.

“Look, I am going to introduce this instrument.”

I craned my neck and crossed my fingers to wish that the doctor would not suddenly show me a French horn. “OK.” Instead, I approved a metallic torture device from the eighteenth century.

“Here I go.”

What face can one do in a situation like this? I just waited until a warm finger forced his entry into my butt. It felt very uncomfortable until the steel paraphernalia joined the party inside my ass—the cold instrument widened my hole—then, I felt raped.

“Ms. De Santos,” He said, making Andrea smile—it was the first time someone called her that. “Could you come here for a second?” Her smile vanished instantly. I covered my face behind my sweaty palms.

“You see, ms. There is a tiny cut right here.” The two of them watched my stretched butt-hole as if it were an image inside a phone’s screen.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” I yelled, with my ass agape.

The moment ended a million years later. We sat at his desk once again as if he had not seen the behind of my glans and balls.

“The anus is bloody picky.” He kept echoing. “Almost everything makes it bleed. So be more careful.”

I squirmed.

“I am going to prescribe you an ointment. You will apply it in your anus, in a circling motion, two times a day—first thing in the morning and last thing in the night.”

Before dusk. Andrea and I finally came back to the house. After a shower together, I sat in the living room with a towel upon my shoulders as I smoked away my traumas, trembling like an abused prostitute. Andrea propped on the sofa while wringing her hair with a towel.

“Harry, he is a proctologist. Besides, when you reach forty you will have to go once a year.”

“Andrea, I am scared.”

“Why? He told us everything is OK.”

“I kinda miss…”

“What?”

“Nothing…”

“Tell me.”

“No, it’s not worth it.”

“OK.”

A hush fell upon us.

“I kind of miss his finger.”

“What!” She smiled startled.

I giggled and flicked the cigarette butt away.

“That is… Wow!” Andrea could not believe me.

“I think it is time to go to bed,” I called it a day.

“Yes! You are very sleepy, young man!”

“Oh, first I have to… The ointment.”

I flung into the bathroom and spread my legs. I poured a bit of cream into my finger.

“Harry?” Andrea said, the door creaked.

“I am almost ready,” I assured.

“Do you want me to help you? My hands are washed.” She gave me a coy smile.

And that, my young lads, is the reason why I am marrying Andrea the Doll. Oh! Là! Là!