What happens when you spend the day in the ER, getting morphine injections, and then you go home (which is relative in my case), and you sip on liquid vicodin for about 24 hours? When you ingest that much opioid (why did we stop saying opium?), you're going to be backed up. It's an unrelenting thing called Opioid-Induced Constipation, and now that I've been taking them for years I can say I'm pretty familiar with the phenomenon, such as it is. But once upon a time I was a complete stranger.
The reason I bring this up is, you cannot underestimate the relief of taking a shit after the opioid is gone. It's one of the most fabulous sensations in the world. After straining and pushing for two days, the dam broke at work this afternoon. I felt every turd joint, every shit wrinkle, every fecal pockmark rub rockily against my stretching anus, and it felt amazing. The old joke about feeling 10 pounds lighter? That's no exaggeration for me, because I really *am* 10 pounds lighter than I was on Monday.
But I wanted to tell you tonight about my first brush with OIC, which happened maybe 10 years ago? Possibly? Maybe a little later. At any rate, I was staying the night with my girlfriend at the time, and she was on methadone as she was a recovering junkie. Her method of taking it was dissolving the tablet in orange juice and drinking it that way.
We spent the night doing pretty much the only thing we did back then: getting drunk as fuck and, uh, well, fuck as drunk. We'd take periodic breaks, and during one of these I drank what I thought was my orange juice. When she came back from the bathroom, she asked, "Did you drink my orange juice?"
Considering what we'd been up to, I wasn't worried about catching anything from her OJ. I almost never get colds or the flu or anything, anyway. Then she reminded me of what was in her orange juice. I asked what would happen, and she shrugged and said, "Things could get interesting for you."
How bad could it be? We went at it one more time and then fell asleep. The next morning, as was customary, she woke up ready to go another round. She asked me to get behind her, but when I did, I nearly pitched forward onto her back. I braced myself by putting both hands on her ass and trying not to fall over. She asked what was wrong, and I said I didn't know. Only then did she remember about me drinking her methadone, and she explained what was happening.
I'm advised that I slept through the best part of that drug and woke up in time for the horror. Because I had to shit desperately, and I could not. I heaved and hoed and did a couple of body twists and some stretches. Tried to change my stance so it seemed like I was squatting more than usual. Nothing came out. I could feel it knocking at the back door, but it was too fucking big to make its escape. It was one of the most miserable things I'd gone through at the time, and now it's business as usual.
The unfortunate thing is, sometimes the shit HAS TO BE RETRIEVED. No amount of pushing is going to do it. I've heard horror stories of the spoon, but I have never done that. The next day at work, I managed to push it a little bit out of me, but it wouldn't come any further. I couldn't suck it back in, so I knew, horror of horrors, I had to get it out of me AT WORK. There was only one thing I could do: I wrapped my hand like a mummy's in toilet paper and reached up in there to pull my shit out.
Getting a grip on it was difficult. Slippery and somewhat mushy. But I sank my wrapped fingers in deeper and managed to get a handle on the thing. I pulled it the rest of the way out, and it felt like a hard sack of marbles in my wrapped hand. But it was out, and the rush of afterbirth came out with it.
I could not wash my hand enough. None of it got through the TP, but all the same, would you let something like that go? When I got out of the bathroom, everyone saw the haunted look in my eyes. They knew something horrible went down in that bathroom, and my supervisor let me go home early.
I've only ever had to reach back up there once before, and it was a lot messier that time. Thankfully I was home with rubber gloves. But I've learned that laxative is the best way to go. I have mineral oil that works slowly but efficiently. There's milk of magnesia, which works fast and brutal. And if you put them together you've got yourself a fine recipe for instant diarrhea.
But sometimes that doesn't work, and thanks to my hetero lifemate, Rob Tannahill, I now use Senokot. So if you find yourself suffering from OIC, that's what I would recommend. I took that last night, and after a terrible struggle I'm back in tip-top shape, ready to beat the shit out of the world.
Pretty gross, huh? It's been a while since I got gross here. Gotta remember I'm a horror author sometimes. Hell, I'm an erotica author, too. Maybe I'll get sexy tomorrow night. It *is* Saturday.
Pleasant dreams, fuckers.
Should I do commercials for Senokot? I'd do it for free product. Do I know anyone who works for them? Or maybe their social media team took the wrong turn at Albuquerque and is reading this. Have your people call my people (ie. person: me), and we'll talk.
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