Give Me Back My Tragedy; The Porn Industry’s (Mis)Appropriation of Rectal Prolapsing

When I was 14 years old I had a foot and a half of my colon surgically removed from my body. It was a terrifying climax to a life-long trauma. From the age of two, I would poop my colon out of my butt. Every. Day.

It started innocently enough. I was young and dumb and didn’t know how to poop properly. I was about two years old, and I pushed too hard and my colon just sorta popped out. Medically it’s called rectal prolapse, “a condition in which the rectum (the last part of the large intestine before it exits the anus) loses its normal attachments inside the body, allowing it to telescope out through the anus, thereby turning it ‘inside out.’” I reported it to my mother and she took me to the doctor and explained the situation. The doctor replied that it wasn’t unheard of in children whose bodies were still developing, and that the problem would correct itself as my colon firmly attached itself to the walls of my stomach.

Well, it didn’t. Instead, I endured 12 years of bearing this terribly awkward secret before it was literally cut out of me. It wore on me, mentally and physically, day in and day out. I wrestled with the idea of telling someone, but I was both embarrassed and afraid. I wasn’t a normal kid and I knew it, but I tried to convince myself that I was. Hey, maybe everyone pooped like that, a weird Alien-like butt-within-a-butt that expelled waste. But how do you ask that? There are normal “what’s going on with my body” questions and then there is, “hey, when you poop… does, like, your butt turn inside out? Asking for a friend…” It’s hard to slip into a conversation, is what I’m saying.

But one day, around the age of nine, I finally did. I casually brought it up with my mom, you know, as casually as you can bring such a subject up. I asked, hypothetically, what would happen if I was, again hypothetically, still pooping my colon out. She said I would probably need surgery. I was afraid of getting a simple shot, so the thought of going under the knife absolutely terrified me. Instead of opening up to my mom, telling her who I was, I awkwardly laughed it off and repressed it. I didn’t bring it up again with anyone for a long time. I pushed that secret deep down within me; I pushed it down so hard that my intestines continued to fall out of my body for another five years.

A one-time prolapse isn’t so bad. You can rebound from that. But doing it day in and day out takes it’s toll. By the time I was in high school, my anus was rapidly deteriorating. It started to feel like I always had to shit, to the point that I was excusing myself several times per class to carefully place 17 pieces of that single-ply public school toilet paper on the toilet seat and try not to let any part of my pants touch the ground, only for nothing to happen except, you know, the prolapsing part. This would happen over and over. To try and control the urge to shit, which I began to realize was actually damaging my body, I started popping Immodium AD like they were tic tacs, clogging my bowels. Of course that couldn’t prevent the skid marks or the constant farting, as my brown balloon knot had morphed into a gaping space monster after years of abuse. You know what’s more useless than a loose asshole? Nothing. Nothing is more useless. And don’t even get me started on the rectal mucosa. No, seriously, please don’t because it’s disgusting. I had reached a point where I was living in fear of my own shit.

I knew I couldn’t go on like this forever. I started to have nightmares about the symptoms getting worse, fearing that my innards were going to slowly sneak out of me until I woke up face to face with the BodyWorks version of myself. I knew I needed help, but I was still too afraid and embarrassed to bring it up with anyone, so I did the next best thing: consulted Web MD. It didn’t take long to find a diagnosis. Nor did it take long to understand that surgery was inevitable if I wanted this fixed. I mean, the Internet doesn’t lie, and this virtual doctor was certain. But I found solace in the information. I’d sought it out on my own and was able to digest it at my own pace. The monster coming out of my butt now had a name, it now had symptoms, and it now had a cure. It was a frightening cure, but a cure nonetheless. I took a deep breath, looked at my mom and said, with a strange sense of pride, “I need surgery to correct my rectal prolapse.”

The sense of relief that was beginning to swell within me was tempered by my first trip to the surgeon. I still had to clear a few more hurdles before this nightmare would come to an end, the last of which involved cutting a six inch incision below my belly button and removing my insides. But first, I had to meet the surgeon. He was nice, and had an oddly wicked sense of humor about the whole thing, which I actually came to appreciate. After the initial introduction we headed to the examining room with his nurse, where things started to get a little… freaky. You can describe symptoms to a doctor all you want, but eventually he’s gotta get up in that shit, quite literally in my case. So there I was, lying on my side on a cold, metal gurney, ass exposed to these two people I had just met, wondering why this had happened to me. What did I do to deserve this? Why was life being so unfair? Before I could come up with an answer I was commanded to, well, show him my colon, or “blossom” as they say in the porn industry (more on that in a moment). For the first time in my life, I prolapsed whilst not on a toilet, in front of an audience. A week ago this was literally the most private thing in my life, and now here I was literally bearing my insides to them.

Of course, a visual test alone wasn’t enough for the surgeon, he had to get up in there and feel around to see how well my sphincter was functioning. Most men get to wait until their 30s to get a doctor’s finger up their ass, I had the privilege of experiencing it at 14. The surgeon tried to ease the awkward tension that filled the room by remarking, with his finger two knuckles deep in me, that, “this was the best feeling in the world.” It worked. I laughed and I squeezed.

Once the single worst experience of my short life was over, we went back to his office to discuss specifics about the surgery and the recovery period. He explained that my asshole would probably, “never be able to crack walnuts again,” but with mindful shitting and enough kegel exercises it would be able to do the job. As a 14 year old boy, I had no idea what kegel exercises were, but the name actually sounded kind of cool, maybe because I thought they involved eating a lot of cookies. When I was sent to what was essentially an asshole-tightening specialist, I quickly discovered that they’re not that cool. And they’re definitely not for a 14-year-old boy. And they don’t involve cookies. And I still don’t like doing them because I’m a man! But I do, because it beats the alternative.

The surgery was absolutely awful. The day before, I had to drink two bottles of medical-grade laxative to ensure my bowels were completely evacuated, you know, so no poop would leak into the rest of my body during the procedure. That evening is still one of the worst nights of my life. It was like a fire hose attached to a septic tank; I was powerless. That was the first time I ever pooped in the shower. I wish I could say it was also the last time I ever pooped in the shower, but hey, some hangovers are worse than others, amiright? The following day, I arrived at the hospital. After a moment alone in my room to collect myself, I stripped out of my clothes and slipped into a hospital gown. My nerves were running wild and were only amplified when I saw the poorly hidden expressions of worry on my parents’ faces. As I was being wheeled into the anesthesiologist’s room, away from my parents, I remember thinking that this could be the last time I ever see them. I remember the gas mask going over my face, and being told to countdown from 100, and as that sweet, sweet sedative began to course through my veins, my worries melted away. I remember getting to 97 and then…

The procedure lasted three hours. When I woke up I had no idea where I was. I was groggy and weak. My body ached, my limbs didn’t work, and it felt like I’d been gut-punched by Paul Bunyon. I spent four more days in the hospital. After my intestines had literally been removed, clipped, replaced and rearranged, my body had to essentially restart. Bile from my stomach was escaping by any means possible, ribboning out of my mouth and gushing out my ass. I had to relearn how to walk, I had to relearn how to eat, and I had to relearn how to shit. At that moment, I wished I could say the doctor’s finger in my ass was the worst thing that had happened to me.

And like that it was over. But it’ll never be over. Sure my colon doesn’t come out anymore, but I still have nightmares that it does. I’m also at risk to have it reoccur later on in my life as my body naturally deteriorates. But surgery is a one-time remedy, so if it rears it’s ugly head again, I’ll have to spend the rest of my days in a diaper. On top of it all I still can’t hold a fart in to save my life. It’s just a leaky gas line down there and I’m truly shocked that I still have a girlfriend.

This is my secret. This is my story. This is my victimhood. This is what I’ve overcome. I don’t have much else to wring my hands over. I don’t have a hashtag or a charity to spread awareness. You won’t see me on Oprah championing a cause because this is all I have and I look like this. Prolapsing and all the mental and physical damage that came with it was mine, and NOW PORNSTARS ARE DOING IT FOR FUN! They are making a mockery of the pain that I and, like, 23 other people have suffered. They’re hijacking it and spreading it around the world to get people off. And this… abomination doesn’t simply exist in the fringes of adult entertainment, it doesn’t even require extensive searching, you can easily stumble upon it on the main page of any mainstream porn site without any warning. Imagine that. There you are, getting intimate with yourself, feeling safe and at ease in the comfort of your home, when literally your worst nightmare literally bursts through the scene like the most unwelcomed Kool-Aid Guy. Just think about how terrified you’d be if Pennyworth the Clown popped out of your favorite starlet’s vagina in the middle of a scene. It’s disgusting, it’s disrespectful and it can have dire consequences for this is no victimless fetish. Not only does it reopen deep psychological scars within myself, but it’s literally tearing these women apart. Take it from me, you can stretch that thing to the point of no return.

I find myself asking why? Why are they doing this? How is this a fetish? I’ve told many people this story, and not one has had any idea that this sort of condition exists, so how are there enough people wanting to jerk off to this that it ends up on Pornhub’s front page? Aren’t fetishes derived from childhood associations or Fruedian impulses? How can you fetishize something that people were previously unaware of? This isn’t a foot, or someone sitting on a suitcase while eating a sandwich. These are people’s lives they’re fucking with here. This is my life, my pain. What’s next, willfully infecting each other with HIV? Wait, they’ve already done that?! WHAT WORLD ARE WE LIVING IN?

So please, porn ladies, I beg of you, the next time you want to turn yourself inside out for the camera remember that the consequences are wide-ranging and effect more than just yourself. There are very real people suffering from the very real condition that you are so gleefully engaging in and it’s just plain wrong. So let’s try to keep the fetishes classy, okay? Because I need the pleasure of having a pain to call my own.

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