Article Title
Article Title

Love Knows No Bounds

by Mike Anton

It started out, like all good summer nights do, on the toilet. Who would I hang out with tonight? See, one of my friends who moved away in middle school was back in town visiting, eating with the rest of the guys at the local Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. The other option was meeting up with one of guys' ex-girlfriends, freshly home from college, who invited me to come out and hang out with more of her just-home-from-college lady friends. Both dealt with nostalgia, but only one had the promise of my 17-year-old self getting some ass. It was the sort of predicament unseen since Truman was on the USS Augusta.

Compounding all of it was this terrible pain that I had experienced throughout the day on the job as a day camp counselor. I was in charge of those young, slobbering rapscallions who were bound for third grade in the fall. Their lives (read: their boredom) was in my hands and, occasionally, so were they, usually just after they drooled on their hands. It happened constantly. The pain was in the dead center of my stomach, making me feel like a tiny alien was bound to jump through me and sing a song on a nearby see-saw.

I had not yet come to a decision when the defecation had ended, but I was definitely leaning towards "willing older women". Standing up, I began to wipe (it's a Jersey thing) and noticed something odd inside the toilet. This all-white porcelain bowl had an aberration; what looked like a string of red food dye was spread throughout the liquid. My first thought was how oddly beautiful it looked, almost like Hubble photographs of distant galaxies we'll never reach in my life time. Unfortunately, this terror hit home. After a couple of fascinated seconds, it dawned on me what had just happened. I vocalized this notion to my empty house.

"I pooped blood…?"

After another close inspection I realized that yes, I, in fact, had pooped blood. I called my mom, who was out with some friends at an event, and told her the news. Calmly, she said, "ok sweetie, I'll be home in a bit and we'll go to the ER." My mom always calls it the ER; I blame Dr. Doug Ross.

At least I no longer had to choose between two groups of people, with sure condemnation coming from one end. Now I have to inform both groups that I have to miss the opportunity because of what has come out of my one end. The boys at first thought I was joking until I mentioned the hospital trip. I meekly said "hi" to my visiting friend by yelling over the speaker as the guys cackled, wishing him a safe flight down south the next day.

It was the girls that I had to do a better job of convincing that I couldn't come. Which, if you've ever had to cancel on a group of females, is damn near impossible. Going through lie after lie and getting, "that's not good enough, Anton" in return, I finally told the very people I hoped to bed (which, we learned, would be a terrible idea) that I couldn't come because I shat blood. Met with equal parts concern and skeeviness, they wished me well as each made a pact in their minds to never see me naked. Thus far they've done well to keep that up.

Knowing that the evening might involve an overnight stay, I took out my contacts, brushed my teeth, and generally readied myself as I slowly doubled over in pain…until my mom whipped into the door, ushering me to the car like it was the like helicopter out of Saigon. I notice that her car is still running, driver's side door open. It's as if I called healthcare professionals. She called my father to inform him of our impending trip (and, in the back of her mind, my impending death, surely) as we loaded into the car, she much more quickly than I.

It's weird how having an ailment can make one embarrassed. I didn't choose to have blood seep out of such a funny orifice; it just happened. Believe me, I don't want to express to you, shell-shocked-into-apathy-woman-in-her-fifties every detail of my colon that I'm aware of just as much as you don't want to hear it. Nevertheless, I went through the whole rigmarole in hushed tones, as if I was confessing my malady to a priest (joke is too easy here, let's just move on).

Soon I was laid out in an extended hospital bed, surrounded by that pull-around sheet to give me some privacy, equipped in traction socks and a hospital gown concealing my boxers and nothing more. Next came the obligatory IV which, if I was absolutely still, allowed me to feel the fluid rushing up to my shoulder, which was awesome. The nice folks even gave me a pain killer, administered directly into my thigh via a giant needle, which alleviated the sharp pains I felt every minute or so. As the older, matronly aide re-opened my bed to the outside world, a thought flashed that this wasn't so bad.

And then she walked in.

Her medium-length blonde hair bounced a bit above her shoulders, contrasting nicely against the loose blue uniform she wore. Like a nice pair of sweat pants, the suit accentuated her form, with glimpses of her body popping up as she moved forward, the clothing temporarily pressing against her legs to show what was hidden by the light, loose fabric. She saw me and instantly smiled. God only knows what goofy face I reciprocated with. She said her name but at that point I was far too gobstruck by the fact that she existed for any of this to actually register.

The girl, I assume an intern, based on her youth, pulled out her clipboard and told me that she would be taking my history. Knowing that I had nothing to lose, I supplied this gorgeous 20-something with what was to that point the best flirting I had ever delivered. Every question had a quip, every quip had at the very least a giggle -- if not a full laugh -- including when I described my asshole leaking liquid life force. It was going great. As she walked away I threw out my best line, which made her smile, shake her head, and then laugh again quietly as I leaned back in my chair satisfied. I killed.

My dad came in about that time and asked how things were going. "Great!" I exclaimed, still drunk off the victory that just stumbled upon me (and probably something to do with the pain meds). He and I discussed what happened, how I ended up here, what I did that day, etc. As we were talking, I see the intern walk back towards me, which allows me to do a head nod and say, "her" to my dad, with a smile. He chuckled to himself at the motion as much as the smug look planted on my face.

But as she approached, with gloves and a tiny box in her hand, she was definitely not smiling. With a new authority thus far unseen, she politely asked my dad to leave. He shuffled off as she once again cordoned me off from the rest of the room, slowly bringing that cloth "wall" around my bed. It was like living a fantasy: here she was, ready to get busy, ready to get intimate. My life had suddenly turned into a medium-budget '80s porn, and I couldn't be happier.

She set up shop at the little table to my left as I giddily watched. But she wouldn't look at me, depriving me of the kind of eye contact that would let me know how dirty things were about to come. "I'm really sorry about this," she said to the wall, applying her latex gloves and opening up the small box, "but I'm going to have to administer an anal exam."

"…A what?"

She sighed, tipped over the box, and pulled out a small tube of something. "An anal exam," she repeats, now squeezing out what is clearly lubricant on her gloved index and middle fingers. It all globbed together like the world's least appetizing bit of frozen yogurt. "I need you to roll over on your side and pull down your underwear. I'll let you know when I'm about to enter."

I'm too dumbfounded to react. She walks right up to the bed, face stern, waiting for me to comply. In what can only be preparation for a future date in prison, I roll on my right side, slowly pulling down my boxers with my left hand. My right arm is now propped under my head, effectively spooning myself, with my hand near the edge of the pillow. The wincing begins immediately.

"Okay," she says.

And then something decidedly not okay occurs.

Insertion. My eyes widen and instinctively grab the pillow, hard. Every bit of my body tenses, including the orifice itself, caught in a weird mixture of convulsions: the exterior tries to cut the intruder off as the interior is desperately working in reverse to try and get this thing out. The only thing I know for sure is that this better make me fucking healthy.

After seconds that masqueraded as minutes, she pulls out and I roll right back over, using the bed to protect her from diving in again. I start taking some heavy, labored breaths, putting my hand over my forehead like I was an 1860s plantation wife on my fainting chair. Before I can really take stock in what just occurred, saying something along the lines of "my oh my, I never!" this winsome lady eeks out, "I'm going to have to do it again." My head whips harder than if I got in a car accident.

"I didn't go deep enough."

I stare at her, hoping the fire in my eyes will burn her to a crisp and this command could be dusted off, like the custodian will do with her remains. But no. Her face, now shrouded in grief, said more than any words. I angrily rolled over, like a wife who's husband farted in bed, ripped my boxers down, and said, "do it." With my back turned, all I heard was the splooosh of more lube leaving the container to its temporary home on her digits, then felt her left hand gently placed on my hip, ready for insertion. This time, there was no coming back. She inserted again.

This time, it took twice as long. This time, she tickled my throat. This time, I nearly cried. She pulled out. I pulled up my boxers and rolled back over, again. "Was that deep enough?" I say. My tone denotes that her answer can't be anything but "yes," which it thankfully is. She takes off the gloves and tosses them out in a nearby garbage can, smelling equally of waste and shame. The intern then removes the cloth protection from around my bed, once again putting myself in the same environment as everyone else. Except this time, like magic, the curtain revealed a person different from the one who entered.

As she leaves, I attempt to save face, saying, "I can't believe how anyone does that for pleasure." She does not respond. Nor should she. I sit back and stare at the ceiling and laugh. Even though plans got derailed, my hopeful goal of the evening was achieved: I lost my virginity.

Image courtesy of josie lynn richards

Mike Anton is the Editor-In-Chief at The Inclusive. Mike writes movie reviews and interview pieces for The Film Stage as well as screenplays, sketches, and the like. He lives in New York City and though he's an avid beard and flannel enthusiast, he does not consider himself a hipster. Contact him at mike.anton[at] or @mpants