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{i love my feces: i do do.} henry gray I love my feces. For me, feces are like the hair that’s snipped off my head and falls into my lap. It’s like my fingernails, which I clip and study. It’s like my come that I ejaculate, then measure in size, and length and distance. I study my feces with an unscientific mind. I study my feces simply because it fascinates me, grosses me out and makes me feel as though I’ve done something with my life. Defecation is like a harvest. It’s my corn and wheat and the organic chemical chain process of life – with me as the plow, the field and the farmer. As is the case with my fingernails, I am often proud of my collection. My harvest. I often keep my fingernails for days. I examine them and always find pride in the fact that I clipped the nail so precisely, but mostly I am always smiling at the fact that I grew these things. These examples of my living organism. When I was a child, I so loved the sensation before a defecation movement, that I would save it. I would hold the feces back and enjoy the sensation of warmth and tingling up my torso and into my neck. As a result, I retained poor habits of defecation and would only find a toilet once a week, or more likely, once every two weeks. I would become so impacted with shit that, in trying to expel my compacted, constipated feces, from time to time, I broke blood vessels around my eyes. As a kid, I clogged toilets with regular, constipated frequency – so much so that, at times, I had to enlist the help of my parents, and almost once – terrifyingly, a plummer. Regularly, toilets overflowed on me, spilling all over the bathroom and running even towards the carpet under the door. To avoid this lengthy clean-up process and embarrassment, I took to crapping in trash cans. Garbage bags. Outside, in holes. Once, I even shat one incredibly compact, spherical piece of feces from my ass, the size of a softball. And while my defecation habits are much more regular and healthy these adult days: When I defecate, I do so in secret. I defecate behind a closed door, without a perfunctory call to those around me. I sometimes defecate with the lights out. But, usually, I turn the lights on before I flush – just to take a look, to measure whether the force required and the result of pleasure matched-up with the physical result in the bowl. I once heard somebody inquire as to why our asshole and genitals are so close together. The reply? Who knows, but it sure is nice to have all that pleasure consolidated in one area of our bodies. My feces are what bind me to my fellow humankind. It’s what tells me that I am alive, or maybe even dying. And while we all share this commonality, feces are also something that I keep very quiet. It’s what distinguishes me from my fellow humankind. I do not talk about it in public, nor with a lover. I do not share my horror stories, nor do I inform somebody as to the fact that I am in-need of relief, or post-expulsion. When I was twelve, I started rubbing my hairless cock and balls in bed before sleep one night. I quickly began to realize that the more I rubbed, the better it felt. So, I increased my pace, and soon a flood of heat curled my toes over and some milky substance began to squirting from my boy-cock. It shot it all over my stomach and chest and I remember the intense alchemy of supreme relief and grand delight. I tasted it. It was salty. I then fell into the idea that this is what my father does. This is how I got here in the first place. I wiped myself clean, turned over and simulated the act of intercourse while rubbing myself – thinking that I was preparing myself for my birth right: to orgasm and to conceive offspring. Before falling asleep that night I remember buzzing with excitement – I couldn’t wait to go to school and share the news with everybody. However, the news wasn’t that I had achieved what every other boy in my school was soon to discover, rather it was the idea that I had stumbled onto something new. Something relatively undiscovered. Afterall, this was fantastic! Blissful! Why was it not posted on every street corner and talked about in every café? Er, maybe it was. Maybe I had simply stumbled on the grand secret, something forlorn. Needless to say, I did not share my secret with my chums. I only made subsequent mention of it around the occasional and grand score of smut magazines. Apart from that, my conversations about my sexuality were kept quiet. My feces are my secret: The grand task that we all take through our days. To this end, I mostly choose not to believe that women defecate. And more than that, I have always remembered what Kerouac said in Big Sur, something to the effect of: We are so evolved and cultured and we take showers and baths, but still – we all walk around with dirty assholes. Again: what am I, anyway? And what is this beautiful stuff that we call feces? |
