RuKsaK

Last, in a run of three, of Russian stories.
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After wiping one time, I heard a wee ‘plink’ on the matt tiles of the toilet floor. I looked down and saw a crimson glob of blood on the tile. Thinking now, it was quite a poetic, abstract vision. However, as it had fallen from my ragged sphincter I wasn’t thinking that at the time.
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We went to the doctors, my wife as interpreter. The receptionist, leering at me distrustfully, reeled off the list:
‘He’ll need a blood test, to give a urine sample, a check over and an anal inspection.’
‘Did she say anal inspection?’
‘Yes dear. You have to. Blood fell from your arse – so, you have to.’
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Husbands are always reprimanded when blood falls from their arse. Arse-bleeding husbands are always either deviants or alcoholics. I was too anxious to choose which I was at that exact moment.
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For each test and inspection we needed to go to a different room and doctor. Each room I walked into, I interrogated, firmly:
‘Is this the guy? Is this the guy?’
Hoping my demeanour would coerce him into a shy tickler, rather than a thorough explorer.
‘I don’t know yet honey. Wait until he’s finished speaking.’
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Each time I was checking out the doctor’s fingers. The first guy had fingers like Stalin, which scared the shit out of me. Had an embroidery kit been at hand, I would’ve sewn my bumhole up.
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Russianly, it turned out to be the last guy. I scanned his fingers. I was confident I could take it, but was still not close to calm. We went to a side-room. Clearly, it seemed to me, only arse and cock checkers have side-rooms. He motioned me to drop my strides. He postioned my right leg at an angle. In he went. He contorted his index finger into an inverted ‘L’ and periscoped the bastard thing 360 degrees – north to south to north again, and again. He had a good rummage. At this time, I didn’t have the Russian to say:
‘Jesus! I thought you were checking for arse cancer or something, not looking for fucking loose change down the back of your sofa!’

So, I kept my mouth shut and have learned this essential survival phrase since.
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He told me to get dressed. The trousers went up much faster. He told me everything was ok.
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We walked home and I had to hold my nose, as my arse whistled when I didn’t. I wasn’t saying much anyway.
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I’ve never laid a drop of blood since. Me and my old pal arse, learning together with each step we make.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Drip