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Korean Rectal Surgery

I mentioned to the doctor my first experience with soju, and he giggled happily while rolling me into a prone position for inserting a very long and thin needle into my spine.

After being directed into the room by three giggling young nurses, I lay on the examination table for my first Korean rectal inspection. Upon the walls hung loving pictures of my young doctor’s family. Alongside these pictures, the colorfully detailed diagrams of brown, pink and purple puckered up rectums in various stages of self-induced destruction. I lay down on the cold plastic platform in a fetal position with my pants below my knees. The doctor lubed up his long tubular metal rectal camera and shoved it home, and then up, up, up into my rectum. I squirmed, felt raped, an impulse to squeal. I now know, from this matter-of-fact rectal inspection, why convicts are so impressed by the mental message sodomy projects on victims.

What effect would years of rectal inspections have on the mental health of this doctor? What nightmares must his wife suffer to satiate the hunger of this doctor’s twisted imagination? The doctor giggled after asking if I’d felt any discomfort during the anal probe. I giggled back, remaining curled up and prone as he pulled up my drawers, and used the smelly, condom covered tube to point out projected images of my anus and its five swollen pink hemorrhoids.

The next day I was wheeled into surgery. I was injected with a large bottle of antibiotics, which caused me to vomit larger quantities of day-glow green bile. I mentioned to the doctor my first experience with soju, and he giggled happily while rolling me into a prone position for inserting a very long and thin needle into my spine. The spinal injection did not hurt, and soon an almost metallic wave of numbness splashed through my lower extremities. Morphine? Would I finally experience the ecstatic opiate sensations so vividly described by Burrough’s in Junky?

But my mind was quite clear and the doctor immediately attempted to yank out my entrails, via my butt-hole. I breathed out, and looked about the softly lit rectal surgery room, recalling specific scenes from Jacob’s Ladder. My butt cheeks, and then my head, jerked quickly from side to side with each firm jerk from the doctor’s medical pliers.

“Can you teach private classes?” the doctor asked while pounding, it sounded like, on a small hammer and chisel. I grunted, “uh-huh.” He said, “Isn’t that illegal?” And I said, “mohlahyoh, I don’t know,” which again caused giggling from Doc. Then he said, “do you ever suffer discomfort while defecating?” to which I replied, “sometimes.” He said, “constipation? Diarrhea? I think you have a sensitive rectum.”

The doctor and I became involved in a long conversation, bouncing from one topic top the next, from language level testing to anal sensitivity testing, maintaining English fluency to maintaining a healthy colon as the pain of the doctor’s tugging extended into my lower abdomen. It felt as if a mouse was gnawing at my innards, a sharp aching tug that jerked my hips from side to side.

I am a man who frequently cries from emotion. I cried at Forrest Gump, Good Will Hunting and Bambi. I cry when angry at my wife or in any way mentally upset, but until the day of this surgery, I’d never cried from physical pain. At the time of this surgery, I counted each teardrop, and moaned, babbling obscenities aimed specifically at Korea and Korean rectal surgeons. I began to think seriously about asking the doctor to call it quits. “How did you meet your wife?” He asked, “do you like Kimchi? Too hot for your anus?”

As I was wheeled out to my bed, I noticed that not only could I not feel my lower body, but also could not command anything to move. I was rolled onto a bed and told that feeling would come back in five hours. The most frightening part of spinal anesthesia is not being able to locate one’s penis. I had absolutely no idea if my balls were somehow stricken by this surgery, whether swollen, rapped around my leg or somehow twisted into an unhealthy position. I touched them. It felt as if I was touching something unreal, unconnected to me, touching large, water soaked cotton balls. I still had no clue as to how my balls were reacting

Mike Best