Wetlands

by Charlotte Roche

  I’ve turned myself into a walking laboratory of pussy hygiene. I enjoy plopping myself down on any dirty toilet seat anywhere. That’s not all. I rub the entire seat with my pussy before I sit down, going once around with a graceful gyration of my hips. When I press my pussy onto the seat it makes a smacking noise and then it sucks up all the pubic hairs, droplets, splotches, and puddles of various shades and consistencies. I’ve been doing this on every sort of toilet for four years now. My favorites are the ones at highway rest stops where there’s just one toilet shared by men and women. And I’ve never had a single infection. My gynecologist, Dr. Broekert, can confirm that.

  Once there was a time when I did think my pussy was infected. Whenever I went to the bathroom, sat down, and let my sphincter muscles relax so the piss could come out, I would notice afterward when I looked down—which I like to do—that there was a lovely, big, soft, white clump of slime in the water. With strings of champagne bubbles rising from it.

  I have to admit that I’m very wet all day long—I could change my underwear several times a day. But I don’t. I like to let it collect. Back to the clump of slime. Was it possible that I’d been sick all along, and that this slimy gunk was the result of a fungal infection of the pussy I’d contracted from all my toilet experiments?

  Dr. Broekert was able to allay my fears. It was the result of a healthy, very-active slime-producing mucous membrane. That’s not how he put it. But that’s what he meant.

  I keep close track of my bodily secretions. The whole active mucous-membrane thing used to make me proud when I was younger, hooking up with boys. They might have barely touched my labia with a finger, but inside there was a Slip ’N Slide ready to go.

  One boyfriend always sang while we were messing around: “By the rivers of Babylon…” These days I could make a business out of it, filling little containers for dry women who have problems producing mucus. It’s definitely better to get the real thing than to use some artificial lube. That way it smells like pussy, too! But maybe women would only be willing to do this with someone they knew—some might be grossed out by a stranger’s slime. You could always try it out. Maybe with a dry friend.

  I really like to smell and eat my smegma. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated with my pussy’s creases. All the things you can find in there. I have long hair—on my head—and sometimes I’ll find a stray hair lodged between the folds of my pussy. It’s exciting to pull the hair out very slowly and to feel it moving in the various places it has twisted its way into. It annoys me when this sensation is over; I wish I had even longer hair so the feeling would last longer.

  It’s a rare pleasure. Like another thing I get a kick out of: when I’m alone in the bathtub and I have to fart, I try to get the air bubbles to glide up between my pussy lips. It doesn’t happen very often—even less often than with the long hairs—but when it does, the bubbles feel like hard balls trying to bore their way between my warm, squishy lips. When it happens—let’s say once a month—my whole abdomen tingles and my pussy itches so much I have to scratch it with my long fingernails until I come. When my pussy itches I have to scratch it real hard. I scratch up and down between the inner labia—which I call the dewlaps—and the outer labia—which I call the ladyfingers—and at some point I fold back the dewlaps to the right and left so I can scratch right down the middle. I spread my legs wide, until the hip joints crack, so the warm bathwater can flow into my hole. Right as I’m about to come, I pinch my clit—which I call my snail tail. That makes me come so much harder. Yep, that’s how it’s done.

  Back to smegma. I looked up in the dictionary exactly what smegma is. My best friend Corrina told me one time that only men have smegma.

  So what’s this between my lips and in my underwear?

  That’s what I thought, but not what I said. I was afraid to say it. But there in the dictionary was a long explanation of what smegma is. That’s what it’s called in women, too, by the way. So ha! One sentence has stuck with me to this day: “Only through inadequate hygiene can smegma accumulate to a level visible to the naked eye.”

  Excuse me? That’s outrageous. An accumulation of smegma is definitely visible to me with the naked eye at the end of the day no matter how thoroughly I rinse the folds of my pussy with soapy water in the morning.

  So what do they mean? Are you supposed to wash yourself multiple times during the day? Anyway, it’s good to have a juicy pussy. It’s extremely helpful for certain things. The concept of “inadequate hygiene” is flexible—like a pussy. So there.

  I take one of the adult diapers out of the translucent-plastic container. Oh man, they’re huge. They’ve got a big, thick square pad in the middle and four thin, plastic tabs to secure at the waist. They’d easily fit around a fat old man—that’s how big they are. It’s not something I want to need so early in life. Please. There’s a knock at the door.

  In comes a smiling nurse with his hair sticking up like a cockatoo. “Hello, Miss Memel. My name is Robin. I can see you’re already getting familiar with the supplies you’ll need during the next few days. You’re going to have surgery on your anus, an unhygienic area—the most unhygienic part of the body, in fact. With the items in the container you’ll be able to tend to your wound all by yourself after the operation. We recommend that at least once a day you get in the shower and use the showerhead to rinse out the wound. It’s best to make sure you spray water up inside. With a little practice, it’s easy. It’ll be a lot less painful for you to clean the wound that way than to wipe it with towels. After you’ve rinsed, just pat it dry with a washcloth. I’ve also got a sedative here. You can take it now. It makes the transition to general anesthesia easier. We’re just about ready—it should be some ride.”

  None of this sounds like a problem. I certainly know my way around a showerhead. And I know just how to get the spray inside. As Robin pushes me through the hallways on my rolling bed and I watch the long fluorescent lightbulbs pass overhead, I discreetly reach down under the sheet and put my hand on my pubic mound to settle myself down before the operation. I divert my attention from the fear by thinking of how I would get myself off with the showerhead when I was younger.

  At first I’d just aim the streams of water at my pussy; later I’d hold the ladyfingers aside so the water would hit the dewlaps and snail tail. The harder the better. It should really sting. At some point a few jets of water actually shot up inside my pussy. And I realized this was my thing. To let it fill up and—just as nice—to let it all run out again.

  I sit cross-legged in the tub, leaning back with my butt slightly raised. Then I push all the lips to the side, where they belong, and very slowly and carefully slide the thick showerhead in. I don’t need any lube—just the thought that I’m about to fill myself up makes my pussy produce plenty of helpful slime. The best lube is Pjur brand because it doesn’t clump and it’s unscented. I hate scented lubes. It’s usually when the showerhead is finally in—which can take a while, because it takes time to stretch out that much—I rotate it so the side the water shoots out of is facing up toward the cervix, toward the spot a guy with a long cock can hit in certain positions. Next the water is turned on, nice and strong. I fold my arms behind my head—both hands are free because my pussy holds the showerhead all by it self—close my eyes, and hum “Amazing Grace.”

  After what I guess is about four liters, I turn the water off and very carefully pull out the showerhead, letting out as little water as possible. I need the water to get off. I tap the showerhead on my ladyfingers, swollen from being held apart, until I come.

  It’s usually really fast as long as I’m not interrupted. When I feel totally stuffed—like with the water—it only takes a couple of seconds. Once I’ve come I press one hand on my lower abdomen and stick the other one deep into my pussy with all the fingers splayed out so the water gushes out with the same force as it went in. I usually come again from the water flowing out. It’s an effective way to calm myself. After the big rush of wate
r, spurts of water will still come out for several hours, so I have to line my underwear with sheets of toilet paper—if it soaked through my pants it would look as if I’d wet myself. I don’t want that.

  Another sanitation device that’s perfect for this sort of thing is the bidet. My mother always stressed the importance of quickly freshening up with a bidet after sex. Why should I?

  If I fuck someone, I’m proud to have his sperm in every crevice of my body, whether that’s on my thighs, on my stomach, or wherever else he may have shot his load. Why the idiotic washing afterward? If you find cocks, cum, or smegma disgusting, you might as well forget about sex. I love it when sperm dries on my skin, when it crusts and flakes off.

  When I jerk somebody off, I always make sure that some cum gets on my hand. I run my fingers through it and let it dry under my long nails. That way, later in the day, I can reminisce about my good fuck partner by biting my nails and getting bits of the hardened cum to play with in my mouth; I chew on it and, after tasting it and letting it slowly dissolve, I swallow it. It’s an invention I’m very proud of: the memorable-sex bonbon.

  The same can be done, of course, with cum that ends up in the pussy. Just don’t wash it away with a bidet! Instead, carry it proudly. To school, for instance. Hours after sex it’ll ooze nice and warm out of your pussy—a little treat. I may be sitting in a classroom, but my thoughts are back where the cum came from: while the teacher is going on about philosophical attempts to prove the existence of God, I sit there smiling blissfully in my little puddle of sperm. The intermingling of bodily fluids between my legs always makes me happy, and I text the source: “Your warm cum is running out of me—thanks!”

  My thoughts return to the bidet. I wanted to spend a few minutes reminiscing about the way I manage to fill myself up with the bidet. But there’s no time. We’ve arrived in the surgery prep room. I can continue that line of thought later. My anesthesiologist is already waiting for us. He attaches a bag of fluid to the IV tube in my arm, hangs it upside down from a rolling stand, and says I should start counting.

  Robin, the friendly nurse, wishes me luck and leaves. One, two…

  I wake up in the recovery room. People are always a bit out of sorts when they wake up from general anesthesia. I think recovery rooms were created to spare relatives from witnessing this.

  I’m awoken by my own babbling. What was I saying? Don’t know. My whole body is shaking. Slowly the gears in my mind begin to turn. What am I doing here? Did something happen to me? I want to smile to try to hide my sense of helplessness even though there’s nobody else in the room. My lips are so dry that the corner of my mouth cracks when I do smile. My asshole! That’s why I’m here. It had cracked, too. My hand fumbles for my bum. I feel a huge bandage stretched across both ass cheeks. Through that I feel a thick knob. Oh man, I hope that knob isn’t part of my body. Hopefully it’s something that will come off with the rest of the bandaging. I’m in one of those embarrassing, apron-like hospital gowns. They love these gowns in hospitals.

  It has sleeves and from the front makes you look like a tree-top angel. But it’s completely backless except for a little bow tied back there. Why does this piece of clothing even exist? I mean, sure, if you’re lying down they can put one on you without having to lift you. But I was lying on my stomach for the operation so they could get at my ass. Does that mean I was essentially naked for the duration of the operation? That’s not good. I’m sure they talk about the way you look. And you hear it and remember it subconsciously even though you’re knocked out—maybe someday down the road you’ll go nuts as a result of the comments and nobody will understand why.

  This airy feeling on my backside reminds me of a recurring nightmare I had as a child. Elementary school. I’m waiting at the bus stop. Just as I often forgot to take my pajamas off before putting on my jeans, today I’ve forgotten to put underwear on beneath my skirt. You don’t notice that kind of thing at home as a kid. But you’d rather die than have people discover in public that you’re bare-assed under your skirt. And this was at exactly the age when the boys think it’s funny to lift girls’ skirts.

  Robin walks in. He speaks very deliberately, saying everything went smoothly. He pushes my gurney into an elevator and then along hallways, always slamming his fist on the game-show buttons that open the automatic doors. Oh, Robin. The lingering effects of the anesthesia make for a hypnotic ride. I use the time to find out about my asshole. It’s a funny feeling that Robin knows more about it than I do. He’s got a clipboard with every detail about me and my ass on it. I’m feeling talkative and all kinds of jokes about bum surgery occur to me. He says I’m so relaxed and funny because the anesthesia’s still affecting me. He parks my bed back in my room and says he could talk to me for ages but that he has other patients he needs to check on. Too bad.

  “If you need pain medication, just press the call button.”

  “Where’s the skirt and underwear I had on before the operation?”

  He walks to the foot of my bed and lifts the sheet. The skirt is carefully folded there with my underpants on top of it.

  This is the situation my mother always feared. The underwear is folded with the crotch facing up. Right side in, not inside out. But I can still see a shiny stain where pussy juice has soaked through and dried. My mom thinks the single most important thing for a woman going to the hospital to do is to wear clean underwear. Her primary justification for her ridiculously obsessive approach to clean undies: If you get run over and end up in the hospital, they take your clothes off. Including your underwear. Oh my God. And if they see any evidence of your pussy’s totally normal discharge—oh my, can you imagine?

  I think mom pictures everyone in the hospital going around talking about her, saying what a dirty whore Mrs. Memel is. Saying her well-put-together exterior is nothing but a lie.

  Her dying thought at the scene of an accident would be: How long have I been wearing these panties? Are there any wet spots on them?

  The first thing doctors and EMTs do with a bleeding accident victim, before starting to resuscitate? They have a peek at the blood-soaked underwear so they know what kind of woman they’ve got on their hands.

  From the wall behind me Robin pulls out a cable with a call button on the end of it. He lays it on the pillow next to my face. I won’t need that.

  I look around my room. The walls are painted light green—so light it’s barely perceptible. Supposed to be calming. Or optimistic.

  To the left of my bed is a built-in wardrobe. I don’t have anything to put in it, but someone will bring me things soon, I’m sure. Beyond the wardrobe the room goes on around, probably to the bathroom—or let’s call it the shower room.

  Between my bed and the wardrobe is a rolling metal nightstand with a drawer. It’s extra tall so you can get at it from the high hospital bed.

  To the right is a long bank of windows hung with white, see-through curtains that are weighted at the bottom to keep them hanging crisply. They’ve got to look neat and straight. Like concrete. They mustn’t billow in the breeze if the window is open. On the sill is the container of diapers and, next to it, a box with one hundred pairs of rubber gloves in it. It says so on the box. Though there’s probably fewer than that in there now.

  On the wall opposite me is a framed poster—you can see the little metal tabs that hold the glass. It’s a photo of a tree-lined avenue, and written in yellow letters at the top it says, Walk with Jesus. What—take him for a stroll?

  A small crucifix hangs over the doorway. Someone has decorated it with a bough. Why do they do that? The boughs are always from the same kind of plant. The kind with little arched leaves, dark green, with an artificial shine to them. The boughs always look like they’re made out of plastic, but they always turn out to be real. I think they come from some kind of hedge.

  Why do they stick pieces of greenery on crosses? The poster and the crucifix have got to go. I’ll convince mom to take them down. I’m already looking forward to that discus
sion. Mom’s a practicing Catholic. Wait. I’ve forgotten something. Up high is a TV. I hadn’t looked up there. It’s suspended in a metal frame and tipped way down toward me. It looks as if it could fall on me at any moment. I’ll ask Robin to shake it later. Just to make sure it’s secure. If there’s a TV, there must be a remote—or do I have to get somebody to turn it on and off for me? Maybe it’s in the drawer. I reach over and pull it open and am suddenly aware of my ass. Careful, Helen. Don’t do anything stupid.

  The remote is in a plastic compartment in the drawer. Everything’s cool. Except the anesthesia is wearing off. Do I need to ring and ask for painkillers already?

  Maybe it won’t be that bad. Right, I’ll wait a bit and see how I feel. I’ll try to keep my mind on something else. Like, say, the last unicorn. That won’t work. I clench my teeth. My mind is fixated on my wounded ass. I’m tensing up all over. Especially in my shoulders. My good mood has disappeared. Robin was right. I don’t want to come across as a whiner, though—especially after yapping so much to Robin. I can hold out a little longer. I close my eyes. I put one hand gently on my bandaged ass and the other on the call button. I lie there and the pain throbs. The anesthesia is getting weaker and weaker. The wound burns. My muscles cramp. The throbbing gets faster.

  I push the button and wait. An eternity. I panic. The pain is getting worse, stabbing at my sphincter like a knife. They must have stretched the sphincter wide open. Of course. How else would they get in there. Down my throat? Oh God. The hands of a full-grown man went into my rectum and went to town with scalpels and retractors and suture thread. The pain isn’t directly on the wound but all around it. A blown sphincter.