LITMIR.BIZ

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even walk. So there’s no way I can pick up the pizza. Shit. Now I’m leaking. No way. I’ll have to ask someone to pick it up for me. There’s no way the receptionist is going to walk around passing out pizzas. Robin will have to do it. The emergency buzzer. Is that wrong? Oh, well.

      A different nurse comes in. His name tag says Peter. It makes me smile. I like the name Peter. I was with one once. I called him Piss Peter. He was really good at going down on me. He would do it for hours. He had quite a unique technique.

      He would clamp the dewlaps between his teeth and his tongue and then rub his tongue over them. Back and forth. Or with his tongue flattened out and a lot of spit he’d lick from my asshole up to my snail tail and back down. Pressing hard against all the folds.

      Both techniques were very good. I usually came multiple times. Once so hard that I pissed in his face. He was mad because he thought I had done it on purpose. It was a little humiliating—the way he was kneeling there and then that happened.

      I patted him dry and apologized. I thought he should be proud. Nobody else had ever accomplished that. To make me come so hard that I lose control of my bladder. And I wasn’t drunk or anything.

      After a while he realized how impressive it was. I learned that day from Piss Peter that it burns when you get piss in your eye. How else could I have ever found that out?

      “Where’s Robin?”

      “Shift change. I’m the night shift.”

      Is it already that late? Do the days in a hospital go by that fast? Apparently. I’m losing my mind. Fine. It’s not so bad here, Helen. Time flies when you amuse yourself with your own thoughts.

      “How can I help you?”

      “I wanted to ask Robin a favor. I’m a little uncomfortable asking you. We don’t know each other.”

      “What was the favor?”

      “I ordered a pizza. It’s going to be delivered downstairs soon and I can’t go get it. I need someone who can walk and is willing to bring it up here.”

      Maybe a nurse like this isn’t interested in real nourishment, and this plan will fall flat.

      “Aren’t you supposed to eat high-fiber foods after the operation? Granola, whole-grain breads?”

      Shit.

      “Yes. I am. Doesn’t pizza have any fiber?”

      Super idea. Play dumb.

      “No. It’s actually counterproductive.”

      Counterproductive—against production. Everybody here thinks only about bowel movements. It’s my choice.

      “But it’s also important to eat things your stomach is accustomed to. Sudden changes in diet aren’t good, either, for encouraging bowel movement. Please.”

      The phone rings.

      I answer.

      “Is the pizza here?”

      I hold the phone to the side and smile at Peter, eyebrows raised in question marks.

      “I’ll go get it. We’ll see what happens,” he says, smiling handsomely as he leaves.

      “Nurse Peter will come get it. Don’t give it to anyone else. Thanks.”

      I’m lucking out with these male nurses. They’re much nicer than the female ones.

      I lie back and wait for Peter.

      It’s dark outside. I can see myself reflected in the window. The bed is very high so the nurses don’t hurt their backs maneuvering the patients. The glass goes the entire length of the wall from right to left and from the ceiling down to the radiator. When it’s dark outside and light inside it functions like a giant mirror. I didn’t need the camera at all, eh? I turn my ass to the window and crane my head as best I can. It’s all blurry. Of course. It’s double-pane glass. It reflects two images, slightly staggered. Good to have the camera after all. When it’s dark out I can lie with my ass to the door and see who’s entering the room without turning around. Cool. But can everybody outside see me now? Oh, who cares. They know it’s a hospital. It’s impossible not to recognize it. At worst they’ll think it’s a poor little crazy girl who, out of her head on medication, left her bare ass facing the window—and they’ll feel sorry for me. That works for me.

      Here in the hospital I’m becoming sort of a nudist. I’m not usually like that. Well, when it comes to things pussy-related I guess I am. But not when it comes to my ass.

      I just lie here and, because any motion hurts my ass so bad, I don’t even bother to cover myself. Anyone who comes in sees my gaping flesh wound and a bit of my peach. You get used to it quickly. Nothing is embarrassing anymore. I’m an ass patient. Anyone can see that, and I behave accordingly.

      The reason I have such a healthy attitude about my pussy while I’m normally so uptight about my ass is that the way my mother raised me made it difficult for me to crap. When I was a little girl she told me all the time that she never went to the bathroom. And never farted. She held everything inside until it disintegrated. No wonder I had trouble.

      As a result of being told all of this, I get totally ashamed if someone hears or smells me going to the bathroom. In public toilets, even if I’m just pissing and a fart escapes when I loosen the muscles down there, I’ll do anything to avoid the person in the next stall being able to put a face to the noise. I’m the same way with the smell of my crap. When people are coming and going in the stalls around me and I’ve stunk the place up, I’ll wait in my stall until there are no more witnesses around. Only then will I come out.

      As if crapping is a crime. My schoolmates always laugh at me for my exaggerated sense of shame.

      I also don’t like to get dressed in my room at home. There are posters everywhere of my favorite bands. They’re always looking right into the camera for the photos, so it feels as if they are following my every move with their eyes. So if I’m changing in my room and they could get a peek at my pussy or tits, I hide behind my couch. Though around real boys and men I don’t care.

      Someone knocks. Peter walks in. He places the pizza on the metal nightstand and puts the two bottles of beer down—a little too loudly—next to it. It all just barely fits.

      He looks me in the eye the whole time. I stare back. I’m good at that. I think he likes taking care of someone roughly the same age as he is. It’s nice for him.

      “You want one of the beers?”

      “That’s nice of you, but I’m working. If I walk around here with beer breath there’ll be hell to pay.”

      I hate being told no. I should have been able to figure out that he’s not allowed to drink on the job. Embarrassing. This is a hospital, Helen, not a bordello.

      His gaze starts to wander. Is he looking out the window? Past me? Wait, no, he must be looking at my peach reflected in the window. His nightshift is starting off well. I like Peter.

      “Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll eat.”

      He leaves. I open up the pizza box and look at it. I wonder how I’ll be able to eat it without any utensils. The Marinara guys haven’t even cut the crust with a pizza roller. Should I rip bites out of it like an animal? Suddenly Peter walks back in. With silverware. And walks back out grinning. And then comes in again. What now? In his hand is a plastic baggie with a piece of tape on it. There’s something written on the tape.

      “It says here I’m supposed to give this to you. Something to do with the operation. Do you know anything about it? Did they find something on you and need to return it?”

      “I wanted to see the wedge of skin after they cut it out of me. I couldn’t let something be cut out of me while I was unconscious and then not see it before it was tossed in the garbage.”

      “Speaking of garbage, it’s my job to ensure this baggie and its contents are properly disposed of

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