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I have just returned my very first colon hydrotherapy session.

I am fatigued and woozy and the only thing that feels April-fresh is the interior lining of my colon. Everything else is worn out and droopy.

It was an extremely interesting and bizarre experience. I met the "therapist" at 8:30am. She was a rather plain woman in her 40's, no distinguishing features - just your average Bellingham NewAge hippie woman. This town is teeming with them. We sat down for a little chat in her clean and well-appointed office. She asked me the usual questions about my disease history, then segued into the standard battery of NewAgey questions about my "wellness": my diet, exercise and daily intake of fennel and echinacea extracts. She gave me the usual rigmarole about "toxins" and how every bulge in the colon relates to every part of your body - kinda like phrenology of the asspipe. A real load of hooey, but I just smiled and nodded. No point in angering the woman with the tube in her hand, right?

Well, I was pretty impressed went she showed me her enemal contraption. It looked like a Frankensteinian ass lab, complete with cool silver knobs and huge tubes and white plastic valves. There was a green plastic table with form-fitting "stirrup-style" leg cowlings on the end. Right where one's displayed rectum would sit was a wide dugout "well" area with a thick drain pipe on the bottom. Deeper into the dugout area was a water nozzle.

Above the table was a cabinet that held what looked like a toilet tank and several tall cylinders of transparent PCV. The cabinet exterior sported numerous knobs for filling cylinders, flushing the exhaust and controlling the pressure. Below the table was a wide transparent tube - the exhaust gutter or "view pipe". There was a mirror set next to the table so the patient could see exactly what flowed down the view pipe.

It was, in essence, an enema room, complete.

As you might imagine, I had more than a little trepidation. Not only had I never had an enema or "high colonic", but I had never had anything more dramatic that the occasional dainty finger or tongue stuffed up there. The very idea of 20 gallons of water flushing through my one-way street was quite unnerving. But I am a professional, and I had a job to do. She began instructing me on "mounting" the apparatus. To my relief, she produced a thin, tapered nozzle that would serve as my ass spigot. To comfort me, she produced an industrial enema nozzle as a comparison. It was a white plastic monstrosity the size of a dildo with a wide double-eyelet hypo on the end. It was meant to be inserted 4-5 inches up the anus - kinda like getting it in the ass from Lincard, only without all the beer and pleading beforehand. It was a Nurz Rachet quality device; something she would insert with gusto into the tightest butthole, then withdraw and reinsert several times to "get a good fit". It was a scary device.

Thus, I was relieved by what I would be shoving up my ass: a slender, tapered, clear plastic "wand" with hole in the end. As the NewAge nurz left the room, I did as commanded and stripped below the belt. I leapt onto the table (it was warm and comfy) and placed my legs in the stirrup cowlings. (All I could think of in that initial position was "Push! Push! WaAaAAaAaa!!!"). I pulled a sheet over my lower half to hide all the good stuff. She insisted on the sheet, even though I professed not to be too bashful. I guess this was a good thing, for if she had even a fleeting glance of the TedChoad, it would surely take weeks for her to stop calling me at home...

Anyway, she had left my slender ass nozzle dangling in the exhaust well. I lubed up the tip with some KY gunk and Assumed the Position. I guided the open tip toward what I thought was my asshole. OK, I'll admit that I sometimes have trouble finding "the hole" in the dark. I've turned off more than a few women by continually punting into their goddamn clits. But I thought piercing my own hole would be a breeze.

Wrong.

O, my droogies, my starfish was indeed tight and resistant. After boinking into the crack of my ass a few times, I guided that fucker into paydirt, only to meet a solid wall of opposition. As per her instruction, I let go of the tip and "beared down" onto the stiff nozzle, driving it deeper up my ass, or so I thought. It was rather painful; my sphincter was so tight that it gripped the nozzle like the lips of a cichlid and began spitting it out like a rejected kidney.

I couldn't even tell if I had really cleared the gateway or not. After several minutes of uncomfortable fussing with the damn thing, I rang for the nurz, hopeful that I had inserted it deep enough for the process to work. She came in and fired up the machine. A cylinder in the cabinet filled with 98 degree water. She moved the pressure up to drippy 1/8 pound of pressure. I could immediately feel the water dribble down my asscrack. We both saw a thins stream heading down the view pipe and into the floor. I was admonished to try again. She left the room once more, and I began impatiently working that nasty tip around my steel-trap starfish. After several more endless minutes of painful fussing, I felt I had cleared the entryway. My sphincter gripped the nozzle and tried to expel it, but it held. I rang for her again, and she started the water. This time, it stayed inside, but wasn't flowing - it was bubbling into my ass. I could feel tingly bubbles just burbling along.

She told me this was no good - the nozzle was pointing at my rectal wall instead of down the chute. As she stood by, I manhandled the motherfucker, and with a mighty grunt and a break of brow sweat I drove that sonofabitch HOME.

PLOIK! YOUCH!

It was IN. My sphincter bit down on it like a cowboy's teeth on a cigar as a bullet flies into his chest. It was TIGHT.

She fired up the water again. I could hardly feel it going in, but it sure wasn't going down the drain. Holy crap! I watched the water level in the cylinder slowly, slowly drop. My anus would occasionally clench up completely, stopping the downward progress of the cylinder level. It took all my will to relax just a bit and let a few dribbles of water in. The nurz was unimpressed. I told her that I was a type-A personality, and the fact that I actually got the nozzle two inches up my ass was an accomplishment in itself; if she expected my to eagerly drink in a gallon of water like bloody Joseph Pujol she had another thing coming!

She left me to my own devices on her device. I obsessed on the water cylinder, employing a new form of concentration that I like to call BioAssFeedback. If I concentrated on relaxing my legs, buttocks and asshole, I would be rewarded with a drop in the cylinder. If I clenched up, progress would stop. Thus, I applied feedback to get a "reward" of water. It worked, in a limited way.

It took about 10 minutes to drain the cylinder. But by then I started feeling an urge to anally purge. As instructed, I tried to relax and just let fly into the ass well. With the nozzle still feeding me, I beared down on my gut and was rewarded with a thin stream of water. It spurted into the well wall and dripped down my asscrack. We both looked excitedly into the view pipe! Oh boy! My first enema poo! Joy! Thrills! Chills! Spills!

It was just...water. Nothing special. Unimpressed, she refilled the cylinder. Again, I employed BioAssFeedback to get the water to drain into me. Again, it took forever. But this time the urge to evacuate became acute. Since she was out of the room for a spell, I put all I had into it, and was rewarded with a huge splash of diarrheal water. It burst down into the view pipe with considerable gusto. The relief was immediate and gratifying.

She came back inside, and for the first time I let loose with a nice liter of shit as she stood there talking to me. We looked with rapt attention at the view pipe, and were fully impressed to see a lovely procession of turdlets wending their way to the sewer. They were held aloft by a river of water, and I could swear that each one winked as it passed.

I named the big one Mr. Hankey, the rest of them after country and western musicians. The nurz thought this was hilarious, and we got into a conversation wherein I described the ideas from this forum to stick odd objects up my ass just to freak her out. She shook her head and smiled, and admitted that it probably would throw her for a loop. She said she had seen some weird stuff go down the pipe - mostly blackened clots of decayed fecal matter. But she had never seen a fishhead or whole candy corns.

This is when things really started getting bizarre. I looked at the scene from a third person perspective, and this is what I saw:

Ted: "Yeah. I quit smoking a year ago. Feels great. I'm glad I went through that rough spot."

SQUIRT! FART! PlbbBbBbBTTtt!!! SkLoOoOoOoshhh!!!

Her: "Oh, yes. Smoking is just about the most abusive thing you can do to your body. I'm glad you quit."

Ted: "Yeah. I mean, it's an addictive drug that doesn't even get you high. All it gives you is short breath and cancer."

SPLAT! Blut! Blut! SpPploOoOoOoOsh! Fart! Fart!

Her: "Absolutely. You know, we have a terrific program here for people to help get them off tobacco and into healthful living."

Ted: "Really? Well, that's just great..."

FART! Splat! Sploosh! Glug glug! Spiisssssshhhhh! BLAAAT!

Her: "Oh yeah. We have naturopaths, LMP's...."

Unnnnh! Unnnnh! Spllloooosh! BlAaAaAaT! Squirt! Squirt!

...this went on for fifteen minutes. Her refilling the cylinder, me taking it in, then squirting avalanches of watery turds and mucus into the view pipe - all during a droll little conversation. Each large evacuation would grab our interest, and we would lock onto the view pipe to see What Came Out. She offered to give me a foot massage, which I eagerly accepted. She sat at my feet, rubbing my toes, while I pontificated and burst forth wave after wave of sinewy shits in her direction.

In the end, after the twentieth gallon disappeared up my ass, I produced nothing but thin streams of whitish bacteria, mucus, air bubbles and water. I was Clean. I layed there for a minute or two, expelling the last of the water and pissing down the view pipe.

She left the room, and I sprayed myself off with a hose and wiped up completely. She came back in and I conducted a quickie audio interview, then we went into the foyer for digital photos.

She was extremely thrilled to get press, and told me that a few others had done very well with just small ads in my paper. She asked to preview my story, which of course I refused. I may be a goddamn puff piece whore, but I write my OWN dreck. Only my editor edits. She would have to accept what I wrote, period.

For the record, I plan to write a fairly puffy piece. She was very kind and thorough, and her NewAge crap was kept to a safe minimum. She realized the importance of mainstream medicine for truly debilitating disorders and trauma, so I don't really discount her as a quack.

But, in the end, all I really got was a very comforting enema. Enemas were common hygiene practice for centuries, and only recently have we strayed with colonic health. We all eat crappy foods, and I think each of us could do worse than to pay someone a bit of money for a thorough pipe job. It's worth noting that throughout the process there was little pain and no odor to speak of. After giving my peristaltic(?) muscles a serious 40 minute workout, I felt quite...well...drained. It was the most serious stretch of anal exercise I've ever had.

Of course, I would have preferred to have my Queen, Nurz Rachet, strap me down and hose me out real good, but we can't have everything. Some moments are meant to smolder, then burst into flame at the right time.

With my newly-cleaned and healthy colon, I have time, my sweet Nurzy....

- TR

- clean as slide whistle.

credit given to original author if known

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