Colonic Irrigation is a Fucking Nightmare

Imagine needing to shit worse than you ever have in your whole life

The first time I got it done, I was in Bangkok.

It was part of a package where you get an infrared sauna, some foul fermented coconut drink and a half-hour of colonic irrigation or, as I like to call it:

Poopy washy time

Sure, I had done my research. They reckon that food gets stuck in the folds of your intestine and stays there rotting for months or years. The rotting food leaks decaying toxic waste into your bloodstream leading to increased emotions such as anxiety and anger.

This issue is worse for meat-eaters, and at the time, I hadn’t eaten meat for over ten years. Still, I hated the idea that a decaying bit of trifle from Christmas dinner in 1981 was the source of my hatred for Youtube influencers.

I wanted to hate them authentically.

A Thai woman ushered me into the room with this big plastic bed and some weird machinery.

There was a large tube running down the side of the bed.

She gave me one of those Swedish towels — the type that covers your junk but not the bottom ten per cent of your scrotum, especially in a warm climate.

I sat up on the plastic bed, and she handed me a tube and a packet of lubricant.

I waited for her to leave, but she didn’t. Instead, she asked me if I wanted her to insert the tube for me.

I truly didn’t.

Awkwardly, I took off my underpants.

I lubed up the tube and made a circular motion with it around my anal ring and slid it in with wide eyes and flared nostrils.

The music was so tranquil — sounds of birds interspersed with bamboo flutes and polyphonic synth pads. It was far from the appropriate music for this procedure.

The Indiana Jones theme tune would have been more suitable.

I nodded at her with fear in my eyes. She smiled and flicked a switch on the great machine.

There was a deep rumble, and I felt a warm sensation as water started filling my colon. I quite liked it. It did feel relaxing….at first.

The more the warm sensation filled my belly, the more I started to get head tingles, then electricity flushes through my body then a mild spasm in the belly.

I knew this feeling. It was just…so… familiar.

It was the feeling of needing to shit so damn badly.

It’s the kind of feeling you get as a kid when your friends are going somewhere, and you tell them, ‘I’ll just wait here’ as you stand there, cross-legged and craving solitude.

I didn’t expect this at all.

Sometimes that feeling of needing to shit can feel good. But that depends on one factor — solitude.

The company of others has never been something I have thrived on when needing to shit.

My irritation levels were rising at the continued presence of the woman.

‘You have to hold it for as long as you can’, she told me.

I was trying, but it was fucking unbearable. The cramping started, and my need to shit went to an extreme. I couldn’t look at a single object. My eyes started darting around like I was possessed by a shit demon.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I let rip.

Gallons of water and shit came flying out of my arse.

Still, the woman just stood there nodding and smiling as if in some mystery agreement with the way I was shitting.

I wanted to scream, ‘Why the fuck are you still here?’

But I didn’t. I was too busy shitting myself.

I looked down to my left and saw all of my shit flying past me in the viewing tube.

Who thought it would be a good idea to install this Cronenbergian hyperloop?

What was coming out of me wasn’t the usual fecal brown shade. It was a mixture of blacks, reds and greens with some brown—like rainbow trolls riding on the yellow waterslide. Something was fascinating about the whole thing.

It reminded me of the sheer horror of childbirth.

Once I had let it all out, I relaxed, and the warm water started filling me up again. The dreaded needing a shit feeling began to grow again. Once again, I had to resist the urge to yell at the woman.

Inside my head, I was screaming at her.

Why are you still here? Can’t you just fuck off?

She must have felt my energy because, to my relief, she left the room for about twenty seconds. I sat listening to the flute music and holding my shit in as long as I could, and wondering what the fuck I was doing with my life.

This time when she came back, she started massaging my stomach.

Now, I have already pointed out that I don’t like being around people when I need to shit, but having them touch me is a horrible nightmare.

I had read that the massaging was supposed to help, but it was the last thing I wanted right now.

My inner dialogue changed to:

PLEASE, get the fuck off me.

My head flushed with pins and needles and I struggled to hold in the brown tsunami. She pressed and kneaded my stomach like it was pizza dough and her name was Guiseppe Camposano from Napoli.

I reached total capacity, and my arsehole opened up like a fireman’s hose blasting shit-filled water down the hyperloop.

I wondered how she maintained such a solemn look as my body made the most unusual sounds. Then, I realised she must have heard and seen it all many, many times. Her job was about helping people shit themselves.

I mentally praised her discipline.

I won’t deny, it was messy, and I have to applaud those people for helping people do that every day.

It’s not just the sounds. It’s the stench and the cleaning up of the shit left behind after each session. Not your regular shit stench — a stench that comes from deep within.

I can’t say that I felt any particular mental benefits after doing it the first time although I didn’t shit for a week after while all the traffic caught up.

But yes, I did it a few more times, so I must have felt something. It’s not like I was there for the pleasure of it.

Despite it being a nightmare, I do recommend it for the sheer experience.

I’m thinking about getting another session soon.