A few months ago at the start of COVID-19, there was a period when a bunch of assholes (pun intended) hoarded all the toilet paper, leaving the rest of us no option but to buy bidets. Like many things during this strange time, my own switch to a bidet has given me new opportunities to learn and connect. Specifically, I am working on connecting the bidet’s spray of water with my butthole by learning where my butthole is, exactly.

If you are a real American and therefore don’t know what a bidet is, it’s really very simple. Common in France and other parts of the world where they think they’re better than you, a bidet is a contraption that squirts a person in the anus. Bidets are environmentally friendly, cleaner and healthier than toilet paper, and quite refreshing. But something I’ve noticed since I started using one regularly is that I don’t seem to know where my own human butthole is.

I’m not sure why more Americans don’t use bidets, except that we—and straight men specifically—are extraordinarily frightened of butt stuff. I think it’s because of homophobia that men think once you start spraying water at your butthole, the next thing you know you’ll get a cock in your mouth. Speaking of butt stuff, I'm having trouble calculating the exact coordinates for my butthole.

Every time I rid myself of my own waste, I turn the little knob to the right of the toilet seat and a strong, cold stream of water strikes my nether region like a sudden gust of wind on a crisp spring day. Before I turn the knob, I position myself to receive the stream at full force. Each time, I smugly think to myself, “I’m right on this time.” I am not right on. Not ever. Instead, I have to slide back and forth and kind of gyrate around on the toilet seat searching for the intended target of the water: my butthole. It seems to be further back than I think it is, so that’s one thing I’ve noted. It is also smaller than I think it is, because I’m guessing if you had a larger butthole it would be easier to locate.

I’ll tell you though, when you do find that hole, you know it. It’s like, “Whoa, hey, there’s my butthole.” There is just no mistaking it once you get it in there.

Did you know the word bidet actually means “pony” in French? This is presumably because of the way a person had to squat over the early versions of bidets, like they would when riding a pony. I just thought that was an interesting piece of bidet trivia, but it got me thinking: I wonder how a pony would do with a bidet. Do they have an accurate sense of where their buttholes are?

It’s important to look for gratitude amidst the darkness, as we collectively wade our way through the unfamiliar waters of this pandemic. Today I find gratitude in the fact that my family and I are healthy and safe. But more importantly, I am grateful for the opportunity the bidet has given me: to continue my journey toward consistently knowing the location of my butthole.


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