I moved to Los Angeles when I was 24 to pursue my career as a photographer.

I’d only encountered a few gay people prior, but now I was surrounded by them… and they were fabulous. Their clothes matched, they smelled amazing, they had the best drugs, and everyone loved them.

Mostly because my gay friends swear by it, I wanted to try anal sex. Not giving. Receiving. And while I never had a hankering for some dude to push his bony pickle into my asshole, I became fixated on “pegging,” although I never had the opportunity to try it… until I met Rebecca.

Rebecca and I went on a few dates, and she claimed she was open to just about anything sexually. I really liked this chick and I wanted to impress her with my level of openness. I also wanted the experience to be perfect.

On the day I decided it was time to do the deed, I called my Fairy Godmother — aka my flamboyant neighbor Ricardo — for advice. First and foremost, he told me to make sure I was “running clear.”

Running clear?

“Girl, you don’t know what running clear means?”

“No, Ricardo. I’m straight.”

“It means you’ve cleaned yourself out ‘back there.’ Go get an enema kit.”

Sounded easy enough. So I picked up an enema kit from my drugstore and went home to get clear.

I opened the box and read the instructions — start the process lying down on my back? My bathroom was too small, so I opted to lie on my bed. Insert the business end of the nozzle and squeeze. I immediately felt disgusting… and I needed to shit badly. But the slightest movement made it near impossible to hold back what was violently trying to find its way out.

By some miracle, I managed to keep everything inside as I bolted across the hall and into the shower. After ten minutes of what can only be described as a total horror show, I was “clear.” An absolutely miserable experience, but I was glowing — feeling romantic as fuck, like I was willing to endure anything for this girl.

I meticulously prepared for our date: I put on a sweater with a collared shirt, laced up my new Chuck Taylors, and sprayed myself down with some Tom Ford. I was ready for anything.

The date was awesome. We were having the best time when suddenly my stomach dropped. I cut her off mid-sentence.

“I’ll be right back!” I barked as I scurried off to the bathroom where I basically recreated Harry’s famous bathroom scene from Dumb and Dumber. I’m sweaty, I’m cramping, and I think I’m dying. I text Fairy Godmother frantically: Help!

Did you use the liquid in the bottle or tap water? he asked.

Bottle.

LOL, no honey…

Godmama explained the liquid in the bottle is used only when you’re constipated, not for getting clear.

Oh. Fuck.

Thankfully, the floodgates closed. I walked back to the table — clammy, pasty, and clearly not feeling well. “Sorry. Please continue…” I whimpered as she tentatively began her story again. Five minutes later, I felt round two. I didn’t even excuse myself. I just ran. When I came back, she had paid the bill and called an Uber.

On the ride back to my place, I explained the backstory. Thankfully, she found it funny. I spent the rest of that night on the toilet, which gave me a ton of time to reflect on how far I’ve come since my small-town days… but how much further I still had to go.

Illustration by Jason Johnson