Don’t drop the soap. No, that’s not why . . .

I was a pretty normal but admittedly alcoholic gay guy in his early thirties, miles away from any relationships.

I had been in the habit of getting home from work, taking a few shots of vodka, and settling in for the nightly gorge and either a bath or shower. Today was a shower day, so once the alcohol hit my stomach, I hit the shower.

After a few moments, the buzz had started to kick in, and I was in that little jovial zone where you make exaggerated movements with my body in a brisk and carefree fashion. As I was soaping up my left shoulder, I, facing away from the faucet’s wall, dropped the bar, which landed with a loud thud.

Appropriately, I resolved to pick it back up, so standing in the same position I had been when the soap fell, began by swiftly lowering my torso, and consequently my buttocks, straight down . . . onto the small rod mounted on the nozzle to activate the shower. Having been taking a shower, this rod was fully extended vertically, and of course had its decorative knob spun off, as most do.

I heard the plumbing in the wall creak, and felt a sharp pain exactly where you might expect, as the water flow returned to the tub’s nozzle, because I had depressed the actuating knob with my anus.

Having been living the bachelor life, I didn’t own a handheld mirror, and because of the amount of blood accumulating on the bathroom floor, I had to try something. It turns out my phone’s front-facing camera was the best option. This would later turn into an awkward conversation with my roommate, who was using the computer when the photograph was pushed to my iCloud photo stream.

There appeared to be serious damage, so I called a taxi and had them drive me to the hospital. I’m my now drunk state, I didn’t consider that I might have brought a trash bag to sit on, so I was slowly covering the back seat in blood, which luckily I remember was upholstered in leather. When I arrived to the hospital, I stood in line at triage, mentally rehearsing some of the ways in which a patient can humourously tell a nurse or doctor that they’d rather stand.

I told her about the incident, and got to be seen by a kind doctor who happened to be a woman. I don’t remember why a female doctor performing minor surgery on a gay man’s rectal region was funny at the time, but it was. After some local anesthetic and fourteen stitches, I went home, with instructions to keep a sheet of gauze pinched between my buttocks at maximum depth.

I have recently moved into an apartment containing a walk-in shower, and separate tub.