February 10, 2021
Z and I are now watching Star Trek as our pre-sleep show. It’s the one with Patrick Stewart as the captain. Of course, the premise is the same as all iterations of the franchise: on its intrepid voyage, a starship explores new planets, bringing diplomacy to faraway lands and peoples/aliens. I’m sure, however, that even for the crew of the Starship Enterprise, those brave characters, there were certain places they would not go. Some missions too dangerous or terrifying to take on. Yes, the cast of the Enterprise had limitations I’m sure, as everyone should.
I too have limitations when it comes to my exploration -- both caring and pleasing -- of Z’s body. My line in the sand: the butthole. Z’s butthole to be exact. Now to be clear, I consider myself very qualified to care for buttholes. Would I say that I was more qualified than the average person? Yes, if I can be so bold, I think I am. After all, not only am I the proud owner of a butthole, but I also worked at a daycare for two years and as a nanny for a year after that. I have been pooped on and then wiped the butt that did the deed. But we are not talking a child’s booty here, small and hairless like our beloved Gretchen the hairless cat. Z’s is a man’s butthole, a hairy Frenchman’s butthole (Z is half French, I don’t know if that affects the hairiness of the butthole, but it feels worth mentioning). So, while I am whiling to do just about anything, even if I do it with some protest, to help Z get out of a predicament, as of yet I have not circled and gone down the rabbit hole of his bunghole.
There is an interabled powercouple that Z and I watch. They call themselves Squirmy and Grubbs, but actually their names are Hannah and Shane. In the forward to one of Shane’s books, he remarks something like this: that Hannah is the love of his life, someone who will wipe his poopy butt and immediately want to cuddle afterward. I am no Hannah. Perhaps I will only ever aspire to such greatness. But whenever in their vlogs there is reference to Hannah helping Shane poop, Z is sure to point out, “look, Hannah helps Shane do that.” I respond that I am happy for their happiness.
I have little doubt that one day the call of the booty will be too great (or Z’s call asking for help with his booty and my not being able to pawn this * duty * off on anyone else), but for now I have been able to allude it. Perhaps we will meet on some great adventure, me and Z’s poop, and I will at last have to face POOP: MY FINAL FRONTIER.