After that whole zoo-and-mall incident, I swore I’d never let myself be in that position again.

So, in true overcorrecting fashion, I started cutting down on anything that could get my bowels moving — spicy food, fiber, even plain rice sometimes. I figured if nothing goes in, nothing comes out, right?

Big mistake.

What started as a safety precaution slowly turned into a full-blown constipation saga. At first, it wasn’t intentional — I was just eating light, skipping the hotel’s suspiciously oily breakfast buffet, and drinking as little water as possible so I wouldn’t need a bathroom while sightseeing. But soon, I took it a step further.

I started withholding whenever I felt even the slightest urge, convincing myself that holding off meant more time for exploring temples and night markets. “I’ll just go at night when I’m back,” I told myself. Or maybe the next morning. Yeah, that sounded smarter. Except it wasn’t.

Day one went fine. Day two, still nothing, but I wasn’t worried. By day three, though, I woke up feeling like I’d swallowed a bowling ball. My stomach was heavy, bloated, and just... wrong.

I sat on the toilet, telling myself it was just a matter of focus. I pushed a little. Nothing. I leaned forward, like maybe gravity could help. Still nothing. I tried again that evening after chugging a bottle of water and eating a few sad slices of fruit from the buffet. Still nothing.

That’s when it hit me — I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d actually gone. I replayed the zoo-and-mall fiasco in my head and realized… that was it. I hadn’t pooped since then. Three whole days. My stomach was bloated, heavy, and borderline defiant.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling in defeat. My brilliant plan had backfired. I was officially constipated.

I did what any clueless tourist would do — searched online:

“How to deal with constipation in Thailand.”

Every forum and blog said the same thing — go to a nearby pharmacy or even 7-Eleven; they’ll help you out.

So, that’s what I did.

I walked into a small pharmacy tucked between a café and a massage parlor. Behind the counter stood — and I swear, this keeps happening to me — another young Thai woman. She smiled politely.

“Hello,” I said, awkwardly. “Uh… stomach problem.”

She tilted her head. “Stomach pain?”

“Not pain exactly… no go. No, uh—” I gestured vaguely, making a “pushing” motion with my hands.

Her eyes widened a bit in understanding. “Ah! Constipation?”

“Yes!” I nodded with the enthusiasm of a man who just found salvation.

She giggled softly, probably amused by my hand gestures, then turned around and picked a small box from the shelf.

She placed it on the counter. “Take two. Warm water. Before sleep. Morning… you go toilet, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, embarrassed but hopeful.

That night, I followed her instructions exactly — two pills, warm water, early sleep.

The next morning, I felt some movement. Finally. I sat down and managed to get something out, but it was painful, hard, and felt nowhere close to normal. It was as if my body had turned to stone from the inside.

“Great,” I muttered to myself. “Now the opposite problem.”

I decided these over-the-counter medicines weren’t going to cut it. If I wanted a real fix, I’d need to see a doctor.

So, I searched for a nearby clinic.

I finally found what looked like a small neighborhood clinic — clean, quiet, but easy to miss if not for the blue signboard that said something in Thai (which, thanks to my trusty translator app, I confirmed was indeed a clinic).

Inside, the air was cold and smelled faintly of disinfectant. At the reception sat yet another young Thai lady — why does this always happen to me?

I approached her and said, “Hi… doctor?” while awkwardly patting my stomach, trying to communicate my problem without actually saying the word constipation. She tilted her head, clearly trying to process my broken explanation. I pulled out my translator app and typed, “I can’t poop since last three days.” She read it, her eyes widened slightly, and then she giggled.

I swear, at this point, I was starting to think the entire female population of Thailand had formed a secret group to giggle at my digestive misfortunes.

She said, “Okay, doctor busy. Wait five minute.”

So I sat there, in this tiny waiting area, surrounded by posters I couldn’t read — all probably warning me about diseases I didn’t have — and nervously glanced around as I heard faint chatter from behind the door.

Five minutes later, the receptionist called me in. I walked into a small examination room where, to my relief, the doctor was an older Thai man. Finally, someone I could explain things to without worrying about the giggles.

He greeted me kindly and asked, “What problem?”

I told him everything — the zoo day, the taxi incident, the laxatives, everything — though I left out the almost pooped in a car part. He nodded thoughtfully, pressed around my stomach, and asked if I was feeling pain or nausea.

Then he said, “You take medicine from pharmacy?”

“Yes, yesterday night. Didn’t help much.”

He frowned slightly. “That medicine strong. If no help… maybe need enema.”

Now, I had no clue what an enema was at that point. I looked at him blankly. He noticed and, with a mix of broken English, hand gestures, and a quick sketch on a pad, attempted to explain what it involved. Let’s just say I understood enough to feel my face heating up.

“Uh… you mean… like… through…?”

He nodded. “Yes. Nurse do it.”

And just when I thought I had already faced peak embarrassment on this trip, the doctor asked me to lie down and said, “Nurse will help. She very gentle. No worry.”

A few minutes later, the door opened, and in walked a nurse — pushing a small trolley. On it was a red rubber bag, filled to the brim and slightly bulging, with a long tube and nozzle attached, a thermometer and a few medical supplies. I didn’t need a medical degree to figure out what the bag was.

As she rolled the cart closer, I got a proper glimpse of her. She wore a form-fitted lavender scrubs ending at thigh height with a semi-opaque pantyhose — revealing her rather well-maintained physique. Her brown eyes looked calm and focused. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, with a few loose strands of hair curled slightly and hanging near her eyes, catching the light every time she moved — overall quite attractive.

When she started speaking — asking short, simple questions in broken English — I could tell that she was probably around my age. And judging by the way she hesitated between words and avoided eye contact, I think she realized the same about me. I did my best not to make eye contact either — it somehow felt safer to focus on the floor than on her expression. That quiet awareness between us made the air instantly heavier, the kind of awkwardness that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

She smiled politely, clearly aware that I was already mortified, and went on to confirm how long it had been, whether I had stomach pain, and if I’d taken any medicine. I answered awkwardly, trying not to stare at the red bag that was very much there.

There was an undeniable awkwardness hanging in the air — the kind that comes when both people know what’s about to happen but are trying their best to act like it’s completely normal. She seemed a little shy at first — maybe because we were roughly the same age and of opposite genders — tucking the stray strands of hair behind her ear before busying herself with arranging things on the trolley. Then she drew a small breathe to collect herself and had that quiet authority nurses seem to summon when needed.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as good at hiding my nerves. The thought of what was coming — and the fact that someone I found kinda cute would be the one administering it — didn’t exactly help. My mind was a mess of “please let this end quickly and don’t make this embarrassing than it already is”.

I tried to match her composure but failed miserably when she said she needed to “check temperature.” I nodded, assuming she meant the regular under-the-tongue routine.

Then she pointed to behind me.

I froze.

For a moment, I thought maybe I misunderstood — language barrier, right? But she repeated it gently, “back side temperature, okay?”

My eyes widened. I hesitated, trying to process whether this was real life. “…Rectal?” I asked, hoping she’d shake her head and clarify it was a misunderstanding.

She didn’t. She just nodded politely.

I eventually gave in to her request. There was no point arguing — I was just a tourist trying to survive a bad stomach episode, not make a scene in a clinic far from my homeland. But honestly, at that point, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe the locals were having way too much fun at my expense.

She tried to explain what to do next, pausing between words as if searching for the right ones.

“Uh… you down pants and underwear… little, okay? Then lie… like this,” she said, gesturing with her hands and demonstrating the position.

I blinked, unsure if I heard her right. “Like… this?” I asked, voice shaky.

She nodded quickly, trying to keep a straight face but failing for half a second — a small, nervous giggle escaped her before she bit her lip and pressed it away. “Yes… yes. That okay,” she said softly.

I hesitated, breathing out a quiet, uneasy “uh… okay,” before doing as instructed — awkwardly lowering my pants and my underwear just enough to allow her temporary access to my asshole. My face must’ve turned crimson; I could feel the heat rise all the way to my ears.

As I complied, she cleared her throat, regaining composure, and snapped on a pair of gloves, whose sound was loud enough to make me flinch — though I'm pretty sure it wasn't intentional. Then, with a dollop of cold lube on her index finger, she applied it to my anus, and said, "This feel little cold.”

The cold jelly made me clench, and the nurse, noticing it, parted my butt cheeks, saying, "Hold." Next, she lubed the thermometer, and before I could fully process what was happening, I felt a sudden jolt of the cold metal as she inserted it in my backside. My body reacted instantly, but she calmly said, "Okay, it in now. Hold two minute,” and held my cheeks together to keep the thermometer in place. After what felt like an eternity, she pulled it out and sighed at the thermometer, nodded slightly, and said, “Little high… but okay. Constipation make body hot inside.” I exhaled, half relieved, half mortified that my backside temperature was now public knowledge.

Then came the part I was dreading since I first saw that red rubber bag on the trolley. The bag looked even fuller up close — hanging from a metal stand like some sort of medical chandelier of doom, holding at least 1.5 litres of warm misery that was about to enter me. She caught me staring and gave a small smile. “This help. You feel better after. Light, like bird,” and gave a giggle, trying to ease my tension (spoiler: it only amplified it, and her being cute didn’t help things either).

I swallowed. “So… this is…?” She nodded, still calm. “This call enema. Water go inside. Clean you. Slow. If pain, I stop. You just breathe.” She said it kindly, almost light-hearted, probably because she could see I was two seconds away from dissolving into the floor.

She checked the tube, let a bit of water run to make sure no air was inside, then placed a folded towel on the bed and said. “You lie this side. Knee little up. Not pain, only… first time feel different.” Understatement of the century.

I did as told, still trying not to make eye contact with the red bag (and her). She adjusted the towel, checked the tube, then gave a reassuring pat on my arm. “Okay? Ready?” I nodded — the most unconvincing nod in human history.

With this, she began to lube the enema nozzle thoroughly, which by the way was unusually raising skepticism on how it would fit in my tight asshole. Well, I didn’t have to wait to see it. The nurse patted my arm gently. “It’s okay. I do careful. You no worry.” Easy for her to say — she wasn’t the one about to become a human teapot. She once again parted my butt cheeks, slowly eased in the nozzle and…it simply disappeared in my arse. She tried to pull it a bit to test for resistance and well, let’s just say the nozzle had just found its new home—my asshole.

I stared at the wall again — wondering how a simple vacation turned into a medical episode involving gravity-fed humiliation.

And then, with a soft click of the clamp, the water had begun its journey into me from the side where I never expected to have an input.

The warmth of the water hit me first — a slow, creeping sensation spreading across my lower belly. Weird, uncomfortable, but manageable. But as it kept flowing in, that warmth turned into fullness — thick, heavy, impossible to ignore. I gripped the sheet with both hands. My intestines, already packed from three days of solid waste, weren’t exactly welcoming any new guests.

At first, I tried to stay calm. Breathe in, breathe out. But as half the bag drained in me, the pressure doubled — water pushing in, solid poo pushing back. Midst this tug-of-war between the enema and my poop, a dull cramp twisted inside me, and I winced. “It’s cramping,” I muttered. She paused the flow immediately, pressed her palm gently on my belly, and began massaging in small circles, calming the cramp… but it didn’t change the fact that I felt like I was about to explode even before the complete bag emptied.

But the moment she opened the clamp again, the pressure returned — stronger, heavier, and now layered over the fact that I was already full of, well… everything I’d been trying to avoid dealing with for three days.

The bag kept emptying faster than I handle it. I could feel the pressure stacking — like I was being filled past capacity. My stomach felt stretched, packed, like a balloon being tested to its limits. Panic started simmering in my chest. “I… I don’t know if I can hold it,” I whispered, voice strained. “It feels like it’s going to come out now.”

She paused the flow again, looked at the tiny bit left in the bag, and said gently, “Almost. Just little more. If stop now, not clean. Trust me. You strong. Just breathe.”

By the time the bag was nearly empty, I was sweating, jaw locked, every muscle tensed — not even for the holding part yet, but just trying not to let go immediately. I felt seconds away from exploding. My body was basically screaming, Release now or else, while my brain was quietly negotiating for dignity.

Once the bag gurgled empty, the nurse came and one last time parted my cheeks, and slowly withdrew the nozzle and I instantaneously clenched. My stomach felt like a stretched drum by now. I didn’t even move — afraid that if I did, it would all be over.

She checked the time. “Now you hold. Fifteen minute. If not… medicine come out, not work. Then maybe need enema again.” She didn’t have to explain further — the threat of a second red bag was enough motivation to make me clench my soul.

So I stayed there — bloated, sweating, breathing slowly, holding in both my emotions and everything else — not knowing if I’d truly last the first minute, let alone fifteen.

(to be continued)