It started out, I thought, as a kind of joke.
"I hate my flat ass," I would complain to Chris as I got out of the shower, fishing for some reassurance about my lack of a backside.
"Buy a new one," he'd grin, and snap his towel at me.
On the beach, I'd lie on my back while the other boys lounged on their stomachs, rounded rears soaking up the sun.
"I wish I had an ass like that," I'd say, nodding towards the nearest set of sculpted glutes.
"So buy one like his," Chris would say with that same grin, and flick sand at me.
Eventually, the idea started to sink in. Chris wasn't just kidding around, he was telling me what he wanted my body to be. Together, we made an appointment with one of the most highly regarded plastic surgeons in Phoenix.
Wearing a paper gown split open to reveal my sorry behind, Chris agreed with the doc's diagnosis: "He's a perfect candidate for implants."
They'd be silicone, like they use for breasts, the doctor explained, placed between layers of muscles. He flipped through a photo album of satisfied customers; his work was impressive.
"What are the risks?" I asked, timidly.
"Well, there is a slight chance that, during the healing process, the suture will open up wide enough to expose the implant," the doctor said. He had a sort of gonzo medicine vibe, with a thick gray moustache and Hawaiian shirt. "In that case, the implant must be removed and the incision will need to heal for at least three months, then we can replace it. But that's the worst case scenario; I've never personally seen it happen."
He paused.
"Also, it has been said that this is one of the most painful plastic surgeries, as we use our backsides so often in daily life...just don't expect to sit down for awhile. Or sleep on your back."
The doctor laughed. Chris laughed. I laughed. I signed the papers.
Cut to three months later, when I entered the maligned ranks of "worst case scenario" statistics. After weeks of pain, Percocet dependence, gunk and blood soaked gauze pads and never sitting down, my incision seemed to be almost healed, at last! Until a strange little bruise appeared along the suture line.
"You probably just bumped it," shrugged Chris. "Your ass is so damn hot, though!"
Chris was wrong. What I thought was a bruise was tissue necrosis (i.e., death), which quickly grew into a huge patch of oozing black skin.
"Yes, that implant's got to come out," confirmed the doctor. "Your incision is opening up."
I hoped that Chris would stick around to nurse me back to health until I was strong enough for the next surgery, but as it turned out, he had firmer, curvier business to attend to than the loose, sagging skin hanging from my lower back.
The next time somebody tells me to "buy a new one," I will simply tell him:
"Kiss my ass."—J.B.
