I’m Keeping the Bidet

When I tell people that I lived in Europe for five years, they ask two things: Did I go to Italy and did I have a bidet? I had not gone to Italy but I did have a bidet. Which is why, when the humans lost their shit over toilet paper at the beginning of the pandemic, I purchased one. 

It was a single attachment that would fit bumper-free under my toilet seat. From under the right side, the lean spray knob extended out like a bent arm. It was sleek, it was modern, it was sexy. It promised eight settings, including a “mist” which I was most looking forward to. When I placed the order, the bidet hadn’t been made yet, so I had a delivery date of a month or two. This provided time to get increasingly excited, and gloat to friends and store cashiers. I felt close to Spain again, on my way to France again. While I waited for its manufacturing, I used paper towels and what little toilet paper I had left. The former was used for typical visits and thrown into the trash. This wasn’t new to me, as I’d done so while living in Buenos Aires. I enjoyed it. I felt close to Argentina again.

The futuresque bidet was assembled and arrived. I was determined to install it myself, not calling upon anyone with a penis to do it for me. I got some tools out, laid the parts on the tiled bathroom floor, and turned on Calle 13 and Manu Chao. I disconnected and added hoses, tightened bolts with growing confidence, and I finagled getting the seat back on for half an hour. I refused to quit. In total, I spent two hours on my “easy-installation” construction project, but I felt how a woman should feel: capable.

I got on. I turned the knob slowly and heard the water trickling behind me. I clicked it up to the first stage. I had to move around so I turned it up again and the water shot over into the bathtub. I wondered if the “mist” was at the end of the settings. I almost blew my clit off. When I jerked backward, I learned what an enema feels like. This was nothing like my faucet bidet in Madrid. In the end, there is no “mist,” and I operate between before stage one and stage one, but I’ve got it down. Hygienic materials are returning to shelves but it feels like a waste now. Even bamboo, which grows faster than weeds, doesn’t feel as fresh. And it all comes wrapped in plastic. I need the water, in gas stations and public schools. France has bidets in single stands on the side of desolate highways. I can’t wait to be in the middle of nowhere again.