From the Editors at Highest Fade

There are moments in life that announce themselves with drama: weddings, funerals, the third cocktail at an art opening. And then there are moments that arrive in silence — understated, damp — like the day I bought a bidet.

It began, as all turning points do, with a sense of lack. Not spiritual, not professional. Something… subtler. I couldn't name it at first. A restlessness. An unshakable feeling that I was no longer being cared for — at least not by myself. I brushed my teeth. I flossed occasionally. But still, something was missing.

Then, one evening, I found myself standing in front of the mirror after a particularly uninspired shower, looking at myself the way a disappointed headmaster looks at a recalcitrant boy.

"You deserve better," I muttered. "At the very least, you deserve pressurized rear hygiene."

The Purchase

There are levels to these things. A man could spend $25 and walk away with a simple mechanical attachment. A hose, a valve. Something that screams, "I'm a minimalist — but I know what I'm about."

I went the other direction.

After three glasses of a Spanish red I described aloud to no one as "earthy with notes of triumph," I purchased the Kōyō GentleMist™ 9X: a $379 luxury bidet with heated water, multi-nozzle targeting, UV sanitization, and something the manual described ominously as "personal user memory."

The box arrived two days later, and I opened it the way one opens a box containing a minor deity.

Installation

I am not a handy man. I say this not with shame, but with the quiet clarity of a man who once stripped a screw trying to assemble a shoe rack.

Still, I believed in the bidet. I believed in us. After three hours, two YouTube tutorials, and a moment where I accidentally activated the stream while hovering directly in its path, the device was installed.

I stood back, wet, humbled, victorious.

The toilet now glowed faintly blue — not with aggression, but with confidence. A small LED blinked in the corner like it was keeping secrets.

The First Use

Let me say this: a man is never fully prepared for the sensation of warm, targeted water breaching the last of his illusions.

At first, I laughed. Then, I cried. Not for pain, but for what I had denied myself all these years. There are spa treatments less refined than the "Kōyō Gentle Pulse – Forest Setting." It's unclear what forest they were referencing. I didn't care.

The dryer — yes, there was a dryer — activated like a whispered affirmation. A gentle breeze across the battlefield.

I emerged from the bathroom 11 minutes later with the posture of someone who had seen combat and come out softer.

Side Effects

Something changed.

I stood straighter. I responded to texts with greater empathy. I stopped sighing in grocery store lines. At one point, I found myself saying "no worries" and meaning it.

I began wearing linen indoors. I subscribed to a monthly delivery of Japanese plums I don't particularly enjoy, but they felt appropriate.

At night, I read Rilke aloud to no one in particular.

The bidet hadn't just improved my hygiene — it had restored a sense of internal order. A system. A ritual.

Closure

I don't expect everyone to understand.

There will always be people who scoff at gentleness, who believe luxury should only be worn and not… directed upward. That's fine. Let them live.

But as for me, I am changed.

Not in the way of grand enlightenment, but in the way a man changes when he starts ordering side dishes with confidence.

In the way he changes when he lights a candle on a weeknight.

In the way he changes when he no longer tolerates discomfort he can fix himself.

Some men get sports cars.

Some men climb mountains.

I bought a bidet.

And became, somehow, a better man.