Tag Archives: shame

The One That Got Away

I have many stories to do with my bowels but the most prominent one comes from the time in graduate school. Ever since college, my bowels have become suspect at best mostly because of my poor diet at the time and what I later learned to be early onset of IBS. This time wasn’t different, except, it was. At the time I was attending graduate school in San Diego, CA, living at home with my parents. On this fateful day, I had come to school early so I could study with my classmates and get some homework done. My stomach started it’s usual rumblings as I hadn’t taken a dump earlier that day when I usually do. I decided that I could wait it out and get some food first before taking a dump. So I headed over to Taco Bell where there was a huge line. My bowels decided that it didn’t want to wait so I quickly left the line to head to the bathrooms in the building where I usually take my classes. What I didn’t realize at the time is that these toilets were meant for dudes that are 6′ tall at the least. I’m 5’6″ so that means that I have to sort of climb up onto the seats with my legs dangling over the edge and my toes barely touching the floor. Due to the height, this made me clutch ass cheeks more than usual since I couldn’t properly relax my legs as I can compared to when I sit on a toilet that is lower to the ground. I did the best I could with what I was given and let loose. But this wasn’t a regular blow out dump, this was the clinging kind that refused to clear my ass as easily. This sometimes happens when your bowels go from ass explosion to stubborn stools. Thankfully my legs were long enough to stand up without having to slide off the seat because I could still feel the shit between my cheeks that refused to plop into the bowl. That happens sometimes but I was too high up to lift my legs up and just use toilet paper to get it off. At that time, my habit for pooping consisted of me facing the toilet when it came time to wipe. This day changed my habit for life. I spun around like I usually did to inspect said crap and went to go wipe. As I did my business, I noticed something missing. The crap was no longer there. I looked around and couldn’t find it on the floor or anywhere on me so I shrugged it off as if it had gone into the bowl after all and it was only my imagination. I finished wiping, pulled up my pants, went to wash my hands and grabbed my backpack. I left the bathroom feeling better and headed back downstairs to Taco Bell to grab some food. As I was walking along, I noticed a little smell, but thought nothing of it. I get in line. That’s when the stench hits me. The dude in front of me was kind of grungy so I figured it might be him but the smell was a little too familiar. So I started inspecting myself. That’s when I discovered that the piece of poo I had thought fallen into the toilet, had in fact fallen, but landed on the back of my pants on the outside and had smeared itself all over my back and on my backpack. I already had ordered my food at this point so I waited and grabbed my food quickly without looking up and hurried out of there. I got to my car dropped the food into the seat, took off both my pants and t-shirt, wiped off the excess crap and bolted home. My friends called me asking me where I was and I told them I had to head home to change since my parents dog had crapped on my backpack and I had to go and change. I lied my ass off as I was too embarrassed to tell them what really happened. After I got home, I showered and changed, cleaned off my backpack, ate my food and threw my shit covered clothes into the washer. To this day, I face away from the bowl and carefully get up to wipe my ass instead of the full stand I used to do.

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , ,

Like a Virgin

When I was 17 my girlfriend was finally ready to have sex. I, as one might expect of a 17 year old, was excited. Neither hell nor high water was going to stand between me and my final destination.

I get ready for the night, trim everything up, shower extra well. Unfortunately there was also an issue. I have a digestive disorder that sometimes causes my shit to become large and quite solid while still inside me. I wasn’t aware it was a treatable problem; I just thought everyone had to deal with the equivalent of anal kidney stones. I bring this up because I had a mighty one which had been loaded into the gun for several days.

Let me set the scene. Her parents are away. We have her house to ourselves. She is a little kinky so she demands we do it in her parents’ bed. I walk in to a candle holocaust. She’s been working on this all day, apparently, and it’s as bright as high noon in there with the lights off. Which is good, because she proceeds to do a sweet, sexy little dance for me.

I smile and tell her how good she looks. I’m sitting on the bed, watching her, but unfortunately, most of my attention is focused on the dull throbbing from my sphincter and the intestinal discomfort associated with not dropping deuce in days.

But somehow I still get hard and we go to town. We try a bunch of different positions. Due to my built-up distraction, I last for what seems like FOREVER. She can’t stop moaning and telling me how good it feels, and then she says what every man wants to hear “I want to make you cum in my mouth.” So she goes down on me.

She was always average at best in the head department but at least she tries. She pops my cock out of her mouth long enough to look up at me and say “tell me if you like this.”

Then I feel it. She sticks her finger up my ass. My brain hits the panic switch and every muscle in my body locks up. But it’s too late.

I let loose a massive, painful shit, all over her parents’ comforter. No, you aren’t understanding. I mean huge. IMMENSE. Take your largest shit and multiple it by forty-two and you’ll have an idea of what flew out of me. And when I say flew, I mean “hurricane force winds hitting an umbrella stand.” And due to my condition, it comes out as a large, dark brown, smelly harpoon.

I know it hit her. I didn’t see it. She ran screaming “OH MY GOD OHMYGODOHMYGOD EEEEEWWWWWWWW.”

I would like to say I got up to go after her. But I heard the bathroom door shut, and I just lay there. The smell hit me after a few seconds. It smelled like someone rolled a cat in shit and threw it into a tire fire. I looked down and saw this huge pile of shit — and I noticed the blood. Then I noticed the pain.

There was a small pool of blood where my ass had been, a final reminder of the exact place and moment I lost my virginity.

I grab my shit with my hands and go to the downstairs bathroom, feeling a trickle of blood flow down my leg, trying to ignore the sharp pain stabbing my rectum. I find myself wishing I had a photo of this.

Anyway, I finish flushing my baby, clean off my hands, jam toilet paper between my cheeks (I skipped the Band-Aid) and went upstairs. I could hear my girlfriend sobbing from behind the bathroom door. I decided not to say anything to her and just keep moving. The smell in her parents’ room was abysmal.

The scene is burned into my memory for all time. My life. My shame. My very first time smelled like a pile of dead babies. I quickly got dressed since the heat from ten thousand candles was making the room feel more like a port-a-potty. I was aware enough to grab the comforter on my way out and drag it downstairs to their washer, along with the top and bottom sheets, since blood had leaked through to the mattress. Still no sign of her, but at this point I considered it a blessing.

I jammed in the washer with 3 loads worth of detergent and set it on spin, knowing that not even the hand of God would save these linens, let alone Tide and Snuggles. Then I left.

I avoided her calls, so she came to my house. We had a long talk about what happened: talk being synonymous with “breaking up with you because you shit on me.”

She promised not to tell a soul; she was probably as ashamed as I was about the whole deed. Because this was the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Tossed Salad

by S. Nazkar

In the mid-1990s, I was playing in a band and working as a tour guide, navigating massive Belgian horses and sweaty tourists through the side streets of Charleston, SC. I lived outside the city in a flop house populated by fellow band members and various hangers-on, and I often didn’t feel like driving all the way home after working all day in the Southern heat while wearing a Confederate uniform replete with wool cap.

One night, I went with a bunch of co-workers to see the Squirrel Nut Zippers at a local club. We dutifully played up to their 1920s vibe; I wore some kind of old hat and odd vest, and to make matters worse, I drank old-school cocktails all night (I usually only drink beer and wine, never any sort of mixed drinks). The show was great, but I was too drunk to drive home, so my co-worker Cindy said I could crash at her and her roommate Collette’s place.

The next morning I wake up on the couch in one of those fuzzy, “Where the fuck am I?” states. After remembering where I am, the next thing to hit me is the realization of a sour stomach and the overwhelming urge to shit a violent miasma of mint juleps and late night Waffle House remnants, but the bathroom door is closed—I lean closer and hear the shower. By now, the urge is bad enough that I contemplate just walking in the bathroom and shitting while Cindy showers, but then I picture her screaming like Janet Leigh in Psycho if I just walk in and erupt. We had only started working together a few weeks earlier and were not yet in the “it’s-totally-cool-if-you-shit-next-to- me-while-I’m-lathering-myself-naked” phase of our friendship.

I contemplate other options. The bowel foulness is making me sweat now and impairing my logic. I exit the apartment, waddle down a flight of steps, and approach the downstairs neighbor’s door. I raise my arm to knock when it hits me: Who the hell is going to open their door to a complete stranger and let him shit in their bathroom? I clench my teeth and wobble back up the steps, hoping the bathroom is finally vacated.

The bathroom door is still closed and the shower running. Now frantic, I waddle outside to the piazza, which is basically a square-ish Charleston porch that looks out over the street. I loosen my pants, pull down my underwear and prepare to let loose over the side of the porch. A momentary feeling of calm seizes me as I recognize relief is near. Then I realize I’m about to hang my ass off a third-story porch and let loose on the sidewalk and street down below. And looking down from three stories, I see a construction crew looking up at me from the cracked sidewalk they are repairing. I hurriedly raise my pants and cross the piazza off my list of possible shit places.

By now the turtle is poking its head out of the shell, so I grit my teeth and stumble inside. I approach the bathroom and hear the shower still running. I think of what I could possibly say to Cindy if I just barged in and shit while she saw me from the shower. At a loss for words, I realize I won’t even make it to the bathroom and detour into the kitchen. By now, only the lizard/animal part of my brain is working. I debate shitting in the sink but realize the drain sieve is much too small. I scan the kitchen for anything suitable and a large soup pot in the drainer catches my eye. I pick it up, but I worry it’s not big enough for the rumbling in my bowels; then I see a huge wooden salad bowl out of the corner of my eye and grab it. I want to shit right there and then, but her roommate’s room is right off the kitchen. So I stumble into the living room like a dehydrated person finishing a triathlon, half-squat behind the couch, and fill the salad bowl with pounds and pounds of brown hummus. It feels like it starts under my breastbone and scours every inch of my innards on the way out. Rainbows and unicorns wash over me, and I smile through the sweat as I know the day is going to be fine now.

The feeling of happiness evaporates when my rational brain returns and I realize I’m standing in a relative stranger’s living room holding a giant bowl of shit. The smell of it starts to gag me and I peek my head round the corner to see the bathroom door still shut. I weigh my options: Can’t flush it down the toilet. Can’t throw it off the piazza. Can’t just hide it nonchalantly in the trash. I stow the bowl in the far corner of the porch and take a quick few breaths of crisp (for Charleston) morning air to clear my head, even pausing to sit on the porch swing and think about how lucky I was they had a massive salad bowl. After my heart beat had returned to normal and I stopped sweating, I went in sans shit-laden salad bowl to see if the coast was clear. The bathroom was empty. Finally! I figured I’d just haul the bowl in, pour it out, use a plastic scraper from the kitchen to get whatever stuck to the sides.

I go back to the piazza to retrieve the bowl from the porch, but I am stopped in my tracks. Now Cindy is sitting on the swing, rocking back and forth. The salad bowl of shit is now lightly steaming in the corner of the porch behind her. I figure she already saw it, but I position my body between her line of sight and the salad bowl just in case.

“Good morning,” I mutter.

“Good morning,” she said. “Sleep okay?”

I’m still waiting to see if she’s messing with me, but it becomes clear she’s not. She’s hung over, too, just simply gazing out over the city. We make a little small talk about leading tours when hung over, then I remember the problem of the giant bowl of steaming shit again. All I can come up with is a lie.

“Umm… I think I heard Collette calling you.”

Cindy furrows her brow. “What did she want?”

“Umm.. .not sure, she just said she needed to talk to you or something.”

“That’s weird,” Cindy says, then she gets up and walks off toward Colette’s room. I spin immediately, grab the bowl, spring to the bathroom, flush the contents down the toilet, rinse it in the sink and put it back in its rightful spot in the kitchen.

I go back to the porch to celebrate and Cindy is there again.

“What the hell? Colette was still sleeping, said she never even woke up yet.”

“Huh, I must be hearing things. Sorry about that.”

“Well, we better get to work.”

A typical day in the trenches of Southern tourism unfolded. At the end of our shift, Cindy came up to me and said Collette cooked a nice dinner and invited me. I accepted. When we got there, I see a lovely spread of pastries and chicken, replete with a fresh green salad in the familiar salad bowl. I start laughing but don’t explain why when they ask. And though I always eat everything no matter what, and they know me as a grub who eats leftovers off their plates, I refuse to eat any salad and they keep asking what’s wrong. I tell them I will eventually explain one day.

About a year later, Cindy and Collette were moving away and invited me for one last dinner. I finally told them the sordid history of their salad bowl story and their faces looked as if I were Freddy Krueger. An incredulous howl goes up: “Do you know how many times we’ve used that bowl since then? I can’t believe it, I’m going to throw up!” Cindy got up, grabbed the salad bowl, and put it in my lap. “It’s yours now!”

I never could bring myself to eat it out of it, probably because I’m the only one who actually saw it brimming over with brown filth, and I eventually put it in a dumpster rather than give it to Goodwill. I’ve had some hairy intestinal moments since then where I wished that trusty salad bowl had been at my side, but nothing has compared to the violent synthesis of my weak stomach, Squirrel Nut Zipper cocktails, and Cindy’s long showers.

Tagged , , , , ,

Trifecta: The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

I.

by Kimberley Lynne

I was running a healthcare conference at the Marriott and PETA protested by leaving a big stinky pile of human poop right in front of the ballroom doors. As the hotel staff scrambled to remove it, we poured bags of coffee on it to kill the stench.

***

II.

I had been drinking Sambuca after the bar closed. We decided a two-hour road-trip to DC was in order, and as we drove I finished off the bottle. We got to DC about 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning. We started to walk up an empty road, and I was hit with the need to go. I think at this point I was barking like a dog, just for fun. It occurred to me that dogs just go in the road so I dropped my pants and pooped right in the road. Really odd. Didn’t drink Sambuca after I sobered up and realized what I had done.

***

III.

I ran into the house already unbuckling my pants – it was time to go. I bolted up the stairs and found the bathroom door locked. The one bathroom in the house.

I jiggled the doorknob to be sure, and my teenaged son’s voice croaked out from the crack in the door: “I had to come home early. I’m sick.”

I tried to hide the panic in my voice. “Do you think you’ll be in there long?”

He said, “I’m sorry.” Sick as a dog and the dear boy still knows his father has a short poop fuse. “I have diarrhea.”

I shouted a “No problem!” over my shoulder as I shuffled down the hall and back downstairs. My pants were around my knees, and it was hard to run. But I needed to run, unless I wanted to shit on the stairs, because it was coming, uninvited like the plague, hammering the gates of the citadel like the Hun army.

I raced to the kitchen, where at least there’s linoleum. I spied the kitchen trashcan. Perfect.

I pulled the trash can out from the wall, and with the grace of a ballerina, spun, dropped trou, and parked my woebegotten ass in the top of the trashcan.

This was not a firm one. Spraying, sputtering, machine-gun fire. I was thinking that maybe I had what my son had, and I glanced guiltily back toward the stairs. My dog sat in the doorway to the kitchen, watching me with his head cocked slightly to one side. I shouted at him to go away, and he retreated a few paces, still watching me.

See, what’s perfect about a kitchen trashcan is that not only is it strong enough to support your weight and only slightly too tall, but it has a plastic liner. When I finished, I stood up and cleaned myself off with paper towels, tossing them onto the mass of angry Huns. I tied the bag tightly shut and carried it out to the big garbage can behind the house. I shouted at my dog to get away from the outside garbage can, and I returned to the house fresh as a daisy.

Kitchen trashcans: totally my go-to place to go in the future.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Kill the messenger

One day at my school in Georgia during PE we were playing flag football on the football field, and a boy that no one (literally no one) liked named Jacob went out on the field, lowered his pants, squatted, and deposited a warm poop onto the freshly mowed football field. He stood up, raised his pants, took his HAND, and picked up said freshly baked turd. He then walked with it in hand to the nearest sideline trash can and threw away his shameful wrongdoing. The PE coach quickly but loudly told him he was being sent home for the day; he burst into tears for the fear that his parents would uncover his dirty secret.

Jacob and I were not only classmates, but we also belonged to the same church youth group. After I witnessed the unsightly event, I felt the need to share my horror with the other members of the group. However, some of the other kids told Justin’s parents that I’d fabricated this unchristian and unbelievable story – his parents were still oblivious to all of it. Within hours both of his parents showed up at the main office screaming and throwing things because their innocent baby was being bullied by a little girl. I was later forced to make a brutally awkward public apology for “weaving this tale of lies,” and Jacob gave me a dead stare and said nothing –  even though I’d just covered his behind by convincing every adult that I’d made up that true story, which also happened to be telling a lie in church. To this day no one’s entirely sure if the bathroom was locked, the line was too long, or there was some wager lost. There was also a quiet rumor that he may have been protesting the fields fertilizer. Or maybe he’s just that crazy.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

Animal House

In college, I was driving in my big Caddy on my way to class one summer, and I got hit with a real need to go. I didn’t think I would make it to the classroom building in time, so I pulled off and went to my frat house. Nobody was around, and at this point I thought I was going to die. I rushed into the house and up the stairs to the bathroom. Everything was gone. The bath was being renovated. I looked around desperately, and there was no bucket. Not even a trashcan. I ran to a room at the back of the house on the second floor and stuck my ass out the window and let it all out. Not sure if any saw me, but they would have been ruined for life if they had.

Tagged , , , ,

Not my job description: a triptych

I.

When I was 14 and working in a restaurant, someone laid, seriously, a two-foot coil in the loo. So us kids stared at each other dumbly, all grossed out, and asked the head cook what to do. He walked in with the knife he was using to chop green peppers and sliced the log up, then went back to the peppers with the same knife.

***

II.

A woman came into the emergency room saying that she was having a baby. Turns out she gave birth to a HUGE poop that had to be broken up with a tongue depressor before it could be flushed.

***

III.

It was a Saturday. I was the only one working. Earlier that week I had a case of the runs but it had cleared up by Saturday. Or so I thought. I had some gas and because no one else was in the office, I was free to let it rip.

Saturdays were quite slow but I was on a call when another gas pain hit, so I let that one go also. Only it wasn’t just gas. It was a blow out. Well, it could’ve been worse because even though I was talking to someone, I realized I had to do some damage control and held back what I could.

Within a couple seconds I told the client I’d have to call him back, that there was an emergency, and I asked for his number. I sat there wondering what to do. The bathroom was three hallways away, and I was, well, squishy. I was worried I’d run into someone and be forced into a conversation. I thought about closing up for the day but that would require a long, moist trip to the parking lot.

After deciding I couldn’t clean up at my desk, I glided to the bathroom as quickly and motionlessly as I could.

I cleaned myself up using toilet paper and toilet water. A pair of poopy underwear was stashed in the hygienic products bin that day, wrapped in about half a roll of toilet paper.

Got back to the desk, called the customer back, and finished out my shift.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

There has to be a merit badge for this

On a Cub Scout field trip, we visited a clipper ship. It was a beautiful boat, lots of polished wood and portholes and brass fittings and all sorts of things that appeal to the nautical-minded Cub Scout pack. There were long banks of navy blue plaid cushions and a dark mottled shag carpet on the floor in the cabins below – it was the 70s, and shag carpet even followed you underwater. We’re talking half-inch pile here.

We learned that on a boat, the kitchen is the galley and the bathroom is the head. Our guide, a man older than our fathers, told us that if we needed to use the head, we should go first and then pump a handle next to the toilet. This was a white metal arm with rubber handgrips, on the floor next to the toilet bowl like an emergency brake. It’s a water conservation mechanism; on a boat, it’s an empty, waterless bowl and it flushes with a quick, powerful whoosh.

The pack followed the guide to other parts of the boat. While we were in the Captain’s Quarters, I received an urgent message from my netherworld: time to poop. It was perfect timing, since I could run back to the toilet unnoticed. I am a quick and easy pooper, not someone who needs the New York Times and a quiet half hour. All I need is a closed door.

I went back to the head and shut the door and pooped immediately. No problem. Quick wipe, quick zip of the Cub Scout uniform, and I was good to go. I pumped the handle to flush. Nothing happened. Dropping a log into a boat toilet is highly unsatisfying: there’s no water for floating, so it just sat there, marooned next to a wad of toilet paper. I pumped again, and a sad little whoosh took away the toilet paper, leaving a very stubborn Cub Scout muffin in the bowl.

I flushed again, feeling creeping panic. Nothing changed.

I made a snap decision: I closed the lid and prepared to abandon my shame. No one would know it was mine, and I would be free. I listened at the door; hearing nothing, I cracked it open and peered out into the hall. I was alone looking down a long corridor of shag carpet. Score! I closed the door behind me and went off to find the pack.

Then I was seized by an unusual tug of my conscience: you can’t just leave it lying there. The Cub Scout motto: I promise to do my best, to do my duty, to God and my country, to help other people, and to obey the law of the pack. An abandoned turd would reflect poorly on all of Pack 452. I did my duty, and now I had to get rid of the evidence.

I went back to the head and opened the door. I lifted the lid and looked at the obstinate little turd. One more try. I left the door open, so it wouldn’t look like mine should I be discovered. Disgusting, isn’t it? What churlish Scout did this?

I gave the white metal handle a very hard, double-handed pump. To my great surprise, the turd was ejected from the bowl. It flew through the air in a high arc, out the door, into the hallway, onto the carpet. There it lodged in the deep 70’s shag.

My poor little Cub Scout heart stopped. I peered at the turd; touching it was out of the question. This was just as bad as it could be. What could I do?

I looked out the hallway: it was empty.

I bolted out of the bathroom, dodged the carpet burger, and headed as far from that toilet as I could. I dashed the length of the boat until I found my pack, and I rejoined them as if nothing happened. Oh, I was just playing with a porthole, I would tell anyone who asked. No one asked.

I was back in the pack, breathing silent relief. Someone would step in it, and I would be far from the scene of the crime when it happened. Fuck Pack 452.

Tagged , , , , , ,