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 The Paradise Of Room 102Posted 11.26.2003 by MotelShit (47)
I have read many tales about pooping at work on this site. Fellow shitters have discussed the shame involved in dropping the kids off at the pool while at their place of employment. I, however, have a job where shitting is a pleasure. I do not have to fret over a co-worker barging into the bathroom, or worry that my boss is going to wonder why my bathroom ventures take up valuable time on the clock, or work myself into a frenzy over unclean pooping quarters.
I work in a small hotel in a small town of about 8000 people. The hotel itself contains 37 rooms and one public bathroom. Only one person is on duty at the desk at any given time. Being a college student, I work the 3-11 shift a couple nights a week. It's a dreadfully simple part-time job for a 23-year-old to have. Most of my eight hours are spent watching television in the lobby or finishing up homework. One particular night last week, I arrived at work after my classes were over feeling run down and hungry. I had not eaten a bite all day, and my stomach was grumbling something terrible. The morning shift person went over some basic things with me before she finally walked out the door at 3:15; my stomach was going crazy with strange and very audible growls. We serve a continental breakfast of bagels, toast, English muffins, etc., into which I will dig occasionally at the strike of a hunger pang. But this day was different. I wanted real food. However, I am permanently stuck at my desk post, and in a town of 8000, there are not many options for delivery. I was craving something greasy, which left me with a few options. Godfather's (cardboard), Domino's (cardboard), Yellow Mushroom (local pizza place with very GOOD, but very GREASY pizza), or The Boathouse (local hamburger joint). I was in the mood for pizza, but mozzarella sticks sounded good also. So I decided to go all out. (Let me just note here that I am a female, and do not have the gargantuan appetite that most men do.) I ordered a small pepperoni with extra cheese from The Mushroom, and some mozzarella sticks from The Boathouse. This was a lot of food for my usually small appetite. Within a half hour my food had arrived. I was so hungry that I snarfed down 3/4 of the pizza in five minutes and devoured all the mozzarella sticks. Everything was washed down with a big bottle of shit-inducing Coca-Cola. I started to do my daily chores -- vacuuming, dusting, and checking two or three guests in. As I was vacuuming the lobby, I felt a pain in my lower abdomen. Not severe, but nonetheless painful. I let out a few farts while the vacuum roared, beaming inside at my sneaky maneuver. The pains got worse, so I decided to vacuum the breakfast area and the meeting room so I could continue to loudly relieve my intestines of the pungent gas inside. After vacuuming all that could be vacuumed, I could take it no longer. I had to get to the ladies room. I left the vacuum in the lobby and went behind the front desk to grab a master key. Now, if you've been reading carefully, you may remember that I mentioned earlier the one public bathroom in the hotel. However, this was not where I was headed. No. I was on my way to shitter's heaven. Room 102. This was the room closest to the front desk, a room that we NEVER checked out to guests, unless the hotel was full, which seldom happened. I slipped my key into the lock until I saw the magical green "it's okay to poop in here" light on the door panel. With my portable phone in hand, I stepped into the sterile, white, sanitized bathroom. I didn't realize how badly I had to go until I started to pull down my pants. I was starting to sweat and my face was flushed. I thrust my thong down to my knees and sat down on the cold, clean toilet seat. Instant relief. Burning pizza sauce poured out of my virgin butt hole, splashing as it hit the once-white porcelain bowl. There were no chunks -- it was pure liquid hot sauce burning my tender small ring of pink. I looked up at the ceiling in the midst of my situation and saw a ladybug. I was highly surprised that the fumes did not make her curl and drop to the floor. The fumes. Oh my God, the fumes. It was a mixture of rotten tomato sauce, sulfur, rotten eggs and eau de landfill. Positively unbearable. I thought my ordeal was over at this point, but then the gas started. Nothing was coming out -- it was just pure, unadulterated gas. Loud forceful farts echoed in the bowl in a tune reminiscent of 25 or 6 to 4 by Chicago. It was quite possibly the loudest bout of the farts I've ever personally experienced. At one point it sounded like a garbage truck had dropped off the Empire State Building. After the gas ended, I felt empty. My entire colon had been poured into the once-shiny, once-germ-free bowl. I reached over for a handful of TP and discovered -- not to be cliché or predictable here -- there was none. Only a small, leftover half-square on the brown cardboard. The morning girl had used the toilet paper and not replaced it! This is a hotel, for fucksake! We have cases of TP in the storage room! I did not worry, yet. I reached around back for some Kleenex, only to find that the Kleenex was also absent from the box. I was fuming. I frantically thought of PoopReport. What would The Big Wiper or Doniker or Dave do?? SOCK! Yes, the sock! I had found that idea ingenious when I originally read it on the site; and now I was going to use it for myself! To no avail, though -- I was wearing strappy sandals that did not allow for socks. Dammit all! I sat for a moment, inhaling the strong fumes of my work underneath me, when I looked up and spotted the towel rack. It was my only option. I grabbed a washcloth and wiped my burning hole with great care. I grabbed the second washcloth and ran it under the nearby sink for some extra cleansing. The cold water felt refreshing on my worn-out sphincter. I chucked the once cream -- now brown -- cloths into the nearby garbage. I pulled my thong back up, followed by my black dress pants. I washed thoroughly, grabbed the stinky small garbage can, and left my creation down the pipes behind me. It was cold out, but I chose to walk the thirty yards to the dumpster out back to dispose of the entire garbage can. The dumpster was nearly full, but I managed to wedge it securely between some boxes so it would not blow away with the cold Minnesota wind. I didn't bother to secure the flimsy plastic bag with the cloths inside. Tonight I stopped by work to pick up my check and chat with the other 3-11 guy. He told me that he had just done an outdoor walk-through of the property because it was nice out, and he saw the most disgusting thing. Apparently someone threw a plastic bag with what looked like two shit-stained hotel washcloths out by the dumpster. He was appalled, and all I could do was stand there straight-faced and lady-like, agreeing with him. But, knowing what I had done, I was beaming inside. -- MotelShit Post new comment
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