This experience occurred nine years ago when my wife was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with our first child. We had already been married three years at this point, but neither of us ever spent any time in close proximity to the other's anal byproducts. Like most young lovers, we probably expected we could last a lifetime avoiding such an encounter.
Oh, we got past the fart-in-the-same room phase. I was the first to give in (about a month after the wedding), after which she undoubtedly concluded that all restraint could now be cast aside. But with regard to heiny-go-plop, we both instinctively knew to give each other our own space. Which was fine with me, since I've always been somewhat of a Shameful pooper. In all my school years, from kindergarten through high school, I never once defecated in the boys' room. Even now I check to make sure my shoes are non-descript before entering a public toilet. But that's beside the point.
One of the things I learned about pregnancy is that the normal laws governing the woman's waste cycle go out the window. For some reason, my wife's urination became even more frequent, if that was possible. On the other hand, fecal discharge did just the opposite. In fact, the only way to measure the frequency of her dumps was by using the carbon-dating method of half-life.
I suppose, in the back of my mind, this somewhat concerned me. I mean, the immutable laws of physics could not be ignored. Here we have a woman downing blocks of cheese, slabs of meat, and all sorts of mismatched consumables in unheard of quantities. Yet very little was coming out of her except pee.
Within six months, my once-svelte 112-pound wife had ballooned to a sumo-sized 175 pounds. Meanwhile she took maybe nine dumps in that same period. I gotta believe it was nine. Possibly ten, but no more than that. So, like any other loving husband would, I chose to ignore it. Instead, we both fell into that wonderful period of calmness and serenity that immediately precedes the birth of the first child.
Until...
It was a Saturday afternoon and I was gutting the upstairs bathroom for renovation. I was in the process of dismantling the old vanity. Instead of turning off the water main, I merely turned off the water valves under the sink. This proved to be a dumb move on my part, especially since the house was over seventy years old. Equally as old was the copper pipe that burst when I pulled the vanity from the wall.
As cold water sprayed across the bathroom into the hallway, my first instinct was to panic. I grabbed a bucket and tried to catch the water as it sprayed from the wall. I then dumped it into the bathtub. Although this worked to a degree, I clearly needed an assistant. So I screamed like a lunatic for my wife, who was of course outside in the backyard at the time. By the time she waddled up the steps, the water had been gushing for three minutes or more.
"Here. Bail!" I screamed.
"Oh my God. Oh my God." She kept saying this over and over again as I rushed down to the basement to find the water main. After a brief panic attack, I finally located it and turned off the water. By the time I got upstairs again, I knew this meant a call to my insurance company. I was really feeling pissed off with myself when I saw my wife standing in the bathtub. She was bent over and breathing heavily.
"What's wrong? Is it coming?" I really felt guilty now.
"No. I gotta poop. Help me."
I pulled down her sweatpants and looked in horror at something I never hoped to behold. Slowly, my beautiful wife's sphincter dilated to non-human dimensions and this pasty black mass emerged. It was at least as wide as a large can of soup. If I were a visitor walking in on the scene, I would have been convinced I was interrupting a live birth.
The entity came out about an inch, and then got stuck. My wife pleaded with me to help. I started to reach out, but thought better of it and grabbed a toothbrush. I figured I could dig it out if necessary. Maybe break it apart bit by bit.
But it was not to be. This mass was so devoid of moisture that it had become a singularity of dense molecular structure. I immediately thought of black holes, and how they had the ability to absorb anything in their path, including light and gravity. I jabbed at the throbbing log as it slowly emerged from its human host, but could barely scratch the surface with my crude implement. I knew there was only one solution.
There are only a handful of moments in life when one stands on the precipice of a momentous decision. When one realizes there are certain things they would only do for someone they truly love. Even so, I hesitated.
As I locked my hands around the head of the beast and pulled it from the great cavernous pit, I realized that the term "toss a loaf" was not an exaggeration. Except this particular loaf happened to weigh about eight or nine pounds and was covered with hot tar. Dead and defeated, the malignant super-turd finally landed with a hollow thud on the surface of our cast-iron tub. It was as if a small body had been dropped from a great height.
"What should we name her?" I asked. I can be a real wiseass at the most inappropriate times.
My moment of relief was short-lived, however. You see, the gargantuan shit-log was merely the cork in a long-dormant volcano. For the briefest of moments, all went quiet. Then the ground beneath us began to shake. My wife looked back at me with resignation, and I simply nodded.
The next few moments can only be accurately described by myself or by any survivors of Pompeii after Mt. Vesuvius erupted in 79 A.D.
As burning lava exploded from my beautiful wife's anal fissure, I stood there, transfixed in this surreal, burning landscape reminiscent of a scene from Dante. As her body heaved in the throes of expurgation ecstasy, she continued to splatter me, the walls, the ceiling and the windows with hot, tarry volcanic ejecta.
Finally the storm subsided.
"Well, that was a new experience."
She just gave me a look of disgust.
What I did next will haunt me to this day. Let me explain. My normal instinct in this situation would have been to grab a scrub brush and bottle of bleach and then hurl myself into the swimming pool. Instead, I calmly helped my poor wife out of her clothes. After that, I bent down and grabbed the lifeless poop-entity with a cloth and wrapped it in a plastic bag for later burial.
As my wife showered, I stripped off all my clothes (also to be later buried) and proceeded to mop and sponge down the entire bathroom. By the time she got out, the place was absolutely spotless.
"You owe me big time," I told her, as I stepped into the shower with a pad of steel wool.
-- Poopster39
