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 Rectal ConcertoPosted 05.12.2003 by Matt Zimmer (10)
As I entered the bathroom, I was greeted by bright white fluorescent lights and the welcome sound of the hot air blowers. I opened the door of the nearest stall, and like a choir of angels, there it was. A Mecca in a desert of torture. A toilet! I closed the door and sat down. (I had already unbuckled my pants in the hallway). As I sat, I felt an UNBELIEVABLE amount of pressure move all the way to my sphincter. I let 'er rip.
The first shitting phase lasted seven seconds straight. Continuous shitting. Burning hot liquefied chocolate shit-chili shot from my ass like a cannon. All the compressed gas was behind the liquid, so there was the initial explosion followed by a humongous fart, and I swear I felt five pound lighter. Instant relief. That my friends, is a good feeling. The smell was unbearable. Within seconds it had diffused throughout the stall space, nearly choking me. I looked and saw feet in the stall next to me. I heard coughing and gagging, followed by a flush and running out of the bathroom. Poor soul. Then, to my horror, as I went to reach for the toilet paper: There was none. The bathroom was filled with people, all letting lose their before-concert pisses and loads. I was fucked. There was nothing to do, and the smell was starting the burn my nostrils. I pulled up my pants and winced as hot searing lava shit pressed against my supple ass cheeks, slightly searing them. I was forty-five minutes from home, at some high school with my parents to see my cousin's recital. But in spite of my predicament, I couldn't resist. I had to look into the bowl to see my creation. My baby. The object of my suffering! The dump was pure liquid, except for one or two small chunks. The color was a very light tan, and it was the texture of fully melted ice cream. I put my hand over it, and could feel the heat. It was the worst smell I have ever smelled in my entire life. The two chunks were a very light tan, almost cream colored. I walked out of the stall, forgetting to flush. As I left, I saw another guy walk into the stall and get hit instantly with a wall of poison gas; he ran out of the bathroom coughing and retching. The story doesn't end here. Me and my shit-ridden pants made our way to the auditorium. I sat down near my grandparents. About 30-45 minutes into the concert, things got bad. Real bad. By then I was becoming pretty fresh and ripe, I heard the people behind me whispering about a strange smell. One person left and moved to another seat. Cool! The shit in my pants had dried, and when I'd shift position, I'd see flakes fall down my pants and land on the floor. All of the sudden I felt a gurgle in my intestine, like before. Uh oh. Now, I've had a very sensitive stomach since I was born. So in my fifteen years of shitting experience, I've learned a few things. One of them is that the shit forces will always seem to go away for a while, lulling you into a false sense of security; and then they'll come back twice as bad as before. I knew my liquid-poopy fate. Things started getting REAL bad. Gurgles and cramps first; and then my sphincter started to flex its muscles, letting out little bursts of hot intestinal gas. I heard coughing and whispering around me. It was funny as hell, but painful. Too painful to laugh. Then, in the course of a split second, I felt, like before, an ENORMOUS build up of pressure shoot to my sphincter. The only thing holding it back was me. I was clenching with ALL MY STRENGTH. I had to go NOW. I was conveniently in the middle of the row, so people were annoyed they had to get up and the like. Well, hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Unless you want me to shit on you. I ran to the bathroom; thank God I remembered where it was. I didn't make it. As I pushed the door open, a man was coming out at the same time and crashed into me. The second he hit, my muscles relaxed, propelling the gallons of molten shit chili at an unbelievable force. He started to say sorry, but stopped halfway when he heard the sound of my sphincter puking with the force of a small jet engine. I was so close, but I didn't make it. I sat in the bathroom the rest of the concert. Two hours and twenty minutes spent sitting in a puddle of my own liquid mud. I actually shat myself. After the concert ended, a rush of people entered the crapper, and half immediately left when hit with the thick wall of stench. My dad found me after the concert. It was a long, smelly ride home, listening to Led Zeppelin while sitting in my own shit. That's a weird feeling. I got home, showered, and went to bed. My good pants? They were victim of the acidic molten mud. Unwashable. -- Matt Zimmer Post new comment
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