It was Friday night, and like all Friday nights before, it was time for my
girlfriend Becky and I to go out for dinner and share the evening together.
This Friday night was different, as Becky and I were feeling a bit risque.
Our plans were to get dinner, and head out to the the Hustler Hollywood
store in Monroe, OH for some "educational videos and devices."
Since
Cincinnati, where we live, is such a conservative town, Larry Flynt has met
some fierce competition which have kept him from selling movies within the
city limits. Unfortunately, this means we have to drive 45 minutes north up
I-75 to Monroe in order to get some porn. Still, you gotta love a woman who
likes watching porn with her man.
We decided that Perkins sounded good for dinner. Since it was later in the
evening, we knew it wouldn't take us long to get our bread bowl salads. The
Grilled Lemon Pepper Chicken bread bowl salad sounded like a tasty idea for
that evening. Toss in a raspberry iced tea, and I was set. Being so hungry,
it didn't take long for me to scarf this meal down. Fully sated, we got in
my truck to make the trek to Hustler Hollywood.
The ride up was filled with flirtations and dirty talk, and a short while
later, we were there. We got inside, surrounded by shirts, dildos, movies,
and lubes. We strolled past the 21 and up wall to scope out some video
entertainment. It was great. Here we are, surrounded by Asia Carrera, Jenna
Jameson, and other porn divas. So much porn. Where to begin?
That's when it began.
My gut started to rumble, but not in a "Oh my god, I'm gonna hurl" way.
Instead, I began farting uncontrollably. The lemon pepper chicken was having
its way with my intestines.
I can't tell you how bad things are when you're
walking through aisles of porn with a store full of shoppers, and you can't
stop leaving shit vapors in your wake. I couldn't stand in one place to
bother with the movies on the shelf because every time I stopped to look at
the videos, my stomach would churn and another fart would come out.
Even
worse, Becky was following close behind me. Poor girl. Her only solace was
when she wanted to check out the wall of vibrators. I have a feeling that
wasn't her only reason for walking away from me. Of course I didn't mind.
Not only would it give her room to breathe fresh air, but it was cool to
think about watching Becky service herself with one of the dildos. Still, the
farts wouldn't stop.
I was losing control. I know we had only been there for ten minutes or so,
but I had to get out of there. The stench I left lingering in the movie
section was causing Larry Flynt to lose business. I didn't want to leave
empty handed, but my ass wouldn't allow me the time it takes to find a
decent porn that Becky and I would enjoy. I decided a magazine would do for
now. Hustler magazines are full of movies you can order, so I felt buying
one was the least I could do before the shoppers figured out who was
responsible for the wretched stench.
Slowly, my stomach began to quiet down. Finally the lemmon pepper chicken
subsided. Now, we all know that a fart is not a far cry from an in-prisoned
turd...
Suddenly, there was a rush of pressure on my colon. Oh my god, I'm in
a porn shop full of people, including my girlfriend, and I've seriously gotta
shit. I casually tried to tell my girlfriend that I had to use the bathroom,
but I don't think they have one here. (Of course not, who puts a public
bathroom in a porn shop? It would be jerk-off central.)
This was one of
those shits that only got worse as you stood still, so I tried to walk it
off. Didn't help. I walked my magazine up to the cashier, showed her my ID,
and handed her my check card. Her next line killed me.
"You need to make at least a ten dollar purchase if you're using a card."
I wanted to die. The pressure of holding this shit back was causing sweat to
bead on my forehead. There is a supernatural effect on the human psyche when
you have to crap. Everything is so focused, and it almost seems to move in
slow motion. All you care about is finding a toilet and filling it.
That's what was going through my head. I grabbed my card and ID and went back to
the magazine rack for another magazine. Meanwhile, my girlfriend was
checking out flavored condoms, massage oils and anal lubes. Myself, I was
trying to hold back my own brand of anal lube.
I suffered through another trip to the magazine rack and the cashier, and we
left. Usually if I have to shit, and I make it to my truck, sitting down
helps subdue the anal rage. But this anal rage wasn't going to let a car seat
get in it's way. I hit the highway and stomped the gas.
If you have never driven on it, it has to be said that I-75 is the worst strip of road to
travel on at high speeds. The highway is chock-full of pot holes and bumpy
bridges, and every bump and bounce was causing my brown eye to dialate. It
was killing me. My gilfriend, all the while, was napping in the passenger
seat. Little did she know of the anal fury I was suffering through.
After the longest drive of my life, we made it back to Becky's apartment.
Someone was having a party on her street so I had to park halfway up the
street. Great! Even more walking for pinched ass!
I managed to hold off from
filling my khakis full of butt mudd, and we finally entered her apartment. I
rushed politely to the bathroom to end the civil war between my intestines
and my colon. And although shitting was the first thing on my mind, I
managed to grab one of the Hustler magazines to sit down with. Finally, the
battle was over. My ass was exhausted, I had a porn mag in hand, and after a
much-needed shower, we made love.
Yes, I plan on marrying this woman.
-- Three Ply
