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 KRP In CincinnatiPosted 06.22.2004 by Louise C. (10)
One weekend during my sophomore year in college, my boyfriend and I decided to visit my parents' home. We trekked two hours down to Cincinnati and hung out for a while, preparing for our weekend of relaxation while my parents made dinner. It was my favorite: lobster and steak! I totally pigged out on the lobster and went easy on everything else... little did I know that choice would come back to haunt me later.
That night, we went out to one of my favorite gay bars. We were supposed to meet all my friends and hang out for a few hours. I got all ready with my little black leather skirt and patent leather boots, complete with some sassy make-up and a camo Rancid t-shirt. I was looking fine and ready to party! Unfortunately, I felt the unpleasant pangs of poop pressing on my out hole as I drove downtown, and I knew that my night was going to be cut short. I held on to the steering wheel and gritted my teeth the whole way there. My face was sweating and my heart was pounding. I've never been more uncomfortable in my whole life. What was at first a relaxing night out with my boyfriend turned into a panic fest of ass-tronomical proportions. I happen to be a pretty bashful pooper, and would have rather died than tell my beloved that I was about to have a more-than-serious bout of diarrhea. So I bore the pain with smiles and white knuckles, telling him that everything was fine. Just a headache. I had hoped that the rumbling gas pains coming in sharp waves were just that -- gas. No such luck. We found a parking spot; and at this point in time, all I wanted to do was keep the built-up shit from coming out. I squeezed my ass cheeks together harder than a new guy in a prison shower. I was practically running to the bar's bathroom, pushing through all my friends and telling my man I'd be back in a jiff. The rumbling was getting worse and I was still sweating and squeezing as hard as I could. I knew this was going to be bad, so I charged into the next available stall and tried to cover the seat with my butt so as to minimize the smell factor. I could not believe I was about to poop some massive diarrhea in a bathroom full of drunken people touching up their make-up and waiting to pee for the fourth time that night. I pulled down the fishnets, pulled up the leather, and tried to work up the courage to let a little go. "Just poop a little," I said to myself, "just enough to get you through the next hour. Then you can go home and poop in peace." As I was thinking this, I started hearing noises from the next stall. Maybe someone else was pooping, too. I was relieved for a moment... and then I was appalled to realize that the stall next door was occupied not by a fellow pooper, as I first suspected, but two people having sex. "Oh God," I thought above their sighs. "I hope they don't mind this smell." Oh well. Serves them right for having sex in the most unholy of spaces: the women's restroom at a sleazy gay bar in Cincinnati. I let a little go -- and not only did it smell more rancid than you can imagine, but it was extremely noisy. It sounded like a whoopee cushion, half-filled with water, was being squeezed to it's full extent, times five. After this initial eruption, the stall next to mine ceased moaning for a while, and I decided to cut it off for now and go back outside. My poor boyfriend was waiting for me, unaware of my condition, wondering where I had been for so long. I played off the enormous stomach pains for a while until I couldn't handle it anymore. I told him we had to leave, a-sap, and made up some lame excuse of having to take out the trash or something. I thought I would be OK. The pooping pangs of torture had subsided, and I calmly told myself I could wait until we got home. My boyfriend seemed concerned, but I wouldn't dare divulge to him such a heinous crime as mine had just been. We were walking to my car when "it" hit me. "It" has been used to describe this situation many times before. Since the day man invented food-borne illnesses, "it" has explained the wretched ungodly horror that is a sudden diarrheal attack. I made it to my car and held back the tears that were forming. I clenched my butt cheeks all the way to my toes as we drove to the nearest gas station (conveniently, for modesty's sake, I really did need gas!). Pooping was soon to be inevitable -- I knew that sheerly through means of instinct. I instructed my boyfriend to get some gas as I ran inside and asked for the bathroom. NO BATHROOM! The closest one was across the street at White Castle. There was no time to waste; I felt the flow wash over my tired butthole again. My boyfriend continued pumping gas as I ran across the street -- mind you, it's about one AM in downtown Cincinnati and I look like someone right off of Hooking101.com, scurrying my ass across a busy road -- and, as the pain grew unbearable, slowed and bent over with a sudden cramping sensation. And then, mid-cramp, there it was. Poop. In my underwear. Downtown. In the middle of the road. "OH MY GOD!" I thought. "What if it comes down my leg?? Should I throw out my underwear? Which saint do I pray to for diarrhea?" I had no time to answer these pressing questions -- more important was the pressing on my sphincter; I knew I had to get to the White Castle bathroom NOW. I entered the White Castle and was greeted by the whistles and catcalls of about twenty huge men, just loving the young girl in the miniskirt. If only they knew what was underneath... I forced my way through them, busted into the one-person bathroom, and proceeded to spend about fifteen minutes doubled over in pain, courtesy flushing every two minutes for the stench as well as the plain volume of it all. About halfway through my endeavor, someone knocked on the door. I had no choice but to tell the truth: "Ummm, it's going to be a while!" They kept knocking, but I refused to spend the rest of the car ride home pooping my underwear again (which, by the way, wasn't soiled too badly -- I wiped it off and figured it was better to keep it as a barrier for later, just in case). Finally I finished, leaving a horrible rank smell; and I prayed to the gods of poop to grant me the ability to get out of there quickly enough not to be fingered for the blood-curdling smell that was in the bathroom when I left. My boyfriend was waiting patiently at the gas station. I drove about eighty-five mph back to my house. He kept inquiring if I was feeling OK, and I forced a smile and refused to tell him I just had the worst pooping experience of my life, and would probably shit the rest of the night at regular ten-minute intervals. Things got better after I got home and guzzled about a liter of Pepto, and I was able to continue the weekend without any more major pooping issues. I just hope someday when we are old and married, I am able to tell him this wholly embarrassing (but totally funny) story. -- Louise C Post new comment
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