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 Mind The CrapPosted 09.23.2004 by Shit and Awe (11)
I was in London a few years ago, visiting my then girlfriend. The trip had been fun. I had finally gotten over my new relationship pooping shyness. Unfortunately, I was still ashamed to fart around her, and that inevitably left me painfully bloated during the early trips to see her.
On this unfortunate day, we were on the London Underground, heading into the city from Ealing. This is not a terribly long journey -- usually about thirty minutes to Central London. While we sat there, I felt the unmistakable pains in my stomach. I knew a good time was not going to be had by all. The night before we had gone out to an Indian restaurant, and my delicate pizza-and-hamburger-raised constitution could not handle the unfamiliar food. I politely whispered in my girlfriend's ear, asking her if she knew if one of the upcoming stops had an easily accessible bathroom. She brushed me off and told me it would not be long to our destinations. The next five minutes were spent fighting back the pain and sweating profusely. I needed a bathroom now. Luckily we were at a major station, so I told her I needed to go. Off the train we went, me with an ever-quickening shuffle. I was not sure where I was headed, but I needed to find a facility. As we were leaving the station, I noticed advertisements for a McDonalds pointing the way. It was very close to the station. Once I arrived, I ran down the stairs to the bathrooms as quickly as possible. As I entered the men's room, I was greeted with a line of people waiting for one of the two urinals. I barged forward towards the single stall and found it closed for service. At this point the rush was making its way down, and there was nothing that could stop it. I was in panic mode. I was just standing against the wall, considering my options, when the line finally cleared out. I decided that I would have to straddle the urinal. But just as I was making the move, someone came into the men's room. By this point the evacuation had begun down my pants leg. So I walked out of the men's room and poked my head into the women's, where my girlfriend was standing in line to wash her hands. I asked her if a stall was open and proceeded to barge in. The shit was running down my leg as I spun and slammed my ass onto the throne. While I took care of business, I asked my girlfriend for some moistened paper towels so I could clean up my legs. Then the evil twist. I finished downloading the previous night's dinner and reached over for the TP -- "Ahh, shit! There are only a few pieces." So now I was asking her for toilet paper, which she began trying to wrangle up but was having great difficulty doing. So off come the socks and off go the soiled boxers. I had to use everything available to clean my unfortunate self. I managed to wipe as much as possible, but my jeans were stained very nicely down the backside. I slid on the jeans and wrapped my coat around my waist to (hopefully) hide the mess in my pants. I washed my hands and left the bathroom as ashamed as humanly possible. We headed back to the train; by now the smell is not at all pleasant, and I can't sit down. So I just leaned against the wall while my girlfriend wrapped her arms around me for the journey home. We get back to her place, and she washed my clothes while I showered and shit again. By far, this was the most traumatic shitting event in my twenty-eight years. -- Shit and Awe Post new comment
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