The Call Of Nature
In my little city, we have these beautiful paved bike trails that go all over the place, wandering through the woods, following the creeks and streams, tying into other trails that follow the edge of a lake or go over to the ocean. You can go for miles and miles. On a beautiful clear day, it really is a lot of fun to follow this maze of trails.
One time a new lady friend and I were going to go for a bike ride. We decided to meet for a small late breakfast. I had my usual oversized ham and cheese omelet with spicy salsa; she probably had a small bowl of fruit or something light. She was a picture of health and beauty on a lovely spring morning.
After breakfast, because it was spring, I felt I should jump on the health food bandwagon too. So I stopped at a grocery store and bought a big bag of fresh cherries to munch on while we drove to the starting point of one of these great bike trails. As we drove along, I popped cherries into my mouth and spat the seeds out the window. I must have eaten about 100 of them by the time we got to the trail. Man, it was spring, and they tasted so fresh and sweet and moist... I was like a deprived animal. While my lady friend had maybe a couple, I ate them until they were gone! She is very slender and attractive... I have more of a gut.
We unloaded our bikes and started down the trail, cruising casually along, looking at the birds and the spring blossoms, feeling the spring sun on our skin. This was a new spring day -- no snow, the ducks and geese coming in from the south, you know: spring mating season! I really wanted to make a good impression on this lady. Because it was the season and I want really wanted to do some mating.
About an hour into the ride, I felt my gut rumble; you know, just enough to recognize the telltale signs of a gutbustin' shit coming on. A few minutes later it happened again, with more intensity. I kind of interrupted myself in mid-sentence with an "UNGPHT..." She seemed to recognize my pain and asked if I was okay. She seemed very alert to any possible ailment; she may have been a nurse. I wasn't really interested in her career...
Anyway, I just kind of acted like I pinched a nut on the bicycle seat or something, you know, to bring her attention to my crotch and make her giggle and have her develop a mental picture of my private parts.
We rode along through the woods, following the creeks and passing the lakes and talking and laughing and giggling and then it hit again -- a gut wrench and a rumble, followed by a very low gurgle. I told myself that this wasn't happening -- not here in the middle of nowhere, on a date with a beautiful lady... And then it hit again -- this time a rumble, a grumble, a cramp and a sphincter wink! Horrible -- me on a bicycle, which was already mashing my butt cheeks open more than I liked, and there was nowhere to poo in sight! I let out a moan because now my intestines were growling and cramping and I had grown weak in the knees. I had diarrhea at the back door; the contents were under great pressure and there was no way I was going to keep it under control.
And then, like a miracle, I saw a Port-O-Potty in the distance -- a sanctuary, an oasis. But could I make it?
I turned to my lady friend, who was by now somewhat panicked by my condition -- her jaw was slack, her eyes wide and round, and her mouth made a kind of circle from shock and fear as I started to pedal for all I was worth (not much), leaving her behind without a word.
I raced across the open area and jumped off the bike, letting it tumble. I prayed no one was in there, because no sooner had the bike hit the ground than I was already unbuckling my belt and unzipping my pants. My sphincter knew the signal: "Zzzzzip means open the flood gates!!!"
I jerked open the door and leapt inside, racing in microseconds ahead of my hot acidic ass venom. I pushed my drawers down as far as they would go. The spring-loaded door slammed shut. I had just pointed my ass in the general direction of the black hole when my sphincter let loose a machine gun chattering belch of hot cherry/salsa/omelet mud at such velocity that it sprayed the seat, the walls, and the inside of the holding tank. The STINK was far beyond my wildest crapping episodes. It almost gagged even me, and I don't mind the scent of my own shit at all.
It was one big load: 100 cherries, a couple of pits, burning red-hot salsa and eggs. The spray was the color of dark butterscotch pudding with cherry skins mixed in. It was everywhere, including some overspray that had somehow gotten on my ass cheeks during the initial explosion.
I felt instant relief, but I knew my beloved was outside, no doubt waiting for this plastic outhouse door to open and her knight in shining armor to reappear unscathed, the head of a now-vanquished fire-breathing dragon held high as he remounted his two-wheeled steed and rode triumphantly back to her side to protect her forever from the unimaginable horrors of the forest.
I must have used fifty squares per wad to wipe and clean my backside; but I was extra careful to make sure I placed my asswipe inside the holding tank so as not to disturb or disrupt the mess... you know, saving it for the next person to enjoy.
I emerged like nothing happened, and rode back to my lady friend. Her look of fear had turned into more of a squint, like the sun was in her eyes. Her nose wrinkled mildly as if to say, "I know something really disgusting just happened in there, but we aren't going to talk about it, right?"
Rather than depart immediately, we sat at a nearby picnic table to rest. As we waited, a group of studly young guys in their early 20s pulled into the rest area. One ran over to the potty and jerked the door open as if he was in as much of a hurry as I had been. He stepped in, but the spring-loaded door didn't even slam shut before he shot back out. He flew backwards, nearly ripping the door off its hinges, causing enough of a commotion that my lady friend jumped, as if somehow the fire-breathing dragon had come back to life.
The young stud stumbled as he flew back, falling to the ground and rolling around like his shirt was on fire. He jumped up and pointed and laughed and fell back to the ground in hysterics. His friends all ran to the outhouse, and one by one looked inside as the bravest of them held the door open. Each in turn reeled around like a gunshot victim, laughing and screaming and yelling about the mess.
Even from my picnic table 100 feet away, I could see the yellow spray on the walls.
We rode on. For the rest of the rip, I tried to muse poetically about the birds and the flowers and the beauty of the day, but she didn't talk much. It was the spring mating season, but not for me.