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 A Night At The OperaPosted 12.20.2002 by G Ras (163)
My now ex (Laurie) had a sister that would go on and on about her redheaded 2 year old son. She was very nice, but her constant babbling about this kid would make me want to bang her head into the wall. He said this, he did that, he consults NASA, he's MENSA material, on and on. He was a real cute kid and I admit he seemed to be pretty bright, but I had no interest in kids at the time and the fact that he was potty training ahead of his time meant nothing to me.
As a perk from work one year, I got tickets to the Nutcracker Suite. It was the Children's Christmas show at the SF Opera House, a real blue hair extravaganza. The Mayor and other luminaries were going to be there, and Laurie thought it would be real cute to bring her intellectually advanced nephew. I really didn't feel like going, I'd fallen from ladder earlier in the week and had wrecked my back pretty good. I was still in a lot of pain, but I was trying to become a beloved member of her family... so reluctantly I gave in. I was just about over my "La Rondalla" (hangover) from the night before. A few pitchers of water restored my tongue to a size that would allow speech. My headache was gone but my stomach was feeling like the three Mex-sampler plates I'd eaten had grown arms and legs and were trying to claw their way out. For those who don't know about "La Rondalla": it's a Mexican bar and restaurant in San Francisco, famous for the worlds greasiest food and strongest margaritas. It's a filthy, cockroach-infested gang hangout. The waitresses have broken nails from trying to pick up the coins left on the dirty, sticky tables. They serve after hours, too-drunk-to-give-a-shit cuisine. Laurie's sister gave us a list of do's and don'ts. Although she told us if the kid needed to go potty he could use the big people's pooper (with some help), she still gave us a trunk full of Huggies and Baby-Wipes... just in case. On the way to the opera house, Laurie lightheartedly informed me that under no circumstance would she change a dirty diaper in her nice new dress and nominated me -- in my nice suit. With a nervous laugh I asked her just WHERE (if the need arose) would she change a dirty diaper? Laurie didn't catch the "she" part and replied, "In the car." It made sense to me, so off with this pseudo-family I went, anxious to rub elbows with San Francisco's finest. About halfway to the opera house, the gurgling in my stomach told me that it wasn't going to be too long before I needed a diaper myself. Knowing where I spent the wee hours of the morning I figured it would be wet, hot and spicy. I fought back what my sphincter told me was gas -- I'd been fooled before, and there was no way I was going to be tricked by my deceitful rectum into soiling my underpants. In total control, I felt no need to rush as we parked the car and headed inside the opera house. I even felt relaxed as I spotted the men's room sign up ahead. I noticed a couple of old ladies smiling and admiring the cute kid and the young family, the way old people do. Even though the kid wasn't ours, it wouldn't take a stretch of the imagination to assume he was. He looked a lot like Laurie and I have dirty blonde hair (Nordic descent) -- close enough to pass as daddy. I assumed the role of proud father. The kid had his hand wrapped around my finger as we made our way toward the men's room. I guess I enjoyed the attention... you know... father, young wife, introducing their cute 2 year old to Tchaikovsky and all that. I told Laurie that I would take the kid in with me since he didn't seem to need any special attention -- that way the next time would be her turn when it was bound to be messier. The kid and I would take care of business and meet her in front of the restrooms. We stepped into the stall; I hung my suit coat on the hook, locked the door and sat down on the exceptionally clean seat. The nephew was in full-blown learning mode; his attention was zeroed in on my crotch. I now felt self-conscious and wished I had let Laurie take care of him, but it was too late; the pressure build up in my colon told me I was there for business. The nephew stood there wide-eyed, like he was expecting a treat. For all the gurgling and rumbling going on I anticipated some explosive diarrhea, but what poured out was a pungent thick paste -- much like peanut butter with about the same grease content. The smell was rank and overpowering, the kid looked at me with this assaulted look on his face, uttering, "Poo poo"? I replied "Yeah big poo poo." Montezuma was a pussy compared to the revenge La Rondalla was putting on my hole. There seemed to be a never-ending source of this greasy Mexican ass torment. I felt like I was torturing the poor kid too, and I recalled similar episodes from my own childhood. The aroma of homeless ass permeated the restroom. Anyone entering now would know that no child on earth was capable of this kind of horrific chemistry. I prayed the mayor had done his duty before he arrived. It was exasperating having a 2 year old witness every grunt, grimace and contortion I made. He was getting restless and was looking for a way to escape. He was just able to reach the latch on the door, but he wasn't sure how to work it, so I let him play with it, averting attention from my reeking crotch. When the mudslide finally subsided, I felt like I was sitting on a boiled dildo. My tortured pucker was winking like a fish gasping for breath. I had to catch my breath myself; I wasn't looking forward to touching my raw, burned meat hole. My back was aching and my regular reach-around style of wiping was too painful, so I used the feminine frontal attack. Pressing down firmly, I started wiping -- there must have been a fair sized dangler, because when I hit the soiled spot, the slippery remnant accelerated my wipe to Mach 7. Before I could slow it down, I had spread crap over my ball bag like I was making a sandwich. I wasn't too worried, because I've wiped dung halfway up my back before, and had no problems. But I hadn't counted on all the nooks and crannies my wrinkled nut sack contained. Now I had a filthy English muffin between my legs and was stuck with this institutional wax toilet paper to freshen up. With my forefinger and thumb I lifted my stinky bag to get better access to my man cleavage. Careful to temper the velocity and pressure this time, I reached down deep and slowly pulled out............ a white shirtsleeve and thumb covered in shit. Now I was worried: my beautiful $70 Ermenegildo Zegna dress shirt was had become an ass mop. I glanced up. The look on the kid's face told me he knew what shit was... and what a huge fuck up I'd just committed. I grabbed handfuls of this non-absorbent toilet paper and did my best to make the problem disappear. I may as well have been wiping my ass with notebook paper because all I managed to do was move the mess around. I've had wet acid dumps in the past, but never this thick, lava-esque, sticking-to-everything kind of stuff. I was ready to start crying as thoughts of becoming stranded in this horror chamber neared reality. For one selfless nano-second, thoughts of my own plight turned to the nephew. Did he have a diaper full of grunt now, too? Surely the scatological trauma I was putting him through had a bowel-loosening affect. THEN it hit me: we had a bag full of Baby-Wipes in the car. It's embarrassing to admit, but I wadded up a bunch of toilet paper and packed my underpants in order to keep them from making contact with my steaming ass and balls. I rolled up the shitty sleeve, put on my jacket and washed my hands at the sink. The kid instinctively reached for the opposite hand as we made our way out of the restroom to meet Laurie. I sheepishly explained what had happened (with as few details as possible) and asked her to go out and get me the Baby-Wipes. As she walked away with the kid I could almost feel her contemplating if this was the guy she wanted to father her children. I slinked up against the wall, feeling a little weak from the fiesta I'd just endured, when my bowels started churning again. What in Christ's name was this all about? I ran back into my stall, the stench from my previous foray was still present. Dropping my drawers, I sat down. Before I could unpack the wads of toilet paper I'd stuffed in my drawers I blew out the most impressive liquid fart I'd ever seen or heard. My sputtering, popping rectum puked out about four brown pork margaritas. I was sure my crack was blistered as the pain and smell from this mixture suggested sulfuric acid. I was sitting there with my ass dribbling, wondering how I was going to get the Baby-Wipes, when in comes the nephew, screaming, "Unko Gen Unko Gen!" (that's how he pronounced my name). He found me no problem -- not only was the kid smart, but he was brave, too!! He knew what horrors were awaiting him when he entered that restroom. "Unko Gen..." He handed me the bag with the wipes through the stall door. As further testament to his intellect, he turned right around, ran to the door, and knocked for Laurie to let him out. The cool soft feeling of the Baby-Wipe sliding along my ass crevice was almost sexual. A sleeping baby lamb tongue comes to mind. Each pass brought me closer to nirvana as the aromatic bouquet of Baby-Wipe dissipated the scent of my stale ass. I must have used fifteen wipes and could almost hear my ass squeak. My nut sack now sparkled and smelled like some kind of strange flower. At this point, I was wiping for the cooling effect alone. The caustic carnage the brown devil juice put on my crevice would have me walking like an alcoholic polio victim for a week. I started on my shirtsleeve and was surprised at how easily the Baby-Wipes dealt with the dung stain -- it didn't completely get rid of it, but at least now the shirt was a keeper. I would tell my dry cleaner that I had to change the diaper on our pet monkey. I sat through the show even though my rectum was on fire, glancing occasionally at the nephew... just to admire him. -- G Ras Like G Ras? He's featured in The Journal of Ass Production! Post new comment
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