My girlfriend and I celebrated our third anniversary about a week ago. I decided to take her to this really funky steakhouse two hours way out in the country. We took a few wrong turns and got there later than we intended, so we were famished by the time we sat down to eat. I don't often treat myself to barbeque, so I decided to go all out.
And boy, did I. I ordered an enormous steak of considerable poundage, marinated in what I hope was mango sauce. My girlfriend ordered the same. The food came, and after about thirty minutes of uninterrupted eating, I discovered I had snarfed the entire thing. My girlfriend, dainty be, only ate about half of hers before giving up as stuffed. I was stuffed myself, but I was not about to pass up the banana split special. Gobble gobble.
We paid the *ouch* bill and prepared for the journey home. Since I had driven all the way there, my girlfriend insisted on driving back. Already my stomach was feeling a little unsettled, but I figured once we got on the road I would be better.
As soon as we got on the interstate, my stomach started going flip-flops. Fifteen minutes later, I knew my intestines were definitely not enjoying themselves. My stomach was roaring in protest. I shifted around in my seat and gingerly rubbed my gurgling belly.
My girlfriend looked over at me and asked if I was OK. I said I was having a bit of indigestion, but no big deal. I felt a huge gas bubble welling up inside me. I sat on my hands, trying to clamp my ass cheeks together, but to no avail. I decided to risk a fart. Bad idea -- a load of creamy beef puree squirted into my boxers.
I opened my mouth in shock. "Pull over," I yelled. My girlfriend obviously smelled the mess because her face contorted into a horrible grimace. "Can't," she said. "Not until we're off the interstate." I howled as my stomach gave a sickening lurch, and another squirt of diarrhea filled my pants.
"I'm going to throw up," I moaned.
My girlfriend opened the glove compartment for me and pulled out a wad of plastic bags. I put one over my mouth and waited. A cough. A dry heave. Meanwhile, I could feel my bowels beginning to quiver again.
I slowly unbuckled my belt. I slowly unbuttoned my jeans. I slowly moved my jeans down around my thighs.
I stopped, closed my eyes to fight back another dry heave, and then continued.
My pants and boxers were soaked in brown liquid shit. I slowly pulled off my jeans and put them in one of the plastic bags. I slowly pulled my boxers down around my knees.
This should have been really embarrassing, but I felt so bad at the moment that all I could think of was emptying my load into something other than my pants. My ass was covered in the stuff, and I was getting it all over the seat.
I moaned again. I slowly slid down in my seat as far as I could, spread my legs a little (which made me feel very vulnerable), and put the plastic bag over my ass just in time as another wave of brown goop poured out. I whimpered loudly as I watched it flow into the bag. After five minutes, the bag was nearly full, and the river of brown had slackened off to watery farts.
Sorry this is so graphic.
I took the bag away and lay back against the seat, exhausted. I felt shaky and sick. My girlfriend didn't look so good, either. She rolled down all the windows and stared straight ahead. I pulled my boxers back on, tied the vulgar bag tightly, and put it in the back seat.
I was so disgusted with myself. Nevertheless, I repeated the process once more until finally we were off the interstate and my girlfriend was able to pull over. I wrenched the door open and practically fell out of the car as I searched frantically for a bush or a tree to hide behind. A small green shrub was the closest thing. I darted behind it, ripped off my boxers once more and, still in standing position, proceeded to paint the bush with what was so recently my dinner.
Fifteen minutes later, I wobbled back to the car. My girlfriend had thoughtfully put a towel on the seat.
I sat down hard, leaned back, and closed my eyes. "Can we wait here a little while?" I asked pitifully. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Indeed, I felt the bile rising. Eyes closed. Deep breaths. Suddenly I jerked forward and started to puke. I cupped a hand to try to catch it as it gushed out of my wide-open mouth. I moved my head out of the car and retched my guts onto the side of the road.
I barely had time to breathe in between heaves. It just kept coming up and coming up. When there was a pause, I got out of the car once more and stood with my head craned forward, both hands on my stomach, my neck straining under the jet-powered projectile.
This went on for about ten minutes until finally it stopped. I stood before a puddle of puke, both hands still on my belly, my mouth clamped resolutely shut, staring guiltily at the ground.
I felt a stream of something warm running down my leg and realized I had messed my boxers again.
I cleaned myself as best I could with the towel and left it and my soiled clothing on the side of the road. I changed into my swim trunks and we drove home.
Now, a week later, I'm still suffering the mild effects of that steak from hell, and I'm not yet venturing far from the toilet. I am seriously considering becoming a vegetarian.
-- Tom