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 Overflowing With LovePosted 09.09.2005 by scatoman (253)
There comes a time in every serious relationship when every man must defecate in his loved one's toilet. Although a proper Shameless Shitter who enjoys talking about passing solids (and not-so-solids), farting and other bodily functions, the first shit in a girlfriend's toilet has always filled me with dread. For me, the most recent first shit came in February, when, after months of conversing via email and telephone, I flew to the States to visit my girlfriend. The first act of elimination in her bathroom assumed dimensions as embarrassing as the stupendous radius of the turd itself.
THE BUILD-UP ARRIVAL THE NEXT DAY I turned on the ceiling fan, made sure the air freshener was within easy reach on the counter, and did a quick test run to see how fast I could reach the flush handle. Confident that a courtesy flush could be executed in about two seconds with one hand while Glade was being be sprayed liberally with the index finger of the other, I relaxed everything and waited. It took a mere nanosecond for my voluntary sphincter to be forced open like the barrel of a cocked air rifle; unfortunately, it wasn't a pellet that followed, but what I can only describe as the head of a Galapagos turtle. I let out a small yelp as I felt my ringpiece strain like the vaginal canal of an elfin woman giving birth to a twelve-pound baby. Searing pain followed, too, but still I remembered that I had to flush. Unfortunately, this turd looked like it had been produced by an Irish Wolfhound, and the Lilliputian capacity of the cistern put paid to the conventional notion of the water forcing it into the sewers. The laws of physics had to be obeyed, however, so the water rose and rose and rose and went over the pan, down the sides, and on to the floor, soaking the rug and my feet. Fortunately, the huge log stayed in situ. I now realized that the big log was merely a detonator, and that the main explosion was yet to take place. Panicking, I flushed again, and then immediately regretted my decision. But this time, fortunately, it went away, leaving skids that a drag racer would be proud of. Out of the danger zone, I sat down and let the next bolus of fecal matter out. Whilst not as large as the first one, it nevertheless warranted another flush before I would let out any more. I wondered how the hell I could have produced so much until I remembered all the wine I drank, all the steak, the broccoli, and the cashews I'd eaten, and how much jolting from all the exercise I'd had which caused it to mix up nicely. (As a long-distance runner as well, I can tell you there's nothing like a six-miler to make the anus quiver.) CLEAN UP Sheepishly, I asked my loved one where she kept her bleach and mop, and she didn't need to ask why. The look on her face was akin to mine when I tried to sing My Grandfather's Clock at school as a young lad after the music teacher told us we couldn't sing any naughty words -- her shrieks of laughter, if emitted, would have shattered every window in the apartment complex. It took me about half an hour to mop the floor. I soaked the robots in a bath of dilute bleach. The towel and rugs went in the washing machine on a boil wash with twice the usual amount of powder. This dreadful incident did not herald the end of our relationship, though. In fact, last month, we got married! My wife is used to my evil arse now. Though I can't bring myself to confess to my stepson that I effectively shat all over his toys. Best leave that one until his eighteenth birthday. -- Scatoman Post new comment
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