Back in junior high... Ah, the memories... I had a crush on this one girl... and there were a lot of other girls who also liked me...
But this story isn't about girls. Oh, no.
I always sat at the front of the class because I enjoyed learning. And I was particularly fond of English class. On this day, I was sitting there absorbing the lesson when I was hit with some intense gas pain. That gas pain quickly moved south, and I realized I had to go. Normally I didn't like to use the public stalls, but I had to go, and I had to go NOW!
But there was all kinds of red tape that went into a simple task of running to the crapper. I raised my hand to ask to use the restroom. The teacher either overlooked my hand or simply ignored me (which was understandable, since I was kind of a smart-ass in school). But as the pressure continued to build more and more, I started sweating bullets. I waved my arm wildly in the air until the teacher finally called on me. After I explained that I desperately needed use of the facilities, she told me I had to wait for the previous two students to return before I could go.
Minutes stretched out like they could be my last. It was an eternity before the first student returned. I desperately pleaded to leave -- but no luck. A good fifteen minutes passed before the second student returned and I was freed out the door.
I ran as fast as I could down the halls. For some reason, this school only had one set of bathrooms per floor. And on this floor, the bathrooms were on the other side of the building.
So, I ran -- nay, I FLEW -- down the long hallways to the bathroom located on this floor and beheld, to my dismay, a sign on the door: "Out of Order."
I held my breath and hurled myself down a long stairwell to the floor below. I checked the door: clear to go in. Except the one stall in there was being used.
I thought I was going to drop the hulking load in my pants right then in there. I begged for this fellow student to rush his business, for I was about to assplode. I paced in circles for several minutes, somewhere between passing a load and passing out (the latter of which would have had the same result, only with a possible concussion from the clay tile floor).
The kid finally opened the door to leave the stall. I think I practically threw him into the sinks in front of the stall to get in around him.
I believe we learn this motion at a young age: in one fell motion I pulled my pants down, sat on the toilet, and let ‘er rip.
A wet, oily, and sometimes creamy mixture had left my bowels and began to fill this toilet. It didn't seem to want to stop. I kept looking at my watch -- this blow lasted for nearly fifteen minutes before subsiding. And wiping, of course, was an endless wipefest. I scrubbed furiously, knowing that I'd be reprimanded for being out past my fifteen-minute time limit -- yes, we were timed on our bathroom breaks. Going over the limit could result in detention.
Afterwards, I examined the aftermath of my barely-victorious fight with my churning bowel and found that I had squirted a couple times into my tighty-whities -- but nothing too horrifying. Nothing like what had entered the bowl.
I washed and headed back to class to await my punishment.