As most of you know from my previous story, I'm a very lucky woman because I have the
sweetest man on earth as my fiancé. Every day, Ryan finds a special way to show me he loves me. But I never knew the true depth of that love until Saturday.
As you may remember, Ryan has a couple gastrointestinal problems. These include bleeding ulcers and chronic constipation that is a side effect of anti-depressants. Recently he started a new regimen to correct this, because not even laxatives alone could take care of his terrible colonic plug. His new poop recipe was to start the day off with a recommended dose of Metamucil in a healthy glass of water. With this, he washed down three Colace. He then tried a recipe his mother cut out of a newspaper for him: two cups of bran mixed with two cups of applesauce and one cup of unsweetened prune juice. The recommended dose of this was two or three tablespoons a day. But Ryan was very tired of constantly having brown quintuplets lodged inside his innards without being able to give birth, so he decided he would take eight tablespoons of this in combination with the Metamucil and the three Colace.
I watched all this suspiciously, wondering if all this was going to bite him in the ass later. I wasn't going to say anything, though, because I was already feeling the aftereffects of a friend's 21st birthday party from the night before; plus I'd eaten six Slim Jims for breakfast. NOT a good idea, but I was craving salty meat something terrible, and I couldn't have pork. So to say something would've been hypocritical.
The first day he tried this new poop de-lodging system was the same day that we made a huge step as a couple: we moved in together. Before we moved into the apartment we live in now, I'd shared a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment with my friend Tabby. Ryan had shared a four-bedroom, two-bathroom house with three of his buddies. I'd been told by his friend Zach that Ryan had a habit of staying in the bathroom for as much as two hours due to his horrible constipation, and that sometimes this would create problems since there were three other guys and only one other bathroom. I'd never had a problem with that because when he'd spend the night at my apartment and that happened, I just used Tabby's shitter while he used mine. So honestly, the thought of toilet shortage never entered my mind. I was naïve.
We were bringing in some boxes and I began to feel my intestines' bitchery about the heavy drinking and the Slim Jims. It was that hot, searing cramp that you get when you're going to have a nasty hangover shit. I looked up and told Ryan that I had to go to the bathroom. But then I noticed he looked unwell, too.
"Baby, what's wrong?" I asked.
"Um. No, nothing. I'm okay," he said gallantly. "Go on to the bathroom." I asked him if he was sure that was okay. He looked like he hurt as bad as I did, and that made me hurt worse than if it was just me. But he insisted I go to the bathroom and that he could wait a minute.
I jumped quickly into the bathroom, determined to make this a fast poop. I didn't want to keep my selfless sweetheart cramping and twisting out there. I shat, and what came out wasn't exactly diarrhea, but it wasn't normal poop, either. It burned on the way out, of course, and my side cramped quickly while it was jumping out of my butt. When I wiped, it was supremely messy. I peered down at what I'd done and I saw that it looked like yams and was full of holes, like Swiss cheese. I could smell a faint odor of toxified Slim Jims. I was sort of proud of myself, but I didn't admire for long. Ryan had to shit.
When I exited the bathroom, I couldn't believe what I saw.
Ryan apparently had to crap a lot worse than he let on. He had been reduced to using the litter box of his cat, Captain Barnacle. He was holding on to the metal arm of the futon next to the litter box like it was a stripper's pole. He was squatting at the same time, with his butt swung out over the litter; his butt skin was smeared with black liquid shit. There was midnight diarrhea splattered all over the surface of the litter and droplets around the box as well. Thank Hashem he'd put down newspapers around it. He was still pooping when I came out, and he had bubbly, raucous farts popping out of him. They sounded like smaller versions of firecrackers, and the whole scene looked like an oil spill.
His brown blowhole finally spit out the last bits of liquid fire. He looked supremely embarrassed.
"Ryan, I'm sorry... I..." I felt so bad. I had no idea what to say.
"Bunny, could you just please get me a towel?" He asked meekly. He was blushing so badly he looked like he was on fire. I got a paper towel for him to wipe most of himself off with; he then hopped in the shower.
That night, I made him a very nice dinner with all his favorite things (minus the shit-inducing food) for being such a selfless, caring, wonderful bowl-mate. I've never felt so loved as when Ryan sacrificed his dignity and his ass comfort for mine.
And of course, I set out some tuna for Captain Barnacle for being such a good sport.
