Back in 1995 in North California, I met a nice gal, a grade school teacher originally from New York who moved to California. She wasn’t exactly my type, but I was starting to get serious with dating and I thought I'd go out with her to see what happened since she was nice. On our first date I took her go Chinatown in San Francisco.
At Trudy's urging, we went to get Chinese food on a cool Saturday night. We sat down, ordered dinner, and enjoyed the meal, which was great. I recall one dish was chicken and noodles, and by the end of the meal it was barking to get out of my colon - and quickly. My daily routine was one that graciously provided a cacophony of barking spiders, fizzers, thuds, thumps and anal clouds to the unhappy listener. This was a different situation. This involved a girl. I was trapped.
Having succumbed to the fact that I was on a date and couldn't fart as freely as a bear in the woods, I felt as if I was a bug under a microscope, and the Fart Police ensured that I couldn’t "crack a rat," give a "trouser cough" or "blow one off.”
Still in the restaurant on the main drag in Chinatown, I was too petrified to go fart into a wad of toilet paper, because there were a number of guests, and the crapper was tiny. I felt it was no problem - I'm sometimes a turd camel and can hold it in. All I really need to do is let loose the mouse on a motorcycle and I usually have time to drop anchor later.
I was starting to sweat bullets: I couldn’t fart freely. As we got up to leave, I concocted a cunning plan. When we walked back to my car (about some half-hour away), Trudy exclaimed she wanted to window shop among some of the many small stores. Her declaration left me flushed with worry, but I took advantage of her interest.
Following Trudy at a reasonably safe distance, I corked off a test fart. While it was a relief, it suggested a far bigger problem, something more solid down below, starting to complain and bubble up like a cauldron.
It's OK, I thought. The food could not have yet entered my colon. Or, could it have?
I nervously blew off a few more sputters while hanging outside, pretending to look at the little crummy souvenir wooden backscratchers and fake jade Buddhas.
“Psst, pffft, brap brap brap sputter sput sput sput hissss....”
My stomach was starting to hurt very badly. I thought it was OK, that I could get her back to the Sutter-Stockton parking garage and use the John there...
Once we reached the garage, I felt a little cocky and laughed in Death's face: I thought I could wait the urge out until we got nearer to our homes in the East Bay, some thirty-five minutes away. With this bravado, I skipped the toilets in the parking garage - which are often quite dirty – because I didn’t want to leave Trudy either waiting outside the bog door or alone in the car.
I made up an excuse that I was looking for mints in the trunk after I got her situated in the passenger seat, and then I close her door.
“Pssst pffft put put put put…”
I farted all the way to the trunk, attempting to camo-cough as cover. Once there, I hastily opened a first aid box and ate a few Mylantas.
I ended up driving on the lower deck of the Bay Bridge - darting in and out of traffic - and Trudy looked over at me. It was at that point that she demanded, "DO YOU ALWAYS DRIVE THIS FAST?” I wanted to say “only when I'm about to dirty my diapers” but instead said, "Sometimes."
My stomach was in pain and cramping. I wished I had crapped the putrid meal out at the restaurant, sure that their MSG-spiced food or poorly-prepared greasy chicken soufflé was the root of the evil brewing deep in my stomach. Perhaps I should have shat at the car park?
I was to the point of sweating, planning to drop that bubbling, churning diarrheal mess at the gas station once we approached her house.
Once off the freeway, we stopped at a red light, and it was then that I started to once again sweat bullets. I stole a glance. She was fine. She’d eaten, was smiling and happy, and wasn’t aware of the poop-birth I was so close to. The light turned green, and I headed the last few miles to her house from the freeway.
It wasn’t too much further to her house; from there I was free to drive to my place. However, she had other plans. As soon as I parked, she wanted to talk. I, however, wanted to CRAP, and it had been the one solitary thing on my mind besides remembering to breathe since we left the restaurant. As I pulled up, we graciously thanked one another for a nice night, and, never mind the condition of my DESCENDING COLON at this time, she leaned over and gave me a peck on my cheek.
I pulled away, waving like a fool, sitting on my stool.
I got two blocks away from her house and the light turned red. I immediately start to sweat, my stomach suffering. Oh well. I braced myself and took a deep breath; I was driving a manual, so it was going to be tricky. Holding down the clutch with my left foot and brake with my right, I wiggled around and positioned myself up on the front of my seat and sat on one cheek. Then, I let it go. It was borne unto this world, borne Free. The turd was very happy to oblige.
It came out like soft-serve - a massive chocolate malted.
There was so much poop that it went up my jeans, down my jeans, past my belt and up into my shirt, and down towards my knees. Like big brown lumpy toothpaste, it squirted everywhere it could. By this time, I was so relieved and so excited to have "made" it after the date that I was screaming in laughter all the way back home.
I think The Turd was just as delighted.
There was only one problem left; I have very chatty neighbors, and I park in a covered carport a short walk from my apartment. I had no idea what sort of shart-stain I leaked all over myself or through my skivvies and jeans, and the concept of being the subject of their next month’s conversations crept into the recesses of my mind. The only diversion possible came to mind. I had a leather jacket in the back seat, so I thought to tie it to my waist when I got home, hoping nothing would slide out below.
I arrived home, grabbed the jacket, and slowly took the Bataan Death March, trudging slowly up the stairs, hoping for no nosy neighbors. By now, tears of laughter were streaming down my face. I opened the door and pulled the remote phone off the hook
to tell a friend all about it. I took off my shoes and jumped into the shower with the phone.
I ended up doing a crapload of laundry that night; and not only was I able to salvage all my clothing after a few washes,but I still have that particular white oxford shirt to date, with not a crappy spot on it.
For a brief, shining moment, I felt very proud, like an infant making its first doody. Trudy moved back to Florida, although we did see one another for a while.
I never did tell her the story.
