The Finger Does Not Work
My story takes place twenty-two years ago, at Sheppard Air Force Base, in Wichita Falls, Texas. I was a young Airman just beginning technical training after basic training.
Let me back up just a hair here. It was Christmas time, and just after basic training I had taken a week of leave and gone home for the holidays, as tech training did not begin until after January first. Prior to leaving home, my friends took me to Bennigan's restaurant for a going-away dinner. I remember I had some kind of fish dinner. The next day, I boarded a plane back to Texas. The fish I had eaten the previous day must have given me food poisoning ... either that or I had the flu. To this day I suspect was the fish.
I spent that plane flight puking about every thirty minutes. The flight crew moved me to first class so I'd be closer to the toilet. It was, without a doubt, the most miserable flight I had ever traveled, or have had since. I made it to the base and my room at tech school with four days to spare until training started. I was going to report to the hospital, but found out that had I reported in sick and missed the start of school I would have to wait six weeks until the next session started. That would mean six weeks of cleaning duties and menial labor. I decided to tough it out and spent those four days in my room sicker than a dog. In all honesty, I probably should have gone to the hospital.
The day after I arrived, amidst the puking, the squirts started. Not just squirts, but violent, gut-wrenching, cramping squirts. I would squirt, drop to my knees and puke in the same bowl, then climb back on and squirt more. Where this liquid shit was coming from I have no clue, because I couldn't hold anything down. I was living on Gatorade and Kaopectate. I am sure the clerk at the local PX was wondering where all the Kaopectate was going, as I was downing a bottle a day.
Somehow I got over the puking and started holding down food the night before school started. The squirts, however, were just starting. To make things worse, we marched well over a mile each morning to the school and back again in the afternoon. I learned quickly to time my bowl painting sessions. I would squirt before we marched, when we arrived, two or three more times during school, before we marched back, and after we returned. This went on for about four weeks. Like I said, I should have gone to the hospital. I lost about twenty-five pounds.
Anyway, my timing system worked pretty good.
One day, however, something happened. About two weeks into this nightmare, the worst of all scenarios unfolded. We were wrapping up school and about to march back. I didn't have to squirt. I thought perhaps I was making progress. I should have at least sat down and tried.
Halfway through the return march to our dorms, I felt that deep rumbling in the gut. The words "Oh fuck" were the first thing that entered my mind. Now, the only thing I can attribute the pain of the cramps to is birth contractions. Women say men have no idea what these feel like. I assure you, I do. Doubled over, white knuckled, tear-inducing cramps. Yeah, I know. The cramps didn't start while marching ... well, not yet. I continue marching, and felt the sweat beading on my forehead. Mind you, it was January. I was sweating.
The first minor cramp hit as we rounded the corner and I saw the dorm. You'd think that would have been good, but I assure you, I knew it was too far away. I clenched the sphincter and marched on. The second cramp was worse than the first, and I groaned a little, but the rumbling in my gut was louder. The guy next to me even asked if I was OK. I nodded; speaking was impossible.
We made it to the outside of the dorm, which is when the third cramp hit. Three is about all I was able to handle out there. Only once had I made it to a fourth cramp, but thank God I was on the toilet. That said, the force of the explosion made a back splatter that reached the back of my neck. I did not want to know what a fifth cramp felt like. Unfortunately, on that day, I was soon to find out.
That third cramp hit my bowels like a Mack truck, and I knew the amount of built up poopoo was colossal. I was at the base of the stairs, and it put me on my knee. I held onto the stair rail tightly, but clenched my cheeks and sphincter even tighter. The bathroom was on the next floor, halfway down the hall. I knew it was going to be much closer than ever before.
Somehow I made it up the stairs. I opened the door to the hallway, and that's when the fourth cramp hit. To this day I don't know how I didn't fill my pants, but I was on the floor of the hallway doubled over. Fortunately, there was no one else with me; most people lived on the first floor or were going off to the football game that was played every afternoon. The pain was intolerable, and I could feel my sphincter loosening as the gallons of liquid shit made a herculean effort to flood my camos. I literally crawled down the hall to the bathroom door and made it in. I was about to push the stall door open when it happened.
The fifth cramp made me scream ...well a low grunting/groaning sound that I've heard women make during child birth. I felt as though a donkey had kicked me in the stomach. The pain was unbearable, and despite the clenching and groaning and crying and pleading, I felt my ass loosing. I felt that warm liquid exiting, and I did the only thing I could think of. I put my thumb up my ass.
Looking back, I think it was my middle finger, but it could have been my thumb. I fumbled with my belt and manage to loosen my pants just enough to get my hand down there and put my finger up my ass in hopes it would stem the flow long enough to get on the toilet. The cramping prevented me from even getting on my knees. In one final, valiant effort, I shoved my finger in up to the knuckle, which only had the effect of making it worse. The pain won. The brown liquid flowed like the Mississippi around my makeshift butt plug. There was nothing I could do, so I pulled out my now shit-covered hand, and gave in. My pants filled, and brown water dripped out. I crawled into the stall and managed to pull my shit-filled pants down and pulled myself up onto the toilet.
I was sure I had left everything in my pants, but to my surprise another gut-wrenching cramp hit and the pressure of the brown water exited from my ass with such force that water sprayed up the back side and out from the gap in the front. The wall was now stained and dripped, the back of my hair was soaking wet, and my pants and now my boots were filled with a God-awful liquid that would have nauseated Lucifer.
I spent a good thirty minutes sitting there crying, lamenting my fate. I heard the door open, and someone choked and said something to the affect of "Oh my God" and left. Thank God he did. What I had to do next meant giving up whatever dignity I thought I had left in my life. I removed my clothing. Every stitch--from my shit-filled boots with the brown socks, to my pants that now acted as a reservoir for half of what had been in my bowels, to my shirts. I cleaned my ass with copious amounts of the pathetic paper that the military suggests is "toilet grade" and stood up. I put all of my clothes and boots into the trash, and knotted up the bag.
I have no idea why there was no one in the hallway, but I am thankful for that minor miracle. I walked to my room and grabbed a spare change of clothes. I went back to the bathroom and showered, and then walked that hazardous waste bag out back to the dumpster.
Two weeks later I began crapping normal again. It was probably the sickest I have ever been in my life. Somehow I lived through it, but the memory of laying on that bathroom floor with my finger up my ass is something I will never forget.