My story is about a man. A young man, with all the promise and moxie it takes to make it in this cruel world. A man who can laugh at himself. My man. But on this day, no one was laughing... except me.
My boyfriend and I are two young, crazy kids in love, just trying to survive. I'm a waitress, and he's a construction worker. Neither of our jobs is very glamorous, but we do all right respectively. One evening, I decided that we needed a little break from our normal routine. I decided to act out a little domestic-goddess-meets-desperate-housewife scenario, just to break up the monotony. I bought two thick, juicy, tender steaks. I made delicious homemade garlic mashed potatoes. I bought chocolate éclairs. This was serious. I marinated. I cooked. I slaved. I prepared a breathtaking meal, even including a garden salad with two choices of dressing.
Not only was the meal a feast for the eyes and the tastebuds, but so was I. I showered and shaved and plucked. There was moisturizer and perfume and full-on makeup. My hair was fabulous. I had on expensive, black lacey underthings. Sexy underthings. I wore a halter-top, a short skirt, and heels. High heels. Stiletto heels. I looked damn good.
Everything was going according to plan. The food looked and smelled great, and so did I. I tucked the food lovingly into my vehicle, and made my way to my boyfriend's home.
When he opened the door, he was very pleasantly surprised at the ultra-sexpot look I was sporting. And the fact that I had brought him a home-cooked meal... the fantasy was becoming a reality, and he was loving it.
I did notice that he looked a little tired, but I chalked it up to his strenuous occupation.
I set the table and we began our meal. The food was enchanting, and my thoughts were heading towards the activities I had planned for the bedroom. I was giddy with anticipation. Then, all of a sudden, my beau got The Look on his face. Concerned, I asked if the food I so cheerfully prepared (in hopes of getting paid back by good sex) was okay.
It wasn't my food that was bad; it was a combination of very bad meal choices earlier in the day.
The boyfriend excused himself to the bathroom while I, a little disappointedly, cleaned up the table. I figured he could eat the rest as a midnight snack. I however, did manage to eat all of my meal, and it was excellent.
After about the usual fifteen-to-twenty minute wait, I started to become a little perturbed. I'm sitting here looking extremely hot, waiting, wanting sex, and he's in the bathroom taking his sweet time. An hour went by. And so did another. I was hot. I told him I was leaving. And that's when I heard a weak, "Hold on."
After a minute, the door of the bathroom opened. Where was my tough, virile working man? He wasn't there. In his place was a whimpering, teary-eyed boy, looking as though someone told him his dog had died while he was passing a kidney stone. I was stunned. I had never seen him like... that. He was in such a vulnerable state. I wanted to cry for him.
The next words out of his mouth were instructions of some kind, pleading -- nay, begging! -- me to go to the local grocery store to get him something to help him. Anything. It was 10:45, and the store closed in fifteen minutes. We were only five minutes away.
So, of course, I went. I screeched up into the parking lot and did my best quick jog in four-inch heels. Breathless, I located the items needed and quickly made my way up to the only open register. There I am, looking like a call girl (albeit, a pricey one), holding boxes of laxatives. This could've been a very awkward situation, starting rumors galore that I was into some freaky-fecal escapades. Thankfully, I kind of know the cashier, so the situation wasn't as embarrassing as it could have been with a stranger. I felt the need to tell him that this really wasn't for me, and he -- God bless him -- did a peachy job of acting like he believed me.
I sped back to the house and knocked on the bathroom door. Only a shaky hand emerged. "Are you going to be okay?" I asked. It was late, and I had to be at work very early the next morning.
"I'll... be... okay. I'm sorry... I love you." These could have been his final words; I prayed not. I went home, exhausted.
The next day after work, I gave him a call. On the third ring, that same weak voice answered. He begged me for another laxative, a stronger one...
I made my way to the local pharmacy and cleaned the shelves. I must have looked like some weird, newfangled junkie with my armload of laxatives and suppositories. All in the name of love, I kept telling myself.
In the end, the suppository was the winner. I was told that fifteen minutes after putting the suppository in, all hell broke loose. My boyfriend had given birth to something that was much larger around then his anus. About sixteen inches, head to tail. He told me he blacked out. The beast wouldn't come out or go down without a fight. He used a clothes hangar to break it up into pieces easy enough to flush.
It still took six flushes.
After that, my boyfriend didn't "go" right for a solid week or two. But our love has grown and deepened due to this experience. And that, my friends, is my story. My love story.
