Editor's note:This was originally posted in the Poop Story Forum, but Bilgepump was begged, bothered, cajoled, and prodded into fleshing it out a bit and submitting it to the Front Page.
I live in Lake Havasu City, Arizona, mostly known for its Spring Break exposure (oh, look what I did there, a pun), and its seemingly unbearable heat. The nice thing about all that heat is the women wear very little from April to November. The downside is the average age of the women in Lake Havasu is roughly 127 years old. Pasties aren't fun to look at when they’re dragging in the sand.
Back to the reason for this story. I play beach volleyball. A lot. Every weekend and a couple of nights a week are spent leaping about smacking the holy hell out of the ball, trying to break some little college boy-dweeb in half. (Oh, yeah, I just turned forty-eight... hehe... old age and treachery...) One particular Sunday I was engaged in the usual marathon of volleyball, the temperature was at or near one hundred and twenty degrees, and the dew point was hovering around seventy. Sweat was pouring off me as fast I was pouring in water and Gatorade.
I need to interrupt here to let you know that occasionally -- maybe every couple of months or so -- I am struck with an uncomfortable, crampy liquid shit attack. I don't know what causes it, and really don't care: I just deal with it and move on. Once it’s out, I'm good as new. No problem, right? Well, there is a problem when you’re damned near naked on the blazing hot sand, perspiring profusely, and the only relief is the public bathrooms nearby.
You know the one... that dark brick building that has been sitting in the sun for three hours longer than I've been out there.
By the middle of the third game, I knew I was going to have to make use of the hot box. I was suffering from severe stomach cramps, and my ass was clenched pretty tight, making any kind of attempt at a decent spike trepidatious, to say the least. The game finally ended and I hustled
hot sand hot sand REALLY FUCKING HOT sand
to the bathrooms. These babies had just had an extensive remodel and were shining and glistening with fresh paint, fixtures, and epoxy sealant on the floor. It was rather impressive for a shitter. The tourists would be pleased.
I didn't give a fuck, I had to shit.
The room was completely vacant, and while I'm sort of ashamed to admit it, I did treat myself to the very roomy handi-crapper. The board shorts came down and I sat myself, as I usually do, one cheek slightly before the other and then shift slightly, to get some "spread".
I should probably mention that I am what they call a Tall Drink of Water. Narrow at the hip. Etc. I'm a skinny bastard. And at this point in the story, I was a sweaty, skinny bastard. My cheek spread method works great when I'm dry. However, my ass was covered in slimy sweat, and I immediately slid down into the seat. My cheeks had slammed shut.
I tried to maneuver into my accustomed slight spread again, desperately trying to hold back the flood, but it was no use. I slid back down, and my cheeks slammed shut once more... and the blast came. Do you understand any physics? Trying to force a large quantity of anything through a narrow opening produces a tremendous amount of pressure. That pressure blasted out a vicious stream of butt juice like air through the squeezed tight neck of a balloon. Even the acoustic accompaniment sounded like the squeal of said balloon. I had shit flying up my back, flowing into my junk, and all points in between.
For twenty minutes I was self-shit-bideted. I wasn't happy.
When the pressure finally reduced to an occasional squeak, I tried to wipe up. I had shit all over, was as sweaty as hell, and was using the industrial one-ply toilet paper that I myself sold to the Parks and Recreation Department. Some luck, huh? Serves me right, I guess. After several attempts at wiping and removing the worst of it (I have not mentioned the dreaded single-ply finger breakthroughs), I felt sort of clean. Well, at least I was clean enough to get the hell out of that hot box restroom and sprint down to the lake
hot sand hot sand hot sand GOOD GOD hot sand
to finish cleaning up.
Games four through six passed without incident, I was way lighter on my feet, and oddly enough nobody seemed to want to get up on the net to block me. It was a good day.
The following is a Daphne-encouraged tall tale... On the way home I was strangely reminded of my appearance in an early Boysgonewild video. Even though it was mostly a drunken blur, I do remember a family of skunks, several bottles of Finlandia Vodka, and two or three quarts of Mobil 1 Synthetic motor oil. Must have been my odor du jour.
They say the sense of smell has the greatest trigger for memory recollection.
