The work had progressed from your regular forty hours to a monstrous eighty hours a week. I had gone into business for myself and, in doing so, had greatly increased my workload and my stress level. I'd also decreased my weight, which was good; but that hindered my ability to eat a regular meal, which was bad.
My diet was ever changing and my body wasn't sure how to deal with it. One day I would gorge on Doritos and Kudos bars and the next I would eat nothing at all. My digestive system was extremely angry and let me know it quite frequently. Throughout the day I would have hellacious gas, the type that would make a wild dog run and hide or knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. It was bad. Real bad. If the urge to release some pressure ever hit me, I would tell whomever I was with that I had to go outside and grab some tools; there I'd blow off a few pounds and return to the house feeling a hundred times better. This went on all week with little or no lasting effects, save for some skid marks that would have made Mario Andretti proud.
I had been dooking normally -- once every evening -- until Thursday rolled around. I didn't have any work scheduled then, so I decided to sleep in a bit and actually eat some normal food. Normal for me, anyway -- on the menu was Wendy's for lunch followed by a nice big brick of Ellio's frozen pizza. A meal fit for a king.
After the recommended resting period, I decided to hit the gym. I hadn't been able to frequent the gym as much as I would have liked due to the hours I had been working. So, since I was off for the day, I figured I should do something healthy.
The gym is pretty much empty at that time of the day. The only people in there were a few MILFs and the occasional older Jack LaLanne type. I climbed aboard my favorite Precor machine and set about doing my forty minutes of cardio. About ten minutes in, I knew something wasn't right.
My body had had just about enough of my insane eating habits. It was time for a reckoning. Just as I crested the 1.5-mile mark, the cramps began. And the worst part was, they were in unison with my steps on the machine. I quickly scanned the area for the locker rooms. I knew time was of the essence here; I would need to make haste of my waste rather quickly. The bad thing was that I really only go to the gym to work out, after which I then leave. I had never gone into the locker rooms. For that matter, I didn't even know where they were.
I frantically jumped from the Precor machine and ran to the front desk to ask where the bathroom was. What a sight I must have been, sweating like the last hamster in San Francisco as I asked about the shitter. So much for ever nailing the hot counter girl!
She sullenly pointed me south and off I ran. I kicked open the doors to the locker room and quickly scanned the area for the bathroom. Luckily, there was a huge sign saying "restrooms" with an arrow pointing the direction. I slalomed through the locker room and found the Promised Land. Since I am an extremely Shameful Shitter, it was fortunate for me that the bathroom looked empty. I opened the stall to an amazingly pristine toilet. It was almost too clean. But I didn't have time to stop and smell the seat; I dropped my shorts around my ankles and let loose a barrage of cannon fire that would have made General Custer proud. The assault lasted mere seconds, and then it was over.
I sat on the can, thanking Almighty God for letting me make it to the bathroom in time. And then I heard something that scared me: female voices. Surely I was mistaken. No -- in my frantic pursuit for a place to poop, I had entered the women's locker room.
"Oh, fuck," I thought. "What am I gonna do!"
Maybe they wouldn't come in to the bathroom. If they did, may God have mercy on their souls -- the mess sitting below me was enough to make even the toughest man sick, let alone some unsuspecting women.
I sat there in total distress, not knowing exactly what I should do. Should I pull a Mission Impossible move and crawl through the air ducts? Or should I just run out of the bathroom like a mental patient? I was totally and utterly fucked.
Then the bathroom door swung open.
I quickly raised my hairy man legs up above the toilet so as to not be discovered.
"So we should just go to Abercrombie and see if they have -- what is that horrible stink?" a female voice said. "One of those old hags must have died in here."
I couldn't help but chuckle to myself, since I knew the stink was permeating from the veritable witches' brew stewing beneath me. But stink be damned -- I was in a dire situation here! If I was found out, Lord knows what would happen to me.
"That is just awful. I can't believe that actually came out of some girl's ass!" said another voice. And they all started cackling like a bunch of hens. I, on the other hand, was totally mortified. I quietly sat there, legs on the stall door, contemplating my predicament.
Then they left the bathroom as quickly as they had entered. I sat there for a minute or two assessing the situation. I quickly got to my feet, wiped my now-crusty ass, and did some recon. I stealthily looked through the crack in the stall door to see if there were any more X chromosomes in the vicinity. Then I stood up on the unflushed toilet to make absolutely certain that no one was in the bathroom.
Satisfied, I flushed my Satan's brew and slowly opened the stall door. No one was there -- the coast was clear! I sprinted to the door and, again, slowly opened it, just enough to look out into the locker room. All looked quiet and empty. Now was my chance. I sprinted out of the locker room and into the hallway that separated the genders' lockers. And then I casually walked out of the gym. I had done the unthinkable: shat in enemy territory and returned to tell the tale.