Editor's note: This story originally appeared on the author's site. She wanted to see it on PoopReport as well. Amen, sister.

---

I am not sure what it is exactly that keeps me from discussing these excretion mishaps right when they happen, but I just can't. I am shaken, embarrassed, and in shock. It takes me a bit to recover and be able to see the humor in the situation. But make no mistake, I am chronicling it as it is happening, my eyes like a camera, my brain a recorder. So though this happened a while ago, I am now ready to share.

My name is Kelly, and I have an excretion problem...

I donned a new cocktail dress that I felt thin in. Add some super-high pink heels and straightened hair, spritzes of Barbie, and I was ready to roll. At the club I ate collard greens, a twice-baked potato, cheese macaroni, and a lemon ice box cake. Towards the end of the set I felt a rumbling in my stomach.

I excused myself to the bathroom, but could not relax. There was a long line of other patrons eager to take action against a sling of waste and by excreting, end it. I hastily went out without doing my business and was heading into a cab for a late-night date with Rob.

I was in midtown and had to go ALL THE WAY DOWNTOWN and by the first few blocks, even before I hit the West Side Highway, my stomach was grumbling and I felt the first inklings of contractions. Because it was a weekend night I was horrified to discover there was massive traffic on the highway and my barely English-speaking cabbie -- who didn't even know exactly how to get to the street I was heading to -- was not going to be able to understand why I needed to get there so urgently.

Sitting in traffic for thirty minutes and with a cab bill that was already twenty dollars was harrowing enough, except by 23rd Street I was nearly in tears and I had to TAKE A SHIT!

I explained to the cabbie as gracefully as possible that I had to go to the bathroom NOW, and we had to turn off the highway to find one. Those unfamiliar with the area by the West Side Highway will not understand: 11th Avenue in the 20s is a wasteland (ha!). We turned and I began looking feverishly for anything -- a bar, a hotel, a gas station, anything. Nothing. Finally I noticed a small run-down motel with some jacked-up folks drinking 40s outside. The cabbie was hesitant in dropping me off there. I told him to keep the meter running, as I knew I'd never get another cab in that area again.

I ran in to the bulletproof-glassed motel office and told the man there that I was really sorry but I was hoping he'd let me use one of the bathrooms. I tried to appear more debutant than delinquent and was hoping he knew the dress I was wearing was silk, not spandex. He told me to get out.

While my innards quaked, I tried to charm him into letting me use a restroom. I told him I had to "pee" really badly. He suggested meanly that I hobble off to the park. One of the motel patrons -- near-homeless, with bad breath and no teeth -- said he'd let me use his room. Normally the thought of being enclosed in a room with this guy that screamed RAPIST would put the worst kind of fear in me, but at this point I was willing to chance it, to do anything, just to take a shit.

The nasty motel manager said it was a no-go like I was some hooker offering to blow this guy in his room and said he'd call the police if I didn't leave.

I ran to see the cabdriver still waiting, perusing a map, trying to figure out where the hell Worth Street was. As I turned the corner ready to just shit in my La Perlas and call it a night, I saw a big, nice, shiny club with limos outside. Mecca. Now all I had to do was get by the big Russian doorman. I hiked up cleavage and was ready to flirt my panties off when I realized it was a STRIP club of the mafia variety. Oh God, save me.

"NO WAY you are coming in here," he said. "It is members only." I tried to explain I just needed to use the bathroom as I batted my eyes but my D's didn't work any magic in a sea of DDD's. Finally I told him I'd tip him, and he led me in. I was happy when the women's room door opened, but disheartened to find two strippers in there doing their hair. It was not a bathroom -- it was a lone stall with a toilet RIGHT THERE.

The strippers said I could go ahead and pee in front of them, but I said I'd wait. But then a few seconds later, I COULDN'T wait, and they were just chit-chatting, and I tried to explain demurely that I didn't want to interrupt but I really had to PEE and that I had a cab waiting outside. They tossed their glossed locks and said (I swear!), "Ohhhh, you want to party? Don't worry, we won't tell anyone. Can you spare a bump?"

The absurdity of it all was just too much. I was all shits and giggles debating with two skanks with tits and wiggles in crotchless panties and nipple rings. Trying not to die laughing or die shitting (the possibilities for wacky deaths are endless), I explained it wasn't drugs -- it was just a shy bladder. Finally they left and I was in blissful relief.

Leaving only a foul odor and a train of toilet paper on my shoe, I tried to duck out past the big Russian because I discovered I only had twenties in my wallet, and he yelled out at me, "Yeah, bitch, thanks for the tip!" I should have responded, "Here's the tip, buddy: stay out of that bathroom for at least an hour!"

I finally arrived safety and emptily at my Harvard-educated, model-looks, date's apartment. "Honey," he said, as he bent down to nuzzle in my neck, "what took you so long? I've been waiting." How I wanted to tell him all the vivid details -- but he just does not have that sense of humor. Good looks, big brain, and bigger dick -- but still, not the one for me. Not being able to share shit stories is indeed a dealbreaker.