In this day and age, it's popular for women to say that they go for "the good guys." It makes them seem sensitive and in touch with themselves. However, we all know that the majority of women do not like "the good guys." They date jerks and call them "sweet" and say that no one else sees it because no one understands the guy like they do. One thing that I have always prided myself on is that I am an exception to this rule -- I actually do like nice guys. I'm very lucky and have been blessed with a wonderfully sweet fiancé.
But when I say sweet, I mean rot-a-shark-tooth sweet. Ryan is very religious, very polite, somewhat shy, and very generous. He attends synagogue every Saturday. He provides free counseling to poor children. He doesn't sell things -- if he knows it's not something he needs, he simply gives things to people. In theme with his wholesome, boy-next-door personality, he also does not smoke, touch alcohol, or do any sort of illegal drug.
Last Friday, I had a several of our friends over to my apartment to drink and get a little rowdy. Even though he doesn't partake in our sinning, Ryan is always with us anyway. This time, for some unknown reason, Ryan suddenly asked if he could do some shots with us. I had no idea why. He'd never expressed any interest in drinking before, and these weekend get-togethers are a common occurrence. I guess, at least once in our lives, we are all bitten by the Rebellion Bug. So he began doing shots with us and indulging in several beers. I warned him that it might be wise to start off slowly since he'd never had any alcohol in his system before. Ryan thanked me for my concern but assured me it was fine.
By the end of the evening, he'd passed out and the rest of us had fallen asleep in various locations throughout the apartment. When we all woke up that next Saturday morning, Ryan was sick as a dog. And I mean SICK. He tossed his ninety-proof cookies upon awakening and had a major attack of the hangover shits, as I later found out. The rest of us, being seasoned drinkers, were fine, and our small party of friends headed to their own dwellings to sleep the rest of the day.
Ryan stayed in the bathroom for about an hour. When he finally came out, he was looking very sick. And he was a sight to see: vomit down the front of his shirt, raccoon eyes, and white as a sheet.
In my opinion, it was clear that this was one Saturday he should spend in bed. However, being the devoted Chosen Person he is, Ryan insisted we go to synagogue anyway. He said he'd be fine because he felt he'd gotten all the crap (no pun intended) out of his system. So we got ready, put on our good clothes, and went to temple.
We got to the synagogue and sat down. The first half hour was fine, even though I could tell he felt like crap (again, no pun intended). Then he quietly got up and walked out. I had no idea what was going on. He'd never left in the middle of a service. I figured maybe he was going to take an aspirin for that monster hangover headache. But when he didn't come back, I began to wonder.
About fifteen minutes after he left, I got a text message on my cell. I usually turn my phone off during things like that, but for some reason, that day I put it on vibrate. Coincidence? Or divine intervention? You decide.
"Plz cum 2 mens room." Now I began to get a little excited. Since he'd gotten up and walked away calmly, I assumed he was okay, and that this was an opportunity to get laid -- because, despite his pure nature, my sweetie does have what I like to call a "good-natured naughty side." He will not do anything actually wrong, but I cannot deny that we have fornicated in a few public restrooms. And this was EXTRA naughty for him, since the bathroom was in a place of worship. What had happened to my innocent boyfriend?
Nevertheless, I got up and walked out quietly, smiling to myself, already anticipating the culmination of our carnal desires.
However, 'twas not to be. There's never anyone in either the men's or the women's restroom, so I went on inside; and what I saw was basically Hell on earth. There was my poor baby lying on the floor, crying and holding his stomach. Worse, he was surrounded by so much acidic, nuclear-liquid poop that it looked as if a septic tank had erupted. Still worse, his pants were ruined with beer batter.
"Bunny. My stomach... ohhh it HURTS!" he managed to choke out in between gasps and tears.
I promised him that it was going to be okay, and that no one would ever find out about this. He is a very Shameful Shitter, as am I, and I knew he'd be devastated if word of this got around. However, working our way out of this crappy situation (pun intended this time) was going to be very difficult.
The first thing I did was survey the damage he had done. It was going to have to be a hell of a quick clean-up -- there was poop on the floor around him, splatters on the wall of the stall where he'd crapped, and even some on the wall behind the toilet. One thing that you should know about Ryan is that he has an ulcer that bleeds, causing his poo to be black. He also has hemorrhoids. This combination made the situation even worse, as it was black and bloody shit we were going to have to clean up. It looked like a hate crime.
While he lay on the floor sobbing and writhing, I wet a bunch of paper towels and, holding my nose, scrubbed away as much poo as I could. I flushed the toilet about twenty times, but the smell was lingering in the air, and the bowl was still very dark. Black poo is a bitch to get rid of.
Even after I cleaned up the poo from the restroom surfaces, our dilemma was not over. Now I had to figure out a way to get Ryan out of his shitty britches, past the congregation unnoticed, and out to the car. I also had to figure out a way that he could be in the car without getting poo all over the seat.
I took off his pants and put them in the trashcan. Luckily, the synagogue provided those plastic bin trashcans with a liner instead of the metal ones built into the wall, so I was able to tie a knot in the trash bag after disposing of his crappy clothes. It also gave me a way to totally get rid of the whole bag, ensuring that no one would even have an opportunity to look into the can, see Ryan's pooped-up pants, and spread the word of the incident.
Now came the problem of getting him out past the congregation without being seen. The restroom area was behind the temple, so at least people would have their backs to us. Still, though, that gave the rabbi a perfect view should we go scurrying out, Ryan with no pants.
I'd worn a sweater that day. I took it off and wrapped it around his waist. It didn't cover him totally, but it was better than nothing. I instructed Ryan to stay in the restroom while I drove the car up to the door of the synagogue. Lying there in pain, it was an instruction that he did not need. I went out and brought the car up, leaving the engine on. I hurried discreetly back into the men's room. Together we went out and hid behind a small portion of wall.
I looked at the rabbi, waiting for a rare opportunity to catch him with his head down. It felt like we were there for fifty years, but finally he took a fairly long glance down and we scooted past his window of vision, with me blocking Ryan as much as I could. We thus made it to the car and then home again, where I put Ryan to bed for the rest of the day. But not before stopping to dump the trash bag containing the desecrated pants.
I can also report that I have my pure, sweet boyfriend back. He swears that he will never touch alcohol again.
