This is not a clever story or a funny story. But in telling it, I hope I can exorcise some of my shameful, shitty past. As a child, I was perfectly normal until I reached about the age of seven, at which point I started wearing my underpants in the bathtub. My reason for this was that I thought if I didn't, my turds would somehow escape from my arse and float in the water. I also began to retain my feces -- for days on end, if I could manage it. Every time the feeling of needing a dump came on, I would do a sort of little dance that involved jumping up and down while squeezing my butt cheeks together.
Sometimes I was lucky, sometimes I wasn't. Poor David Jones -- he was a friend of mine, and unfortunately he was on the receiving end of one of my misfortunes. He was downstairs playing with a toy crane I had. It had a working winch and all sorts of other features. I raced upstairs because I could feel a movement coming on. I immediately broke into my dance routine only for the worst possible thing happen: a small pebble of shit escaped from its fabric prison and rolled down my leg. And because I was jumping up and down, I managed kick it with my shoe -- and it ended up rolling down the stairs as I looked on in horror. I will never forget the sight of David looking at it, and then leaning down and sniffing it before saying, "Ugh, that's poo!"
I felt utterly ashamed. I came back down and there was the little shit stone at the foot of the stairs, right next to the action figures we'd also been playing with. I said, "Ugh, yeah, you're right. Where did that come from? That's disgusting!"
Incidents like this were only the beginning of things, as this was to go on for about two years. The end result was Mum having to sit with me as I strained away on the toilet, sometimes having put off going properly for days on end. It was horrible, and I have a certain amount of guilt for having made Mum sit there saying, "Push, push!" as I heaved away on the lav, trousers and pants around my ankles. The smell alone must have been nauseating. I used to call the act of going to No. 2's a "Big Packet," and when I felt the urge coming on, I would race into where Mum was and say, "Muuuuuuuuum, I need to go Big Packet! Will you come with me?" And she would drop everything and come up with me and I would try and more often than not little bits would eventually fall out... but most would remain up there.
Well one time, I'd held on for days. Days and days. Nine, to be precise. I was very ill, my skin had taken on a yellowish pallor, and the doctor was called. He was shocked when Mum told him what had been happening. He asked me why I hated going to the toilet and I replied that when I went to have a poo I thought it was my stomach falling out and it frightened me. Unfortunately, what he was about to do next was a kind of primitive confrontational therapy: he administered an enema.
Within about two or three minutes, I was presented with oceans of the very stuff I'd been trying valiantly to avoid -- and I must say, it broke me of this terrible affliction. But then again, being surrounded by literally oodles of the runniest, most sickly-looking shit will do that for anyone.
Afterwards, after I'd recovered, I went totally in the opposite direction. I would run downstairs, sometimes when Mum had company, and say "Mum, I've just had a poo! It was really good! It didn't get stuck or anything!" I'm sure I drove her completely mad with it. Still, I no longer needed to wear my underpants in the bath, and I began to experience the delights of things naturally and regularly falling out of my arse. Shitting was, for the first time, pleasurable.