Ginger (as I'll call her) is half-Thai/half-Indian -- as in Bombay/Delhi/Bollywood-bombshell Indian. My Bangkok-based shower led, logically and wonderfully, to my king-size bed with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Bangkok's nightscape: neon and rain. The Thai capital isn't the cleanest of cities, but Thais are clean people, so of course Ginger was happily scrubbing herself in steaming hot shower spray. She's damn lovely; I would have preferred to bathe her as cats do (with my tongue), but protocol dictates privacy. Besides, I'd stocked the shower stall with soap whose flavor melds magically with Thai skin.
I started lighting some candles for atmosphere when suddenly: OH SHIT! That impending intestinal express-train rush -- a fecal locomotive hellbent on hurtling the turd-tunnel. In Thailand, this is not an unexpected occurrence; but the timing could not have been worse.
I am a semi-Shameful Shitter. I know it's ridiculous -- everyone eats, everyone shits, and I've lived in Asia ten years, so I'm no stranger to feisty forms of fecal fierceness. I know when rehydration is the key, when Imodium is required, or when to call in the air strike: to frantically chew a chunk of generic Ciprofloxacin to ease the feeling that Satan himself is gleefully beating your rectum with a baseball bat. But I prefer to excrete in privacy. I'm not, er, totally anal about it; if I gotta go and the only available convenience is a public one, fine. I try to be discreet if there's someone in the next stall, and I'm happier when I'm the only one in the shitter. I enjoy discretion in excretory matters. My idea of a nice comfy dump is when can peruse The Economist and leisurely evacuate whatever needs removal by the Mystic Lords of Turdistan.
But at that moment, none of that mattered. I needed to shit IMMEDIATELY. I thought, well, if I just sneak in there, maybe I can get away with it while she's in the shower. I owned the toilet and I was gonna use it! I figured if she slid aside the shower curtain there would be a soapy, silky naked woman looking at a sweaty guy sitting on his toilet answering the call of nature, which by this point was calling via an 800-megawatt bullhorn. I silently turned the doorknob and...
You guessed it. She'd locked the door! Shit! Shit shit SHIT!!
I had precious little time for rational thought. The contents of my colon were moments from making their way into the big wide world.
Arrgh. I went into the kitchen and look at the sink... water, sink. This will never work.
Okay. I stripped off pants and boxers, grabbed an empty plastic grocery bag, yanked it open wide and spread it in the sink, turned around and pumped a quantity of turds into the bag. I immediately felt the bag grow warm and heavy as it filled with my shit -- I was acutely aware of the weight and temperature of a substance that had not existed an instant previous. A very different experience from simply hurling the brown bombers down the bog. But the relief I felt superseded the overall weirdness.
The pressure lifted, and triumph surged. Life is just a series of adventures -- chalk this one up and let's try another one this evening! Ha ha, I got it all under control. A quick swipe with a paper towel and a nice solo shower to remove any lingering evidence. O Gorgeous One, please linger in the shower a bit longer.
Then I glanced down. There it was, the final nightmare: a rogue bung-nugget, an evil morsel that had fallen on the kitchen floor.
At that moment, the shower-water-sounds stopped. My freshly amused asshole puckered with fear.
With a rapidity that only lust fueled by potential embarrassment can conjure, I scooped it, chucked it in the bag, squirted dishwashing liquid and swiped the floor clean, tossed all evidence in the plastic bag, tied it off, and tossed it into the kitchen trashcan. By the time Miss Right emerged squeaky clean, clad only in a towel and a smile, I was ready to slip into the shower and breathe a sigh of relief.
I'm happy to report that the rest of the evening was filled with fabulous, mind-rending sex, undisturbed by further turd-terrors.
-- Jack the Bat