I too have a story of a hot girl, sex, and, of course, poop.

It began in the spring of 1992. I was in junior college, and I had started dating a sexy little unit whom I will call Jackie (because that's her real name). On our fourth or fifth date, we had gone for a late picnic in the woods, and decided, as it was a chilly evening, to build a fire. I was hunkered down by the fire pit, assembling kindling Boy Scout fashion, when she grabbed a handful of my hair, pressed her delicious butt up against the side of my head, and farted loudly right into my ear.

She grinned maniacally. As I sat back on my haunches listening to the dull ring in my ear, my life changed forever. Back in those days, I had dated a lot of girls, none of them seriously, but had never experienced or even imagined something like this. My peripheral vision vanished as my world folded in on itself. All sound ceased, and my short life's precious play scrolled before my eyes. I realized then that I would marry this girl.

I was in a funk for the rest of the evening. Fate had dealt me a hand that I knew I must play.

One year later, on April 24th, we were married. It was a normal wedding. We chose Yellowstone Park as our honeymoon destination. Some may question Yellowstone -- still waist-deep in snow in April -- as a honeymoon destination, but for several reasons it was perfect for us. First, it was cheap. Second, it was less than two hours drive from her hometown. And the final reason was the impending end of our mutual virginities. Yep. Some of you more worldly PoopReporters may wonder how a twenty-three-year-old man and a twenty-year-old woman could go an entire lifetime without scrog, but it happens -- she for reasons of religion, and I mostly for due to ineptitude and fear. We had seen and touched each other's nasty parts once before, but had never actually DONE IT. Needless to say, regardless of where we honeymooned, all we were going to see was the inside of a hotel room. So off to West Yellowstone.

I reflect on the age-old irony of sexual prohibitions. How the forbidden treasures of sex can be made available simply when an old man mutters the phrase "man and wife" is a mystery. Nothing else was different, but it was now okay to get it on.

And we did. The first day was mostly marked by some awkwardness on my part and some discomfort on hers. Jackie -- she wouldn't become DungMommy for another six years -- cried for about an hour that her grandmother's wedding dress had been irreparably damaged when I had desperately grubbed it off of her firm, white body. The second day turned into a marathon of non-stop animal-sex. The kind of sex monkeys have when all of their brains has been removed except the screwing part and they're then given near-fatal doses of meth.

We awoke on the third morning to the awful realization that the last thing we had eaten was wedding cake. The room was a biohazard. We put on clothes and called the front desk for new sheets. Since it was the slow part of the season in West Yellowstone, we were instructed to just move to the room next door and the hotel staff would get to it when they could. We moved our stuff, screwed, and then my woman sent me out to forage for food. Most of the restaurants were closed for the season, so I stopped at a deli just around the corner. They had just opened for the morning and had not prepared any food. So, for some unknown reason, I bought a quart of pickled beets and hauled it back to my bride. Turns out, they were the best pickled beets in the solar system. I was sent back for two more jars.

I'm sure we weren't thinking clearly. We filled our famished bellies with the luscious purple vegetables and then went back at it for several hours. Later that night, my wife produced some brilliant pink pee. We stood, marveling over the toilet. Next morning, we brushed and gargled and went back to the monkey-sex. At one point I climbed up on top and really began pounding away. She shoved her head back into the bed and her eyes glazed over. "Oh yeah," I thought, "DungDaddy's really giving her what she NEEDS!" Boy, was I wrong. There followed a strangled gurgling sound and some convulsing. I felt an awful wet warmth on my legs. Yes, she had beshat us both with a vinegar-reeking magenta pulp filled with pea-sized bits.

We leapt from the bed and bolted into the shower. After about a half hour, we scurried out into the room, gathered up our stuff, and checked out of the hotel.

Tragically, Bunga, Dumpster, and Cracktackular all lost love because of poop; but I can say that poop has only helped our marriage. Thirteen years and a whole family later, things are still strong.

Until now, DungMommy and I have been the only ones who know this story.

I'm the only one who still eats pickled beets.