It was my first date. I have always had digestion problems, but I guess the Mexican food really didn't help at all. You see, he took me to a Mexican restaurant. At the time he asked me out, he wouldn't tell me what restaurant we would be going to. So anyways, we ended up at this Mexican restaurant and, having eating at a couple in the past and experiencing the side effects, I knew I was in trouble.

But I didn't want him to think I was unhappy with his choice, so I ordered quite a bit. The chips and salsa appetizer were just so good I couldn't stop eating them. Then I had this huge quesadilla that was also delicious, so I ate the whole thing, along with a salad. I might add that the salad was loaded with dressing.

So, afterwards, we were just sitting there relaxing and finishing up our drinks when I felt it. You know what I'm talking about. I had to go. Bad. Real bad. So I excused myself and headed over to the ladies room.

Inside, I discovered a very long line with only one stall. The smell in there was so bad that I had to run out of the bathroom to keep myself from puking.

Well, there was no way I could go back in there. Besides, standing up made me have to go worse than sitting, and that line was so long I would probably poop my pants before I could get my turn in the stall. I momentarily considered checking out the men's bathroom, but immediately dismissed that idea. There was only one thing left to do: go back to our booth and try to hold it.

I quickly gulped down the remainder of my drink, but my boyfriend didn't seem to get the hint. He just sat there, drinking slowly as can be. I realized I was going to poop myself -- there was no possible way around it. So, I discreetly slid my pants down a bit under the table where no one could see. I could tell this would be no easy task. Somehow, I had to make sure the diarrhea landed under the table without hitting anything -- especially my pants, which were in great danger of being splattered.

As I tried to position myself without my boyfriend noticing I was up to something, it erupted. And not silently. Oh no, there was a huge explosion. I clenched it off as quickly as I could, but quite a bit had escaped.

"Whoa," my boyfriend laughed, "you better check your pants." I tried to laugh along with him, but I was so embarrassed. Worse yet, I stole a peek at my pants, and it appeared that most of the diarrhea had managed to land right on them.

"Sam," I said, "we gotta go -- I really did poop myself." His eyes got really big. Then we stood up and left.

When we got to his car, I said, "What should I do? I don't want to get your car dirty." He took off his own coat and laid it down on the seat. I sat down and off we went. I asked him where we were going and he said his house.

Meanwhile, I still had to go bad. I told him, "I'm not gonna make it." He said we would pull over as soon as he saw somewhere with a bathroom. I was too embarrasses to tell him I wasn't sure I could hold it for more than five minutes. So I just sat there crying and praying. He began to pull into a McDonald's, and I guess the jolt was what did it. My fury had been unleashed. Diarrhea spewed out of my butt into my pants. It began running down my legs onto the floor of the car.

My boyfriend parked and looked over at me. He didn't know what to say. I didn't either -- I was so upset so I just ran out of that car and into the McDonald's bathroom.

I found the first empty stall and pulled down my disgusting pants. More diarrhea poured out of my butt. I just sat there crying. I waited about two hours before leaving the bathroom. Sam was gone.