I was brought up by my parents to be a Shameful Shitter. "Only ever use a public toilet to wee" was my mother's mantra. School toilets did nothing to discourage this approach, and by the time I was in my teens I was too inhibited to poop anywhere but in my own home. There were uncomfortable times when I was bursting to go, but I was too embarrassed to do anything until I got home. My closest school friend was totally Shameless, and I was more than a little envious of his total lack of inhibition. Eventually, though, going away to college and then off on my travels forced me into a gradual change.

After college I started work in an office. I was okay with using public toilets by this time, but I found that I was still too embarrassed to go for a dump at work when people I knew were in the toilets. More than once I pretended to pee, washed my hands, and walked out again.

As a result of my embarrassment, I developed my "blinkered" strategy. There was one busy set of toilets for our floor, with two stalls opposite the door and the urinals and washbasins to the right. If I walked purposely straight ahead from the door without looking to the right, I could go straight into the stall quite oblivious to anyone at the washbasins and urinals.

This strategy worked brilliantly, until one memorable evening.

Our floor cleaner was a lovely girl of my own age called Viv. I fancied her like mad, but she was off-limits due to a rather aggressive husband; so we were just good friends. On the evening in question, my urge to shit had been building all afternoon, and I was working late. I made my move at about five o'clock. As per my blinkered strategy, I aimed straight for the stalls as usual, so I was just barely conscious of a figure at the sinks. I locked the door and was unfastening my trousers when a very familiar voice said, "Do you mind me carrying on cleaning?"

I froze to the spot.

"It's not me I'm worried about," I finally half-stammered.

"Oh, don't worry about me," she said, "I have two brothers and I've lived with men all my life. I know what you're all like."

Oh, God, no! I thought. What now? But it was either get on with it, or chicken out and look like a wuss in front of the object of my desires.

Get on with it, then.

Viv continued to chat on in her usual way whilst I worried about what to do if I did another huge one that I couldn't flush away. I decided I'd let half of it out and then squeeze my bumhole shut to break it off. That worked fine -- except that the turd hit the water with an embarrassingly loud splash. I'd never thought of that! My first turd was usually big enough to be nearly touching the water before it completed the exit. The smaller ones then fell on top, so I was usually a quiet shitter.

But Viv continued to chat, showing no sign of noticing the bomb-dropping going on, or the fact that I was being unusually quiet. The second turd exited with a loud splash, too; and by then I could have died on the spot. All that was missing was a huge fart (thankfully I managed to stifle that).

I'd done enough to assuage my need, so I wiped. Fortunately the toilet flushed it all away. I made an apologetic exit from the stall and turned to face her. She smiled, and with eyes twinkling, asked, "Feeling better now?"

I'll never forget that evening. And years later, I've retold the story to much amusement. But as amusing as it was, it also cured me of worrying who was in the toilets. I figured that if I could shit with Viv in the same room, I really didn't have to worry about anyone else.