If you are among the fortunate few to have read my other [1] stories [2], you know that my past shows both an extreme fear of pooping in public and a complete lack of mastery over my bowels. That is a recipe for disaster; and this story mixes those two ingredients together.
On weekdays, I have a very regimented morning routine. I get up, go to the bathroom, poop, take may shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and head out to work. This has been the same routine for years, and it rarely wavers at all. But one morning about three years ago, I missed one crucial step: I failed to poop.
I mean, I sat on the pot... but nothing happened. That wasn't like me. But if I didn't have to go, I didn't have to go. So I completed the rest of my morning regiment, and headed off to work.
I had been in my car maybe five minutes when I heard the first warning sign: a slight rumble, like a toddler blowing bubbles through a straw into his drink. This was accompanied by a slight build in intestinal pressure. I knew what this meant, but I wasn't worried because I only had a twenty-five minute commute; I only had to hold back for twenty more minutes. I HATE to go in public, but one of the restrooms at work was a single unisex bathroom with a lock on the door, so I could handle it.
These were my thoughts when disaster struck. Traffic hit a dead stop -- and I mean dead. Not moving at all. Zero miles-per-hour. Not only that, but I was on a road with no options. It was purely residential. I had a slight flash of panic, but I still thought that I would be okay, for I am the king of all that is my body and no function shall take place without my permission.
Well, the villagers of Colon City had their own plans: a full on rebellion.
The rumbling and pressure continued to build. With every foot my car crept forward, my ability to remain in control slipped further. I would get right to the point of losing it, but then I would clench as tight as I could and wait for that pressure-relieving rumble that let me know I had another sixty seconds of continence left in me. But I could tell that control was running out.
"What the hell do I do?" I asked myself. But then I saw it. An intersection about two hundred feet in front of me, with a gas station on one corner and a supermarket on the other. Salvation was two hundred feet ahead and traffic was moving a little more than it had before, so I knew I could make it.
So now I had two options in which to relieve myself. The convenient store was a bit closer, but I knew it would be overrun with the morning commuters getting snacks and coffee; therefore, the likelihood of the bathroom being occupied was pretty high. The grocery store, on the other hand, would probably be occupied only by early morning stay-at-home-moms, so the men's room would be mine for the taking. I made my choice.
I reached the intersection, turned left into the parking lot, parked, and hit my first hurdle: I could hardly stand up. Sitting in the car allowed me the clenching control that I was simply not able to achieve in the upright position.
But still I had a mission, and I was not about to fail now. So I penguin-walked into the door and hit hurdle number two: the restroom was at the opposite end of the store, way in the back. Fortunately the cold grocery store air and the calming Muzak interpretation of Like a Virgin helped divert my attention a bit as I started the walk to the back of the store.
Performing this kind of walk is a balancing act. On one hand if, you walk too fast, your legs spread too much and you lose control; on the other hand, if you go too slowly, your bowel timer will expire and it is game over, too.
I was about twenty feet from the restrooms when my poop made one hell of a charge at the gates. It was so hard that I actually took a knee in the middle of the store, like they do in kiddie sports when a player gets injured on the field. I looked over to my right, where an elderly lady was stocking the shelves with over-the-counter medication. "Are you okay, son?" she asked me. I nodded the best I could, and then slowly stood up and went in the restroom.
Now that I was in there, all bets were off! I bolted into the stall, undid my pants, and turned; but the anticipation must have been too much. As I was still in the sit down motion, I released -- shooting diarrhea all over the back of the toilet and the seat as my bottom continued its descent. By the time my ass came to rest, I was sitting in a steaming splatter of my own fecal mess. But did I care at this point? HELL NO! The relief out-weighed the disgust by tons.
It was only when was done that I realized the predicament I was in. My third and greatest hurdle: no toilet paper.
I knew I had to leave the stall and get some paper towels, but how? I had shit all over my ass. I couldn't pull up my pants and go get them, which meant I had to make a potentially embarrassing and vulnerable move: I had to open the stall, hop to the sink with my pants down, get paper towels, and hop back.
I made up my mind. And I was ready to make my move when sharp spikes suddenly grew out of the top of the third hurdle: another guy came into the restroom.
And not only that, but he knocked on my stall door.
"Fuck," I thought. "Occupied," I replied. He huffed a bit and then exited, but his appearance made me aware of two things: first was the potential for someone to come in as I was getting paper towels; and second was that that potential had now been increased, because this guy was likely to be back to check on the availability of the stall very soon.
I hopped out at a speed that would make a jackrabbit say "DAMN!" I got a wad of paper towels and got back into the stall. I wiped up as fast and efficiently as I could, but I didn't have enough time or towels to clean the toilet. I put the soiled paper towels in the toilet, flushed, and continued to zip up. The toilet began to back up, but I couldn't care less. I had done my business, and the aftermath was now someone else's concern.
I exited the stall, washed my hands, and left the restroom. A few feet outside the door was a man about to walk in -- presumably the same man that had come in before. I wasn't going to stick around and have my good name associated with that disaster, so I full on sprinted out of the store.
I got into my car and reflected on the entire incident. I realized then that my sprinting could have gotten me misconstrued as a fleeing shoplifter; security really should have stopped me, and that would have been real hard to explain. I half-laughed, and then started my car and continued my journey.
I haven't missed my morning shit since.
