The day started out unremarkable enough for a utility company meter reader in the Midwest. I was dropped off at my first address knowing that I'd be picked up again at the end of the day at my last address. It was day three of trudging through the incredible snowfall that we've had here the last few days, and the tremendous amount of energy it took to do so was really beginning to chap my ass. Little did I know that the REAL ass-chapping was soon to begin.
In a matter of an hour, I already had one hundred of the 450 meters read. Life was good. At about 9:30, the usual piss nudge on my bladder began. I easily took care of that in some articulate landscaping between two houses while pretending to read a non-existent meter. Another fifteen minutes passed as I zig-zagged my way through suburbia. Then it came: a downward push from somewhere deep inside of me. Small at first, I was about to scoff it off as nothing more than an errant fart when, not two seconds later, a much larger, "heavier" push came, as if I was passing a sock full of nickels through my small intestine. The obvious need to find a shitter dawned on me, as did an alarming sense of urgency.
I figured I would finish out this street and then find my way to main street to locate a shitter. As I would soon find out, my sense of duty would be my downfall.
I had to knock on only a couple doors on that street: the two houses with meters in their basements and no remote reading devices on the outside. Upon walking on to a front porch and ringing the doorbell, I felt a little something deposit itself in my boxer shorts, as well as another small downward push.
"OK," I told myself. "Nothing to worry about. I've had some watery emissions in the past. I'll be fine." After reading said customer's meter, I said fuck to the rest of this street and started on a brisk trot toward the main street.
It was quite a while before I found the business district. I looked around with fear in my eyes, seeing nothing but car lots. I spotted a gas station a quarter of a mile down the road and begin trotting again -- only this time, I could feel similar small deposits with each step I took. I could only liken it to small kernels of corn landing gently in the nut-wrap of my shorts. I was beginning to sweat at the exertion of the full pucker.
Before I even reached the gas station, it released. I could hold it no more. I can only describe the texture as "soupy".
With shit oozing down my legs and seeping through my boxer shorts, I hurried into the gas station. "Sorry, sir, we don't have a public restroom," the clerk tells me. I could fist-fuck her, I was so angry. I hobbled out and spotted a restaurant across the street.
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity at the damned crossing, mashing the button the entire time, I finally crossed. I hobbled in, not bothering to have niceties with the sitting staff, and made a beeline for the men's room. I immediately began stripping off my layers of outerwear: two jackets, snow boots, snow pants, work pants, and then... the boxers. My gift to the porcelain gods was smeared everywhere. It was shameful, to say the least. The inside of my thighs, my nut sack, my entire ass and cheeks. It was a mess.
I began wiping with paper towel after paper towel, the last just as shitty as the first. I stood there wiping for a good ten minutes when the damned knock on the door came. "It'll be a while, pal," I say. This only makes him knock more exuberantly.
I cursed the world and deposited my work pants as well as my boxers into the trash. I dressed as quickly as I could with the remainder of my clothes -- which, on the lower half, consisted of only my snow pants, which really aren't much of snow pants at all, but more like windbreakers. One thin piece of material. This thin item was supposed to shield my nuts from the brutal twelve degrees of arctic cold outside.
I sighed, wiped the last few shit-bits off the floor, and exited the men's room, glaring at the phallus standing outside. "OK," I tell myself. "My aroma is of fecal matter, but I can finish this damn day."
I began my walk back to where I left off when I felt a slimy sensation rubbing my balls and inner thighs. I forgot to wipe out the crotch area of my snow pants.
Not five minutes later, the burning begins. It starts on the right side of my nut sack and travels downward to the nether-crevices and inner thighs. The pain intensifies as I trudge through the snow toward the next meter. I read this meter and begin to wince in pain at every thigh-rubbing step that I take. I feel as though a decanter of hydorchloric acid was thrown on my junk, after which a steel-wire brush was taken over the area for good measure.
In serious pain, I need to formulate a game plan. Feeling my ass-juice actually beginning to freeze on my balls, I take the plunge and call my boss.
"Boss, I've had a pretty embarrassing accident. Are you alone?"
[Slight pause] "Yes, I am... Well, you'll have to tell me so I can help you with your problem."
"Well... I had diarrhea and didn't quite make it to a restroom."
[Longer pause] "Well, can you make it to a restroom now?"
"I did. And I cleaned myself up as good as I could, but my whole crotch area burns. I can barely walk."
"Do you need to go to the emergency room?"
"No. I just need to go home."
"Alright -- but I can only pay you for half the day. Call your dispatch to come pick you up."
I call my dispatcher, who is a full town away, and ask him to take me to my vehicle. I can only stand at the corner in shame, crotch burning, smelling of shit, watching passersby in their warm vehicles. He finally makes it twenty minutes later.
I get in and immediately he asks: "What's wrong?"
I sigh and say, "I slipped in some dog shit and rolled my ankle."
"Ohhh... don't worry, guy, happens to us all sooner or later. Did you get all of the shit off your boots?"
I just stare listlessly out of the passenger-side window.