Though my social skills were improving, no doubt, I was still chronically petrified of doing anything even mildly embarrassing -- especially in front of some boy I was trying (and likely failing) to impress.
This particular evening, I had plans with a guy I'd actually seen a few times prior. This was unprecedented, so I attributed my stomach pains to a combination of anxiety and hunger and tried my best to ignore them. I pulled into his driveway and folded down the vanity mirror to ensure there wasn't anything horribly wrong with my face or anything stuck in my teeth. I took a slow, deep breath, trying to collect myself and calm my nerves.
I looked up to see the guy standing on his front porch, waiting to greet me. My stomach was still gurgling angrily, so I thought the appropriate thing to do would be to expel any looming future gas before going inside, since my farts had been especially pungent that day. Hoping to fart it all out and avoid any future embarrassment, I clenched my teeth and bore down hard.
There was silence, but the result was far beyond deadly. Hot, sweaty shit erupted from my anus. It went through my underwear and through my pants, and some even seeped through onto my car seat. I looked up in a state of sheer terror and panic. The guy, still patiently waiting for me to get out of the car, smiled and waved inquisitively. I was still clenching my butt cheeks together as hard as I could, to minimal avail; it was obvious at this point that things were nowhere near over.
Eventually, with a lot of time, squeezing, and threatening various gods, the expulsion of rancid liquid began to cease. I quickly came to the conclusion, as the boy stepped off the porch and started towards my car, that there was no possible explanation for the smell or sight. I was covered in my own still-tepid feces, and I had to get out of there, before it was too late. As he continued towards my car, I slammed it into reverse and backed out of his poorly-lit tree-lined driveway at record-breaking speed. Perhaps it is only my mind embellishing the memory, but I think I may have made a screeching noise with the tires of my Volvo 240 DL.
Once safely out of sight of his house, I stopped in a church parking lot to evaluate my situation. I still had to poop -- desperately -- and my determined diarrhea door was not going to let me off easy. The boy lived in a residential area, so there was nothing nearby resembling a public restroom.
I looked around the parking lot. It was well lit, but there was no one in sight. I stood up outside my car and took off my shoes. My gurgling gut reminded me that round two was approaching, and quickly. After evaluating my options (or lack thereof) with one final sigh, I peeled off my pants and underwear and threw them back into the car. Then, carefully, I curled my feet around the edge of the car floor and held the steering wheel so I could balance myself while hanging my ass outside of the car to finish pooping without getting it on myself (though it didn't much matter at this point).
Scorching shit, which was now about the consistency and color of rusty water, splattered all over the parking lot below me. I wonder, looking back, if any churchgoers spread my sick soil about the church via their un-hemmed pants.
Though my asshole was in agony, I was convinced my lower digestive system was settled for the time being. I carefully stepped down, avoiding my mess, and began, still naked from the waist down, to search the back seat for something to clean up with. I finally encountered some fortune in my evening of atrocities when I discovered an ample stack of napkins in a discarded fast food bag.
I tidied my ass up with the napkins and did my best to clean the driver's seat. I found my pants and underwear, still strewn across my passenger's armrest. One glance and I determined there was no way in hell I was squeezing back into those shit-soaked slacks. I decided the underwear wasn't worth saving and threw them into the parking lot, along with used napkins (an interesting side note: the first conscious act of littering in my entire life). I rolled the pants into a shitty ball of wet, put them inside the plastic Taco Bell bag, and tied it up tight. I took another (final) plastic bag and laid it across the driver's seat as a precautionary measure.
I couldn't find anything anywhere in my filthy car that would serve as clothing, so I drove home with my lower half completely exposed, praying that I wouldn't get pulled over.
Shortly after pulling onto the highway, I concluded that this atrocious aroma was NOT of the You'll Get Used To It class of stench. I couldn't decide if it was that pungent odor seeping through the top of the bag of poopy pants, my shoddy job of cleaning the car seat, or a heinous hybrid. I decided I'd take my chances and attribute the majority of the odor to my soiled pants. So I pulled to the far left lane and threw the shit sack into the median (this being the only other conscious act of littering in my entire life).
They were very flattering pants, if this is any indication of just how repugnant that poop perfume really was.
When I finally arrived home, the bag I was sitting on was reasonably clean. On the off chance my parents were still awake, I made myself a sort of plastic bag skirt (tearing open the bottom and sliding the bag over my head, so the handles were hanging down). I scurried into the laundry room, wrapped myself in a dirty towel I found in the hamper, and ran into the bathroom for a much-needed shower.
I eventually spoke to the boy, ineffectively blaming my sick dog for my sudden departure.