Yes, it's true. Up until then, I had been blessed with daily diary entry-like logs -- chunks and pudding p(l)ops. Throughout my boyhood, whenever my stomach had been upset, I always managed to throw things up before they had a chance to be catapulted in frightening Hitchcockian-style from the rear window. High school was characterized by four years of pooping perfection; the one potentially disastrous eggnog drunk I engineered my freshman year in college got tsunamied into the trashcan beside my bed before it could all gurgle into my innards and initiate a mad dash to the communal dorm bathroom.
Thus I graduated from college into the real world without ever having experienced that rotten rush of entrails that I now know can cause everything from mere embarrassment to thorough traumatization. I knew what this FedEx fecal package smelled and sounded like, of course; I had had a couple of college roomies who suffered with it now and again in our suite bathroom. But I had yet to endure it myself.
Then came the summer right after graduation. My mother and I accompanied my father to the capital city one day for an investment broker exam he had to take. For some reason, my father took a scenic route on the way home, rather than the well-traveled state highway. We found ourselves stopping for lunch at some mom & pop diner that, from the outside, didn't exactly overwhelm me with its decor. Still, you can't always go by ambience. Sometimes the places that serve the best food look downright drab and dreary. Plus, we were hungry, and the place advertised home-cooked meals. So we went in and ordered the blue-plate special -- veggies and some kind of meat. Then we headed home.
In the house about two hours later, I began to have some virginal feelings in my lower gut. At the time I did not recognize the oncoming rush of driving booty-rain for what it was. I thought there was something drastically wrong with me. I thought I was seriously ill. I rushed to the bathroom, pulled down my pants, and indulged my first honest-to-badness case of the trots.
It was horrifying to me because of my pristine pooping past. I was completely unprepared for the dogged nature of these trots. They kept coming and coming, yellowish and loose and nasty, pawing away at my peace of mind, yet still intriguing me enough to lift up and take a gander at the evidence after every explosive report. I began to think on my ass -- I would say feet, but I was glued to the pot. The only thing to which I could point as the culprit was that mom & pop blue-plate special. I fervently hoped that this was all there was to it, because I even entertained the panicky thought that I might have some serious disease.
The next thing for me to learn for the first time: when you think you are through wiping yourself after one of these bowel bouts, you are just beginning. I had no sooner wiped and wiped and wiped after the first round than round two began. I remember I had finished buckling my belt and had just started to wash my hands when another charge of the dark brigade ensued.
All told, I believe I erupted and cleaned up a total of four times before I could gather up the courage and confidence to journey more than six feet away from the toilet.
I lost my dark cherry that fateful day during my twenty-third summer. I can recall having the runs every once in a while over the years that followed. It never became a chronic thing with me, of course. And on the rare occasions when it did occur, I no longer panicked about the health implications. It simply meant I had eaten something that didn't agree with me, and I had to let nature run its course. Literally.
Still, you never forget your first time. Especially if you're twenty-three.
And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time my love
It would last till the end of time my love
- Roberta Flack, The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face