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 Here In My CarPosted 10.17.2005 by Mark from Team ... (10)
Editor's note: this was originally published on Team Fishcake. It was recommended to us by reader Scatoman, and is reprinted with the permission of both the author and the site.
I received an important lesson this month in how you should never trust anybody with an embarrassing secret when the cost of betraying that secret is far lower than the amount of fun and enjoyment that can be derived from sharing that secret with a wider audience. Also, I have learned that sometimes the way you feel you will be perceived by other people if they knew a certain piece of information about you is not necessarily the same as how you do end up being perceived. First of all, we need to spin the clock back to January, 2001. I'm twenty-two, not far from my twenty-third birthday, Christmas has been and gone and I am off out to Stockport for a couple of drinks and to wind down. The weather is wet, windy, and cold so I decide to drive down. The club in question that I end up going to is a place that was once called Cottons. It was the seediest, dingiest club in Stockport (not a place known for its classy night-life). The club no longer exists, as it changed its name to High Society, went a little upmarket, and became a topless dance bar. This has now closed down, due to the fact that it was operating as a brothel and also due to the fact that on their inaugural R&B night on a Sunday, a lad was killed when somebody shot him in the head at point blank range. Still, enough women had probably been fired in the face in that place that there were some who were probably happy to see the balance somewhat redressed before the place closed down in a storm of police and local newspaper activity. Anyway, tonight was a Cottons night. I had my mandatory drink (just enough for Dutch courage, not enough to become a danger on the road) and surveyed the dance floor. A few weeks earlier I had met somebody in there called Julie who I ended up seeing a couple of times. Then she scared me by sending me text messages from another phone pretending to be a secret admirer in order to test my fidelity. Not wanting to re-enact the plot to the song Babooshka by Kate Bush, I nipped it in the bud, well, pretty nippy. Julie was not in this night, but her younger and more attractive friend was. She spotted me, we got talking. It turns out that Julie and her had had a falling out, so I had free reign to tell Kat what a weirdo I thought Julie was; whilst at the back of my mind remembering that, quite often, when women (or men, I suppose) fall out, there is nothing more satisfying that getting one over on them with a revenge fuck. I say this was at the back of my mind but, if I'm being absolutely honest, when I first met up with Kat, it wasn't at the back of my mind at all. It was at the front. We inevitably ended up doing things that you can get away with on a nightclub dance floor; although if I had known that in the future illegal live sex acts and first degree murder would be committed on the same floor, I may not have been so prudish! We finished off in the car. It all got very heated, the windows steamed up. Without getting too carried away with explicit detail (that will be provided later), I was administrating digital pleasure towards the end of our little adventure. She was enjoying it quite a lot. So much so that she screamed and yelled; I could feel the familiar bucks and contractions that ensure you know it isn't being faked. She arched her back, let out a huge moan… and shat herself. This obviously brought the whole atmosphere to a completely different place. I am not sure of the exact etiquette for when somebody you have basically just had an alfresco one night stand with defecates on your car seat. I admit that I was slightly more naïve and inexperienced back in the day, but I honestly do feel that now, with my indentures well and truly served, I still would not know the exact words to say. I offered to give her a lift home. She gratefully accepted -- which, given the circumstances, was all she really could do. When she arrived home, she did not ask me in for coffee and, funnily enough, the whole conversation about whether I wanted "to do this again sometime" did not arise. This story can probably be echoed by the sex stories of other people of my age. To be fair, it is a serious competitor for one of the best sex embarrassment stories of all time. However, it is not something that I had intended on making public knowledge -- until now. Back to the present, 2005. On a drunken night out, in another of Stockport's fine late night saloons, Pure, two friends and I are talking about first times and funny stories. The atmosphere of competition was upon us to outdo each other for the title of Best Story. I threw my hat in the ring. But it was okay, because I swore them to secrecy afterwards and that meant they would never tell anybody. The next day, I come in and Alan is deep in conversation with somebody on the other end of the phone. He works on a call desk, so the only person he can be speaking to is either a shop manager of a betting shop or one of the engineers in the field. It has to be work related. As I pass, I hear: "So yeah, apparently he was feeding the horse, and she shat all over his car seat." This story not only spread faster than the news of Richard Whiteley's death, but took more twists and turns until I finally didn't recognize myself. By the end, I had pulled a girl who pre-warned me she had diarrhea and I had asked her to do it for me. In another, I had tried to spike somebody's drink, but had been given a laxative by a dealer with a sense of humor instead of the standard rohypnol or whatever. In another version of the story, I left it to dry, gave my grandad a lift the next day, and then, when he commented on the smell, convinced him that it was his own mess. Suffice to say, these stories were relayed with a sense of camaraderie and affection. I found myself having to inform people who were suddenly reluctant to receive a lift from me that it was "not the same car," fielding questions about size, consistency, volume. There were barely contained sniggers from customers and engineers as far as Harrow and Southend-on-Sea as they spoke to me for the first time after hearing the news. I have probably started urban myths in places as far flung as Dundee and Timsbury. My activities have been the conversation of people in pubs and clubs and betting shops throughout the land. As I work in a call centre dealing with engineers who move all around the country, the story has been disseminated far and wide. I bet that everybody knows someone who knows someone who knows the story. I'm starting to feel like Kevin Bacon, but with a system based on stories about detritus rather than how many films I have starred in. I have become known at work as "The Guy Who Gets Girls To Shit on His Car Seat." Now you'd think that I would be hiding in my bunker somewhere now, trying to avoid contact with anybody from work and wondering how I will ever get employment again; but the paradoxical thing is that the story has made me a little more popular. People who thought I was a little quiet or humorless or uptight now appear to be a bit warmer towards me. In a way, I feel like I have become a little bit rock ‘n roll. So now I am throwing the story wide open, so that the handful of people who haven't heard it can revel in my embarrassing story of in-car entertainment, and hopefully elevate me to cult status. Incidentally, the car registration for the vehicle that this sad debacle occurred in is D138 NBA. It was a white VW Polo. If anybody ever sees it, I would love to hear from them. Just don't accept a lift off the owner! Thanks again to Team Fishcake for letting us reprint this! Post new comment
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