There are various milestones that every couple hits in a relationship. Every couple has a different set, unique to their own principles and feelings. I believe that one of these milestones is farting in front of one another. The ceremonial First Pass Of Gas is, to me, one that shows almost as much meaning as saying I love you. It was this past weekend that I not only passed an important milestone in my relationship -- I massacred it.
This Monday marked the day of my nineteenth birthday: a birthday that holds no true significance to it but turning another age. Not since eleven has a birthday felt so pointless. So it was decided that this weekend I was going to put the liquor down like a champ and make my birthday a memorable experience. We began to partake in drinking games; and shot after inebriating shot got me, of course, drunker and drunker. By the end of the night alcohol had helped me make my birthday so memorable that I was most likely going to forget it in the morning.
But the best memories were yet to come. I stayed at my boyfriend's university-managed apartment that weekend. When I awoke in the morning I felt as though I had been hit by a truck, dragged a few blocks, then stoned by an angry mob. Gradually I began to feel better, and I partook in some grub and then went to surf the web.
Now, I am sure that all faithful PoopReport readers have read my roommate Erica's article College Pooping 101. From this Erica and I have decided that I am half Shameless and half Shameful Shitter. So, as I sat there at five o'clock the next evening and the beloved-by-all beer shit began to boil, it was at this point that I became delighted. For now I realized that for the first time in months since I began living in the dorm I could shit privately, on my own time, without having to worry about various acquaintances intruding.
I proceeded to the bathroom. Everyone was asleep. My boyfriend would never know what I was about to do. I realized how much I had missed the privacy of a nice, cozy bathroom, with a dim light, a medicine cabinet, a sink, and all the fixings. I pulled my pants down -- all the way down to my socks; another thing I hadn't done for months -- locked the door (a real door!) and proceeded to empty the night's contents.
It went surprisingly well for a beer shit. So well, in fact, that I don't even know if you could call it a beer shit. It was the kind of poop in which you are pleasantly surprised that it is completely unnecessary to wipe your ass. However, it was also the kind that spanned the entire length of the bowl -- impressive for a girl. Actually, to some extent, admirable. Although, as clean as it came out, the smell was nowhere near as pleasant. If sniffed directly I am sure it would have burnt your nose hairs right off and left them in a small, charred pile on the ground. It was the kind of smell that made me frantically look at all the walls just to make sure the paint wasn't peeling. But after a desperate reach for the fan switch that almost resulted in me passing out, the smell was quickly depleted. I guess ResLife figured they were going to need industrial fans for college housing; and they were right.
I smiled, checked my face in the mirror, and reached for the flusher. What came next was the worst sound I ever heard: the sound of a clogged toilet. Thankfully those horror stories I'd heard of the water seeping over the sides and the pooper being forced to face it with nothing but that white brush didn't come true. I giggled -- this was hysterical. And this was going to be the first proof to my man about my ass and the power it possesses.
I went to his room, giggling, of course. I was going to need to be cute to pull this one off. "Sweetie," I told him, "the toilet is clogged."
Now, a month or so earlier, I had told him about the story of my first week at college in which, after not shitting for four days, I clogged a college toilet -- the kind capable of sucking a 747 through it. Impressive indeed. Recalling this event, he knew instantly what had happened. I called maintenance and they said they would send someone up as soon as possible.
Here's where it's just wrong: neither my boyfriend nor his roommate had taken their beer shit yet.
Hours passed. My boyfriend was beginning to die and every hour his roommate asked if maintenance had come yet. It was five hours I made them wait for their precious toilet before maintenance came and undid my doing. I felt proud -- I was the first one to own the throne. I felt like Napoleon. Not only did I make it nearly impossible for anyone to top me, I made it darn near impossible for anyone to do anything after me at all.
Only after my boyfriend saw my monstrosity had I passed the milestone and was I able to freely let them rip in front of him. He had seen the worst and all weekend long he dealt with the aftermath. And, yes, I loved every second of it.