The Shitty Of Brotherly Love
My childhood home was not a place where people farted at the dinner table: It was the home where the bathroom always smelled like air freshener because someone was always dropping a turd that he or she had been holding in all day in there, and no one had better had gotten even a minor whiff of it.
This led to an interesting public pooping career. I became an expert at holding back butt stews and timing my urges perfectly to coincide to when the Ladies room at the office would be open for my destruction. One day, I was fed up with it. I was sick of the clenching, sick of lighting matches, sick of the held in farts, sick of the aching bowels that would have to wait hours--sometimes even days--to empty. I decided to take a stand, while sitting of course.
These thoughts were jumbling around in my head one afternoon while I was at home. I was looking in the freezer for something to snack on when I got an idea. I saw a microwavable burrito that I’m pretty sure had been around since Benjamin Franklin had lived in my hometown of Philadelphia. The idea was bold and daring: I would eat the burrito, then walk around the city waiting for my bowels to gear up. Then I would unload in a public bathroom without any shame.
The plan proceeded quickly. As I was eating the burrito I could feel my stomach groan, almost saying, “Really, you really want to do this?” I kept going. Once it was eaten, I felt uneasy in my stomach, but I couldn’t tell if it was butterflies or the burrito. Either way, things were moving, and I needed to find a public bathroom before my guts dropped into my undies. I headed out into the city.
Previously, public bathrooms were never really on my radar. I was always a "hold it" gal. The thing about public bathrooms that I found out was that when you really need them, they disappear. And I really needed one. With every step, my stomach churned and gurgled. I was about to explode when I passed by a library. Thank the gods, a library! I shuffled in and spotted the bathroom, a single occupant type with a small line. I figured I could hold it a little longer while it was my turn. I had held turds for much longer; I could do it.
I underestimated two things: one, how long people using the bathroom in a library take; and two, how bad things were in my digestive system. I could feel the brown python trying to slip between my tightly clenched cheeks. I held it back and fidgeted around while trying to focus. Sweat collected around my butt, which only made it harder to clench. Finally, it was my turn. As I stepped into the bathroom, I noticed that I pretty significant line had formed behind me. I had no time to process this though. I needed to evacuate.
I groaned as the poo curled down below into the bowl. I felt the warmth of it radiate onto my cheeks. The smell seeped through my thighs. I decided to take a peek between my legs to see the brown baby in all of its glory. It did not disappoint. The thing had coiled like an anaconda, and I swear I could see steam rising from it. I started feeling lightheaded. It could be because I just went down three belt sizes with one turd, or because the bathroom had filled with fumes that could knock a rhino down. Either way, I was in no hurry to get up, despite the fact that I knew I was holding up a line.
After a few lovely seconds of basking in the after-dump glow, I snapped back to reality. The reality of this situation was horrifying. I had filled the toiler with a turd that weighed as much as a fourth grader while making the bathroom smell like an outhouse on a hot summer day in the process. Sadly, the bathroom lacked any sort of air freshener device. While I normally oppose the scent of those things, this stench was so foul I would’ve made the exception. I wiped, trying to use as little paper as possible, so I wouldn’t clog the bowl even more, and pushed the flusher. I held my breath as the water came flowing in. The moment of truth.
The beast went down . . . kind of. The toilet flush (which blared like a jet engine) had carried away about eighty percent of the log, then left the rest to just lay there.
By now the time was really weighing on me. I felt like I had been in the bathroom for hours, but I didn’t want to leave because I knew what was outside: a chorus of judgmental looks and pinched noses. For the first time in my life, other people would know for sure that I had pooped. Why, oh why did I try this? Life was so much easier holding it in.
I washed my hands and faced the music. I locked eyes with the poor soul who would follow my brown bombing. She was short, with black hair and blue eyes. At first she looked at me puzzled, like, “Why is this lady staring at me?” I turned around and headed to the exit before she found the answer. I headed home, feeling relieved that I had just come one step closer to shameless shitting. The fact that I evacuated enough poop to fill a dump truck didn’t feel too bad either.