My Shitty

My friends and I used to go out to lunch on the weekends. Having a sensitive stomach but a hard head, I would often hop on the bandwagon to a small Chinese buffet—the likes of which was typically only populated by us, the waitresses, and maybe a rogue Mexican family, no matter what time of day.

My boyfriend and our friends, all husky fellows with cast-iron guts, were rarely offended by the greasy and questionably prepared items there. Even though I stuck mainly to vegetables and crab rangoons, it seemed that each time I ate at the restaurant in question I was left with a terrible case of the bubble-guts.

Compounding my hard head and sensitive stomach is a profound embarrassment for most things poop, and thus, I am not one to proudly declare my intentions to shit up a storm, no matter who I am with. Accordingly, on this one fine Saturday I dismissed myself to the bathroom, breaking into a cold sweat as I turned the corner to the ladies’ room.

Upon entering, I quickly scanned the spaces beneath the three stalls. No one! I dropped trou and the levies broke for a miraculous moment. But I barely had a moment to myself before I heard another lady enter the room. Waves pounding through my head; embarrassment looming, I wanted nothing
more than to be at home in my own bathroom, trumpeting and dumping without shame.

I recognized the shoes of the lady – she was a waitress. All of them were very dainty oriental women who I honestly could not distinguish from one another. Her arrival temporarily frightened my liquid shits away from salvation, though I know the stench loomed. I tried to suppress myself as best I could. But then came the most awkward situation I had yet to face in a semi-public setting:

She tooted.

Every woman knows that sound, and many have done it themselves when they intend only to pee but instead end up ripping a high-pitched, unmistakable fart that resounds fearlessly throughout the bathroom. Those like me may try to disguise it with a cough or a scuff of the shoe, but everyone knows exactly what it is. So meanwhile, I fought off a considerable load of gut soup when I, well…farted. I could not stop them coming, even using the muffle-it-with-the-toilet-paper trick.

She farted again, and I as well, combined with the sounds of her effortless peeing, mocking my discomfort. It was the most awkward, foul badinage that one could experience. I wasn’t sure whether to giggle or not, but I did find humor in this most dire of situations.

Eternities later, she finally left the bathroom, and I was allowed to execute the contents of my stomach in peace. Needless to say, I meekly exited the bathroom and shiftily glanced around for the shoes connected to the woman I had to avoid. However, one waitress was indiscernible from the next, so I had to hurry my gluttonous friends out without appearing too urgent.

No, I don’t want ice cream; let’s go!

Poop Report

A couple of years ago, my current girlfriend and I started dating. We were getting comfortable with each other; I had no problem ripping big ones around her. I liked to believe I was training her to appreciate my farts, since she did not share a love toilet humor with me — yet.

We started dating at a time when I was drinking a good amount of beer on a regular basis, beer that was providing me with ample enough butt pressure to rip the big ones. Despite my girlfriends objections, I seemed to be winning the fart war, having gained the right to rip almost anytime and anywhere in her presence.

On this one particular evening we were watching TV while laying down on the bed. I had imbibed a couple of beers and was feeling warm and content when a familiar feeling of a fart started creeping down the barrel of my howitzer. This was nothing unusual, so I slightly spread my legs and braced for the recoil.

The fart seemed to hesitate, however. I pushed a little to ease it out of the firing chamber, and it relented. But it did not exit alone. Along with the fart shot out a jet of smelly hot brown substance! I bolted from the bed and ran for the bathroom, startling my girlfriend.

I heard her from the bathroom. “Oh My God!”

When I opened the door my girlfriend was changing the bed sheets, because the fart had pushed the stream of brown liquid right through my boxers and jeans and onto her bed. I just stared in disbelief.

I’m really happy she did not dump me after that “dump” I took on her bed.

Poop Report

She was the hottest girl I had ever laid my eyes upon. We had spoken to each other a few times before, but tonight — tonight was the night I was finally going to make my move.

The club was dark, gloomy and stank of stale sweat and cheap beer. She was in her little group of friends chatting away when she noticed me come in. Our eyes met instantly. I had been reluctant to actually go out this night, as when I was getting ready I had a small rumble in my gut; nothing to panic about, but I knew if it progressed into something worst it could lead to a rather embarrassing evening with my date.

Anyway, after a lot of drinks and cringe-worthy small talk I finally got a kiss off this girl. She invited me back to her place, which was great, as my apartment looked and smelled like a fucking soup kitchen.

We arrived at her place her at two a.m. Her parents were away all weekend so it was just us two. We got to know each other better verbally and physically. She laid me down on the sofa and gave me oral: This was great. I was elated and groaning in ecstasy… that was until she deep-throated me, and in doing so headbutted me in my lower abdomen. My intestines retaliated almost instantly and I farted loudly, just inches away from her face. This fart was followed by angry groans and slushing noises from my recently disturbed gut.

I needed to release my anal load, and without delay, while my date continued her act, appearing to ignore the smell that had just been produced from my asshole. I tried to push my gut cramps to the back of my head, but denying my body the right to discharge its unwanted goods wasn’t going to work. I made my excuses and quickly paced upstairs to find the golden throne.

I found the bathroom without too much difficulty. The fresh lemon-lime scent struck me upon first entering the immaculate bathroom. I don’t normally feel comfortable pooping in any toilet other than my own; however this bathroom made me feel at ease.

I positioned myself upon the cold-but-strangely welcoming loo. My load was terribly watery. The noises that my ass made in those short few minutes were alien to me. Feces showered out of my rear end with rapid force, and then the poo then began to come out in a more congealed form much like chocolate spread. I knew I wasn’t finished completely, but I couldn’t keep my date waiting any longer. I was already mortified that I had to take a dump in her house, not to mention on our first proper date.

Now, I only recently found out that my wiping habits were not of the norm; but when I wipe I stand up and lean forwards slightly. This technique has served me well as it allows me to be strategically fully stretched when wiping to take place. I was already quite weak on my feet due to the alcohol, however, so wiping was quite difficult. Then for some awfully cruel freak of nature reason I sneezed.

As I sneezed my entire body contorted, my bowels contracted, and they unleashed their final blast of shit with a vengeance. I had sprayed shit everywhere, and I mean everywhere. The back wall of the bathroom was now totally speckled in brown watery shit, and the once sparkling white tiles were now tarnished with the brown mess.

I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I quickly started to wipe in a panicked manner and then cleaned myself up. This left an unwelcome consequence: no more toilet paper. And since I wasn’t in my own home I couldn’t find the toilet roll cupboard. Everyone has one somewhere!

In a frenzy I grabbed a white bath towel and began wiping the specks of poo of the tiles and from the toilet. All the while I was gagging on the unforgivable smell of wet shit. My nostrils had become bombarded with shit particles, and in that moment I wanted life to end.

I managed to wipe most of the shit up but was left holding a foul, shit-stained bath towel. Without thinking, I opened the bathroom window and threw the towel out. My plan was to retrieve the damning evidence later on and burn it.

I quickly washed myself down with soap once more and headed back downstairs to find that my date had fallen asleep on the sofa. I waited around for about 30 minutes before calling a cab and going home.

The next morning I was totally hungover and feeling just awful about the incident the night before. I looked at my phone and I had a text message from the girl. My heart sank as I read the haunting sentence:

“You just made my dog throw up you stupid, disgusting bastard!”

Needless to say, we haven’t spoken since.

Poop Report

My friends and I used to go out to lunch on the weekends. Having a sensitive stomach but a hard head, I would often hop on the bandwagon to a small Chinese buffet—the likes of which was typically only populated by us, the waitresses, and maybe a rogue Mexican family, no matter what time of day.

My boyfriend and our friends, all husky fellows with cast-iron guts, were rarely offended by the greasy and questionably prepared items there. Even though I stuck mainly to vegetables and crab rangoons, it seemed that each time I ate at the restaurant in question I was left with a terrible case of the bubble-guts.

Compounding my hard head and sensitive stomach is a profound embarrassment for most things poop, and thus, I am not one to proudly declare my intentions to shit up a storm, no matter who I am with. Accordingly, on this one fine Saturday I dismissed myself to the bathroom, breaking into a cold sweat as I turned the corner to the ladies’ room.

Upon entering, I quickly scanned the spaces beneath the three stalls. No one! I dropped trou and the levies broke for a miraculous moment. But I barely had a moment to myself before I heard another lady enter the room. Waves pounding through my head; embarrassment looming, I wanted nothing
more than to be at home in my own bathroom, trumpeting and dumping without shame.

I recognized the shoes of the lady – she was a waitress. All of them were very dainty oriental women who I honestly could not distinguish from one another. Her arrival temporarily frightened my liquid shits away from salvation, though I know the stench loomed. I tried to suppress myself as best I could. But then came the most awkward situation I had yet to face in a semi-public setting:

She tooted.

Every woman knows that sound, and many have done it themselves when they intend only to pee but instead end up ripping a high-pitched, unmistakable fart that resounds fearlessly throughout the bathroom. Those like me may try to disguise it with a cough or a scuff of the shoe, but everyone knows exactly what it is. So meanwhile, I fought off a considerable load of gut soup when I, well…farted. I could not stop them coming, even using the muffle-it-with-the-toilet-paper trick.

She farted again, and I as well, combined with the sounds of her effortless peeing, mocking my discomfort. It was the most awkward, foul badinage that one could experience. I wasn’t sure whether to giggle or not, but I did find humor in this most dire of situations.

Eternities later, she finally left the bathroom, and I was allowed to execute the contents of my stomach in peace. Needless to say, I meekly exited the bathroom and shiftily glanced around for the shoes connected to the woman I had to avoid. However, one waitress was indiscernible from the next, so I had to hurry my gluttonous friends out without appearing too urgent.

No, I don’t want ice cream; let’s go!

Poop Report

A couple of years ago, my current girlfriend and I started dating. We were getting comfortable with each other; I had no problem ripping big ones around her. I liked to believe I was training her to appreciate my farts, since she did not share a love toilet humor with me — yet.

We started dating at a time when I was drinking a good amount of beer on a regular basis, beer that was providing me with ample enough butt pressure to rip the big ones. Despite my girlfriends objections, I seemed to be winning the fart war, having gained the right to rip almost anytime and anywhere in her presence.

On this one particular evening we were watching TV while laying down on the bed. I had imbibed a couple of beers and was feeling warm and content when a familiar feeling of a fart started creeping down the barrel of my howitzer. This was nothing unusual, so I slightly spread my legs and braced for the recoil.

The fart seemed to hesitate, however. I pushed a little to ease it out of the firing chamber, and it relented. But it did not exit alone. Along with the fart shot out a jet of smelly hot brown substance! I bolted from the bed and ran for the bathroom, startling my girlfriend.

I heard her from the bathroom. “Oh My God!”

When I opened the door my girlfriend was changing the bed sheets, because the fart had pushed the stream of brown liquid right through my boxers and jeans and onto her bed. I just stared in disbelief.

I’m really happy she did not dump me after that “dump” I took on her bed.

Poop Report