Summer of sophomore year of college, I found myself back at my parents' and working to save up extra cash for the school year. Sometimes being home after living on your own for a year can suck. But I lived in Brooklyn, and spent nearly all my days and nights in the amazing city of New York, with friends who also came home for the summer. One night, I had been invited out to a concert that my friend’s band was playing, at the now-defunct CBGB bar. My motivation to go was based partially on the fact that I had an on-again, off-again dating type relationship with the lead singer. And, partially that even if his invitation didn’t extend into his pants, there would be plenty of hot guys at the concert anyway. 20-year old brain and overly-active hormone levels aside, I was looking forward to a Saturday night out in Manhattan. The only fly in the ointment was that my stomach had been a disaster all day. In other words, I had been shitting out my existence almost every 15 minutes non-stop since the moment I had woken up that morning. Still, my determination to go out that night left me undeterred, bowels be damned. As luck might have it, by the time I would've needed to be out the door to get to the concert in time, my colon finally seemed to have succumbed to my will. At least, it was behaving just well enough to make me feel confident I could leave the house and survive with clean underwear. Besides, I said to myself as I locked the front door behind me, it’s only a 30-minute train ride with one transfer. Worse-case scenario, I’ll find a bathroom right by the train station and take care of business before heading to the venue.
Now, had my life been a movie, this is where foreboding, impending-disaster music would have started playing. Honestly, it was like those scenes in campy horror movies where the characters think nothing of casually strolling past a creepy alleyway. But little do they know, they're actually heading right into the killer's hands. Well, that was me: heading to the train, naively whistling and door keys jangling. Thinking I was safe. All the while, though, my intestines were plotting and scheming away, waiting for just the right moment to ambush my butthole. I don't know what was the matter with me; talking myself into thinking I'd be fine. I was clearly so distracted, either by the thought of boys or a night out, that I became completely deluded to my current physical reality. Because let's be honest, crapstorms like that don't just STOP because you're mentally praying they will. Even when you reach a point where there's nothing left but water and cramps because everything else was flushed away hours before, it doesn't end until the Demons of Poop Hell deem it so. I was determined and stupid, and while I may have felt not-terrible when the time came to leave my house, there were still grumblings that I chose to ignore. And, as the script would say, cue the music...
The first leg of the trip passed without event; I took the Q train to Union Square, then walked to the 6 train platform to transfer. As I stood there waiting, I was feeling good; I even had a little pep in my step that was not of the Bismol breed. When the train arrived about 10 minutes later, I strode into the car without any resignation. However, as the doors closed behind me, the point of no return suddenly took on a whole new level of meaning. My colon, which had been cooperating so beautifully up until that point, skillfully pounced upon what could only be described as the most vulnerable position to ever be caught in. Oh, sweet merciful heavens, what had I done in my life to deserve this sort of brutal torture? I knew an ultimate battle of man vs poop chute was about to go down, and I honestly did not know how it was going to end. I had no choice but to ride my bad decisions out, but at least now my brain, albeit a little late, was working again. I managed to be smart enough to realize I was only going to make it if I sat down. I hustled (as fast one can with a clenched butt) to an open seat on this packed Saturday night train. I sat down, with only my short jean skirt between my thong underwear and the plastic of the seat surface. All I could do now was cross my legs, and pray.
The swaying of the subway car did nothing to ease the waves of shit that wanted to erupt from me. You know those waves; it starts, swells to the point of unbearable discomfort, and as you clench for dear life and force it back up and in, and it goes away. The catch is, that "goes away" thing is only temporary. At first, there's a reasonable amount of time between each wave, sometimes even as long as a couple of minutes. The length of those rest periods makes it almost bearable to make it through the waves' return. However, the longer you put off actually letting loose, the shorter the duration of rest periods and the worse the waves' intensity becomes. Like, exponentially worse, bringing one to the point of tears and leaving your butthole burning. I didn’t know what to do, other than keep on holding it in best I could and hope to all that's holy that I make it to my train stop without making a mess. I had about 5 more stops to go and woo boy, it was looking bleak. Luckily, I had managed to find a somewhat comfortable position that seemed to keep the ever-mounting waves at bay. My legs were crossed, I was perched at the very edge of the seat, and slightly leaning forward. At this point, I had now become completely oblivious to all that was around me. The concentration involved here was taking an astounding amount of effort. All sounds and smells had disappeared from my sensory system. My entire energies were focused on not crapping all over myself and those around me. I felt another wave coming, the worst one yet by far. I thought the end was upon me. I was sure that this was IT. But then all of a sudden the pressure shifted forward instead of trying to get down and out. A different, yet very familiar, sensation hit me. I could hardly believe it as it started to mount into that sort of... sparkly, electric, warm hyper-tingly-feeling place, but sure enough, that's what it was: I had an orgasm.
They say that there are only three things that will make the mind totally devoid of all thought: at the peak of a yawn, sneeze, or orgasm. At this moment, I had no doubt in the validity of that scientific information. But as soon as this current peak had passed, good god, my brain was on overload. A slew of emotions ran through me with terrific speed and all at once. Confusion, ecstasy, shock, and not least of all, trying not to shit myself while simultaneously having one of the most intense orgasms of my entire life. With each pulse of my coming, I felt my butt wanting to give in too. But I refused to let it happen. I instead shoved my fist in my mouth (I’m a...very vocal come-r) to stifle any noise, and did my best to man my ship. As the orgasm died down (a good thirty seconds later) all reality, and my other senses, started to come back to me. Sounds of Saturday night chatter on the subway car returned to my ears with a slowly increasing volume, and my vision sharpened from blurry to clear. As if through a settling dust haze, I looked up and happened to make eye contact with a guy sitting across from me. He was looking at me very strangely. I was convinced that he knew what was going on, or at least had an inkling of suspicion. But, weakened from the entire sensory overload, I couldn’t muster up the energy to care. The train pulled into my subway station, and with shaking legs, I exited the train. How sweet; the train waited for me to finish first before it came to a stop. I was so blown away by this...thing that had just happened, it took me several moments to realize it was a goddamn miracle I hadn't shat myself at all during any of it.
However, as I wobbled to the exit stairway, the reality of my situation slammed back into my brain and body. I would’ve bolted up the stairs to the street level and got myself to a bathroom as soon as possible, but I could barely think straight, let alone move. When I finally finished climbing the three flights out of the station and felt the summer night air cool my sweaty face, my goal became clear: Toilet. Now. I was not in a position to run anywhere, not just because the poop waves were reaching those of a tsunami level, nor because my brain was still reeling. It's because I had no idea where I was, let alone where to go. I was standing outside the subway station exit, motionless. What does a girl do when she finds herself practically crapping in her pants and not knowing whether to go left or right to find a bathroom? Those train maps that tell you “You Are Here” don’t exactly count shit stations as important landmarks. I can tell you this; I very nearly took a squat in a dark, empty parking lot that I passed once I finally started walking somewhere, anywhere. I was close to tears and there weren't ANY other places in the vicinity. Everything in my line of vision was closed or abandoned. Not even a bodega to be seen, let alone a place that would actually have a bathroom to use. What the hell was going on? Starbucks, you have failed me once again. Aren't there supposed to be two on every block in every city in the world? I stopped by the dark corner of that parking lot, and mused at how fitting this lack-of-lighting was for the darkest hour of my young life. I took a deep breath, ready to let it all hang out, but then: salvation. I saw a lit sign a few streets up saying, “ALL NIGHT DINER”. As if running to shining beacon or holy mecca, I found myself almost in a trance-like state as I bee-lined to those bright lights. I made it inside, and after promising the cashier to buy something in order to use the bathroom, I had my in. Like many homeless and/or drunken twenty-something’s before me, I went into that bathroom and did some serious damage. The past hour of unbearable holding-in was finally unleashed and good lord was it gloriously awful. I can honestly say, if you have been crapping all day and have ANY ounce of doubt that it isn’t over, learn from me and don’t leave your house. Unless you are a very sexually frustrated female. Then I say: go forth, young Jedi, and good luck.
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