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An Epic Poop Story

How I turned a small case of the shits into a shit storm

By S.A. OzbournePublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash

You know that feeling you get when your stomach does that tightening thing. Everything from your lower stomach to your sphincter contracts as your body knows something is desperately trying to rush out. Of course, there are different levels of pressure and pain depending on what you ate, how long ago you ate it, and how long you have been holding off eliminating it.

Most people will get that sharp shock in their bowels and quickly excuse themselves to the bathroom. But unfortunately, I was not lucky enough to have that luxury. Here is my story.

I was 15 years old and carrying a box of chocolate-covered almonds. This was my part-time job in the summer. Every day, I would take a bus to a specific gas station parking lot and wait for a white bus. John, the owner of the yellow school bus painted over white, had a charity/business called Youth Against Drugs.

I am not sure whether it was a registered charity and if the money actually went to any youth against drugs but I was given a laminated poster that claimed we sold chocolate almonds with proceeds going to hold a camp and other community services to help kids stay off of drugs.

The deal was we would get a box. In the box were 40 packages of chocolate-covered almonds. We would sell them for four dollars. We would get to keep a dollar for our troubles and John the driver would take the remaining three. What he did with that three dollars per box was never really explained to us.

But considering this worked out of a white bus in a gas station parking lot, I am pretty sure the bus, gas, and cost of buying chocolate in bulk were the expenses, we were the youth that was meant to be against the drugs and the rest of the profit went into the charity of John’s wallet.

Anyway, it was during one of these days of “work” that the situation occurred. John would choose an area of the city, drive us 15 or so kids to the location, drop us off in various neighborhoods, and tell us he would be back in 4 hours to pick us up. So I was dropped off alone in a small residential neighborhood with nothing but a box and pamphlet. There were no smartphones, cellphones and I didn’t have a beeper so there was no way to contact anyone unless I went to a payphone. But John didn’t have a phone so there was no way to reach him.

The first couple of hours were fine but in the third hour, I started cramping up and knew I had to go to the bathroom. So far in my chocolate selling career, if I had to relieve myself before John came and picked me up, I would find a tree and like a dog, mark my territory.

But I had never had an urge to poop during work so this was my first experience. I clenched and held in as much as I could. All my efforts went into squeezing my butt cheeks closed as I walked door to door and tried to sell chocolate. I started sweating, my heart started pounding and I could feel my sphincter clenching and un-clenching slowly losing the battle.

I decided to give up selling and just walked around as quickly as I could looking for any bathroom. A convenience store, dentist's office, restaurant, cafe, any place that would have a bathroom. But I was deep in a residential zone and there was nothing but street after street of identical-looking houses with long driveways with two or three garages.

The upper class was more likely to buy chocolates, not because they really cared about youth against drugs, but mostly because they craved chocolate and it was probably too far and bothersome to go to a shop to buy some.

This also meant there were no public bathrooms around. My option was to ask a homeowner to use their bathroom but I just couldn’t do it. Not only was I afraid of getting rejected or having suspicious eyes glare at me thinking I was going to rob their place, but I was also afraid of the smell that would be left behind and what that would say about us lower-class folk.

I didn’t want to be the reason the class wars further divided us. What if these rich people were repulsed by the smell and made it their life mission to never associate with the working class?

My only choice was to either hold it until John picked me up and drove me back to the gas station or to find some kind of park or bushes where I could squat down and empty my bowels.

Once again I was on a hunt for anywhere that seemed private enough not to be seen. I had given up looking for a bathroom and now was just looking for a dumping ground. Panic set in as no matter how many streets I walked I couldn’t find any parks or bushes. The only nature was the trees that lined the sidewalks but that was too public. So I did something that to this day makes me both regret and cringe.

I found a house that didn’t seem to have any cars in the driveway. I saw no lights on and no sound seemed to be coming from the house. Like a robber staking out a joint, I walked the perimeter of the house and unhooked the door to the backyard. I found a little bush next to their back porch, pulled down my pants and underwear, and even before I could position myself my body thought it was ready and let loose a torrent of turds. I felt so relieved and my body loosened and felt much more relaxed. All the pain and discomfort in my lower abdominal was gone.

Then I opened my eyes and looked down only to find half of the turds had landed in my underwear rather than on the ground. I flicked them out but it was obvious that some of the poop was not solid and therefore I had soiled my underwear. Also, I had no toilet paper to wipe so I had no choice but to just pull my underwear and pants back on.

The walk back to the pickup location was probably the longest I have ever taken. Not physically but mentally. There is no sadder or more devastating walk other than maybe a walk to your execution than taking small steps as moistness and dampness rub against your inner thighs and anus.

Then another bout of panic hit once the white bus arrived like a chariot from heaven. Walking to the back of the bus and sitting for an hour in your own filth hoping no one can smell the feces caked in your underwear, my spirit was crushed. But the story was not over.

From the gas station, I then had to take the bus home. Luckily it was pretty late at night and not many people were around so I could keep my distance. But once at home, I was faced with another predicament. What do I do with my underwear?

Now a normal teen would dump it in the garbage, put it in the washing machine, or rinse it themselves in a sink before anyone could see. But I was not a normal teen. I couldn’t dump it in the garbage because my father was on a recycling trend and waded through the garbage every chance he got to remind us that certain objects could be recycled and should not be thrown away.

Also, my mother was the laundry person and for sure would find the soiled underwear and find out. After taking them off in the bathroom and seeing the amount of damage, there was no way to salvage them with a quick rinse. These tighty-whitey pants were a write-off.

Once again I did something I am not proud of. I got a plastic grocery bag, put my underwear inside, tied the bag tight, went out to my balcony, and swung the bag as far as I could across my building like a shot put. I was aiming for a group of trees in the backyard of a house but I overshot and it landed in their swimming pool.

It was summer and there were floating toys in the pool and a picnic table meaning a family who lived there were barbecuing, having hot dogs, and lounging in the pool often. So there was a high chance that someone in that home would come out in their bathing suit, cold drink in hand, hoping to sit by the pool and enjoy a nice relaxing summer day when they would see a floating bag in the water.

Balled up and tightly tied, they would wade over to bring it out of the water. Examining the shape and softness they would slowly try to untie the bag. Possibly might even have to bring the bag inside to the kitchen for some scissors if my tying job was decent. Then they would see the white fabric and pull out the filthy and rancid excrement-covered material to realize it was someone’s shitty underwear. Would they scream? Feel nauseous? Gag?

I don’t know.

What happened in the aftermath? Who’s day did I ruin? I don’t know. But the people who own the house where I first took a dump either thought a wild animal or some stray dog must have climbed under their fence and left them a present. And the people who own the swimming pool must have thought it was a neighborhood bully pranking the kids or possibly a deranged homeless person raging against the well-to-do family. Either way, I ruined two perfectly innocent family’s days and I needed to confess.

After telling this story I feel just as relieved as the day this event happened. I guess there is no moral to this story.

It was just more of a lightening of a load.

Embarrassment
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About the Creator

S.A. Ozbourne

A writer with no history or perspective is a paintbrush with no paint!

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