SHIT IN THE NAME OF LOVE

I was 8, maybe 9 and HE, the object of my affection, was 16 years old. Watching him glide through the neighborhood, I would sometimes inhale the air as if I could smell his cologne. It is definite that a teenage boy, caramel colored skin and dark wavy hair, wearing tight designer jeans and the latest sneakers, smelled really good like my father's aftershave. He walked with confidence, was friendly and had the whitest, straightest teeth... and I loved him. My first love was everything to me, except my age. Oh well, a girl can dream, and I did after falling asleep after a quick pillow make out session. I thought my dream was coming true, when my mother took me and my 2 sisters into the ice cream parlor and there he was, working behind the counter, ready to serve us ice cream. Captivated by his beauty, I stared visualizing neon lights surrounded him and he stared back , smiling at me with those alabaster denticles. Reality set in when I heard him bellow, in an annoyed tone, asking about WHAT kind of ice cream I wanted. I said the first thing that came to my mind, PISTACHIO MILKSHAKE. He hurriedly made it, and filled my sisters' order, my mother paid and we left the store, almost as quickly as we entered. My mother would sometimes treat us to ice cream and let us play in the park, while she went to the betting parlor.

Growing up in New York in the 70's, in a family of 8 children, these treats were few and far between. But it was a special day, I saw my love, milkshake and playing in the forbidden playground of the community across the street from our housing projects. I carried that Pistachio Milkshake with tenderness and care, as if I was running with the Olympic Torch, the entire 6 blocks to the playground, careful not to spill a drop of the delicious elixir. After all, my love had made it for ME, and I'm sure he put love and care in the construction. I got to the playground, and sat down on the bench with the shake next to me. I didn't want to start drinking too speedily, because it may be finished too quickly and my love slaved away making it for ME. My sister, who always inhaled her ice cream rushed me to finish mine so we could play hide and seek. I started drinking that lacteal pistachio emulsion, savoring every ounce sliding down my throat and before I knew it, I was slurping the nuts at the bottom of the cup. My sister reminded me that I was finished, and I must hide, while she counted before seeking. I ran to hide and nestled into 1 of the concrete barrels in the playground.

Believing she would never find me, as I changed up my usual hiding places. I sat in that barrel, quietly snickering, when I felt the initial abdominal rumble. Shrugging it off as an isolated incidence I put my hand over my mouth so my giggles would not be audible. The rumbling increased and roared off the Richter scale. I just knew my sister would hear my gassy stomach over my hushed giggles. The stomach rumbling increased in velocity and started moving towards my anal exit. At any minute I would blow like an active volcano. The more I fought to hold back the eruption, the more determined it was to present it's content. I felt a gas bubble well up in my intestines and I thought I would seep it out slowly and carefully to relieve the internal pressure. With that little TOOT, came the lava flow of the sleeping giant. I was mortified and could not hold back the shitty flow running from my anus. Perfect timing... my sister appeared and told me it was my time to count and ran off. I could not move, as the warm green lava continued to flow and I was now sitting in a pound of pistachio magma.

After awhile my sister returned to that barrel, demanding that I play the game. I told her that I could not move and I was now carrying 10lbs more than when I went in. My mother returned from her gambling spree, sister brought her to the barrel in which I was buried in the skitters. My mother coaxed me out the barrel, wrapping my sister's navy blue Catholic School uniform sweater around my waste, and told me it's time to go home. I slowly emerged from my personal hell and began the 10 block walk home. My gait took on the form of a wide ,slow waddle, taking care to not loose any of my pants' contents. As I walked those 10 , felt like 20, extra long blocks home, I reflected on the taste of that rancid Pistachio concoction. In hindsight, I thought it tasted kind of funny, but I had never had one before of which to compare. Was my love trying to poison me? Did he not know that the milk may have been spoiled? Or did he care? Talk about Shitting in the name of love. That's the last time that happened to me.