So, a few weeks ago I wrote an all too revealing expose on what has gone into my ass, and now I feel it’s only proper to write one about what has come out of my ass. Or, more accurately, what hasn’t.
To fill you in, in case you haven’t read my previous articles, I used to drop fat deuces. Big ol’ dumps. Even now, my humongous feces dwarf the average man’s pitiful droppings, but this is only a shadow of my former power.
Because of this unfortunate fecal habit, I was pretty afraid of shitting. No man’s anus, gaping rectum or not, was ever meant to expel such gargantuan objects. With every trip to the bathroom, I ran the risk of never coming back.
I feel like I should get a pass for that one, though. Everybody is allowed to have one completely irrational fear. There’s only a problem when you have two. For example, just hypothetically, imagine not only being afraid of pooping, but toilets as well. Imagine it. Imagine you refuse to use public restrooms for fear of the billion other nasty butt cheeks that have touched those toilets. Imagine that you’re so freaked out you put a towel around the toilet seat in your own home. Imagine that that works out until you’re camping with your school one time and you end up just shitting in a trash can. A trash can inside of a bathroom stall. Wouldn’t that be absurd?
You see, I wasn’t the ‘crap in an object specifically designed to be crapped in’ kind of guy. But I also wasn’t the ‘poop in the woods’ kind of guy. That’s too risky. Someone might see you poop in the woods and that would just be awkward. What’s not awkward is dropping a huge dookster in a trashcan so small that the aforementioned dookster fills up the entire thing.
Now, you might be saying ‘Hey, Sam, why not just take the tiny trash bag and, you know, put it in a larger trash bag?’. And if you’re saying that, you can just fuck right off. I took a shit in a trash can, I obviously wasn’t thinking very hard about my decisions at the time.
The upside of this story is that I didn’t get caught. You don’t always need to get caught, though. You’re your own worst critic, you know? I’m sure if someone else saw me take a dump in that trashcan, they would have thought ‘yeah, that’s a pretty normal thing to do’. But I hold myself to a higher standard than that.
Then, young brainiac that I was, I realized I could knock out two birds with one stone. Afraid of where you shit? Yeah. Afraid of how you shit? Definitely. So, how about you just don’t shit?
This had the potential to be the greatest idea ever. Like, if it worked. Unfortunately, and this may come as a surprise to some of you, it really did not. At all.
You see, you can’t actually stop shitting. The food’s got to go somewhere, you know? So, while I like to introduce this story as the time I stopped shitting because it sounds pretty fucking dope, it’s really the time, as a young teen, that I shat myself for two months straight.
To my credit, it worked great for about a week. No more shitting! I was done! Who knew it was as simple as clenching your ass really god damn hard?
Turns out it wasn’t.
I could only clench my cheeks so tight before I realized that what went into your body inevitably came out. This was much more of a revelation then I’d like to admit. I just had to decide whether I wanted to do it the easy way, or the hard way. I realized that it was time to accept that this was not possible. I couldn’t not poop. It was time to do the responsible thing and just shit myself for the rest of my life.
A month of this goes by before my parents intervene. An entire fucking month. I’d love to think I was so good at hiding it that they just didn’t notice, but I’m pretty sure they knew full well what was going on and were hoping it would fix itself. To be honest, I get it. If I woke up in the morning with a choice of ‘try to explain to your teenage son that he should stop shitting his pants’, and ‘maybe just don’t do that at all, though’, I think I’d go for the second one every time.
But eventually, they realized that I was just too fucking stupid to figure this out for myself. So, they call me upstairs. Every father dreams of this moment. When his son gets older, gets more mature. The little guy starts becoming a man. And dad finally gets the chance to tell him;
‘Buddy… Can you please shit in the god damn toilet?’
Good times, man. Good times.
Logically, that’s where this story ends. You don’t poop, someone expressly tells you to poop, and you do it. Maybe in a perfect world. But I was too far gone. I tried, I really did. I even did my patented power stance (which I sometimes still use).
In case anyone needs it:
You get on your tippy toes so your knees are up high, then put your fists out like Goku. Then you just force as much weight against your ass as you can. If nobody’s home, you do some Dragon Ball yelling. Otherwise you just mime it.
To my dismay, even the ultimate defecating posture was not enough to open the floodgates. I probably should have told my parents, but I was also a little afraid I’d have to stick something up my ass to unclog it, so I figured I’d go back to what worked. Not shitting.
This time, my parents caught on real fast and they weren’t nearly as diplomatic as before. They tried to give me an out. But they realized that they were going to have to take matters into their own hands.
Obviously, my imagination went a little wild. I didn’t have to shove anything up my ass. My dad did.
We’ve all had one of those days. Face down, ass up, your dad is squeezing a tube of oil into your hairy anus. Ah, the intricacies of life.
Imagine that, though. Staring down at that butthole and thinking ‘This dude was once just one little sperm in my sack. Now look at him. All grown up’.
‘Why the fuck didn’t I pull out?’
It was unpleasant, but damn did it work. My father finished the tube and got the fuck out of there as fast as he could, but it was hardly fast enough. I think this has been pretty graphic already, so rather than describe the shit, I’ll describe the feeling.
It may have been the best thing I have ever felt. Really, it wouldn’t be too out of line to argue that the entire two months of torturing my innocent bowels were worth it just for that one orgasmic moment.
Then it all went downhill. I don’t know what happened, I just know that it fucking hurt. After the initial relief, my bowels began their spring cleaning and promptly stabbed my insides about a thousand times. The next two days were spent glued to the toilet leaking like a water balloon and wondering if I had ever felt pleasure in my life or if it was just always the infinite agony roaring in my gut. I’m only fifty percent sure I actually got through it. There’s a solid chance my entire life since then has just been a stomach wrenched fever dream.
All in all, I’d say it was a pretty good experience. Definitely recommend it. Plus, I got over my fear of shitting. Now I’m afraid not to shit.