The Car Park

This happened only a couple of weeks ago and marks a special occasion in the history of my disobedient bowel.  This was the first time my wife actually witnessed my arse misbehaving.

My wife has always wondered how I, a grown man, cannot seem to manage to get to the toilet in time.  I always tell her that I have very little notice, but it never seems to be believable.  And understandably so.

We were shopping in our local town centre, and were on our way back to our car.  I felt the ever familar cramps in my stomach and the reactionary twitching of my ringpiece.  "WAIT!" I shouted in panic, as I stood on the spot clenching as hard as I could, desperately trying to hold off the inevitable.  "What?!" replied my wife, understandably annoyed as we were laden with carrier bags.  "It's happening" I replied.  She knew what I meant, and without one ounce of sympathy she burst out laughing.  This is turn set me off laughing.  After all it was pretty funny.  Swiftly managing to control my laughter (which allowed me to concentrate on my back-end issues) I made the decision to get back to the car.  The quicker I get home, the quicker I can drop my load.

I waddled for a couple of minutes to the car park, my arse cheeks throbbing with being clenched for so long.  But as soon as our car was in our field of vision, I realised that getting home was not an option - I was going to have to shit... right here, right now.

Fortunately the car park we used was fairly secluded.  I dropped the bags of shopping on the floor next to our car, dove between our car and the wall, dropped my trousers, crouched, and with a mighty roar my arse propelled a brown liquid slurry about three feet behind me, decorating the floor with liquid smelling so foul even Satan would have been proud.  The entire deed took less than two seconds.

Taking a deep breath and looking to the heavens in thanks, I saw the look on my wife's face.  Part confusion, part horror, part surprise.

"Well hand me something to wipe my arse with, then!" I shouted, which snapped my wife out of the half-laughing-half-shocked state she was in.  Handing me a packet of wet-wipes (thank God women carry handbags) I quickly cleaned myself up, pulled my trousers up, and turned to see the mess I had made.  It was cone shaped.  The narrow end was about a foot away from where my arse had been, the wide end was about two feet further.  I didn't look at the mess very long, the stench was horriffic.

For the first time on this blog, I asked my wife to comment on the event.  However, after quite some time (weeks) thinking about what to type, she simply said "I'm speechless.  I don't know how to describe what happened."

A Big Brown Stripe

Seeing as it has been a while since I updated the blog, I thought I would treat you with the most recent event in my arse's history.

Earlier today whilst at work I had more uncontrolable stomach cramps. As usual, the pain was extreme and I dare not stand to go to the toilet as I was already having to clench beyond my means just to prevent an accident.

A few minutes of pain later, the cramps subsided. I took this opportunity to go to the toilets. As soon as my arse touched the seat it was like the garden hose up my rectum was turned on. Without any spluttering or gaseous emmissions of any kind, a fine and powerful stream of warm water shot out of my rear end into the bowl below. You know the feeling you have when you're drunk but being sick makes you feel better? This was very similar (although it was my arse that had been sick). This, however, is not the point of this story.

When I pulled my pants and tracksuit bottoms up I felt a cold wet sensation on my crack. It would seem that my effots clenching had been in vain... at least some of the aforementioned arse-soup has leaked my almost airtight sphincter.

"Not a problem..." I thought, "I'll just ditch the pants."

A winning plan if ever there was one.

However, whilst removing my tracksuit bottoms I noticed that due to the obvious lack of solid matter in my diarrhoea, not only had it leaked into my pants, but it had leaked through the pants and through my tracksuit bottoms. Unfortunately for me, the bottoms were a light colour and I now had a brown wet stripe about 7 inches long and 1-2 inches wide on my crack, visible to anyone who at the time might have glanced at my crack.

There was nothing I could do - I couldn't rinse them in the sink as it would only make it more obvious. I ended up hiding in the toilet for a short time until the lunch time rush of toilet users had dispersed, and then hitched the bottoms up as high as I could, and made sure my t-shirt was not tucked in, and went back to my desk. I just made sure that I stayed there until everyone else had gone home so I could get to the safety of my car.

The Greatest Shit in the World

Not so much a tale of my arse being out of control, this is simply recalling what happened the day I had the most satisfying stool ever experienced.

I was in my early teens at the time, and had gone cycling with my mother and brother between my home-town and a town about 15 miles away. The plan was to cycle there, then get the train back home.

I had no problems riding a bike but had not done so for a few years so was somewhat out of practice. My backside was certainly not used to such a vigorous stimulating for such a prolonged length of time. The constant pounding that my arse took from the seat must surely be a contributing factor to what happened next.

Anyway, about half way through the journey, I shouted to my mum and brother to wait, dropped the bike, dropped my trousers and pants, and squatted at the side of the cycle track. Without any straining and needing no encouragement, the longest, widest, monster of a turd slid smoothly and effortlessly from my arsehole. I felt as if I had lost half of my body mass, my stomach felt deflated as there was nothing pushing it from behind, and my anus felt relief as it closed up. The only way I can describe the feeling is that it felt like I had excreted one of those large square plastic wheelie-bins - without it hurting. The shit was huge. At the time, it seemed like the turd that Randy Marsh was so proud of in South Park. I was almost sad to leave it at the side of the cycle path.

I'll Never Know

A couple of years ago I was sent to America for a week on a work trip. I was put-up in a nice hotel, one that I certainly wouldn't be able to stay in if I was paying for it myself. A spacious room, delicious food, great location (who wouldn't want to stay on Broadway?) and such a large comfortable bed that I had the best sleep I had in a long time.

One morning I woke up, walked into the shower, and lathered up. I noticed there was a bit of shit mixed in with the soapsuds after I had washed my arse. Well, when I say 'a bit of shit' I actually mean 'quite a lot of shit'. I washed thouroughly, got dressed, went to work and thought no more about it.

When I got back to the hotel I made my nightly phonecall to my girlfriend, but this time I told her about finding a substantial amount of poo on my hands after washing my arse in the shower.

"Did you at least tip the room cleaning staff?" she asked.

"What for?" I said, puzzled. "For shitting the bed, of course." she said, firmly putting me in my place. When getting showered, despite finding shit (and a fair portion, I might add) on my arse, I had not thought that I may have actually shat the bed. Horror struck me - the bed was now changed, and I will never know if I actually did shit the bed. Apologies to the maid who had the unfortunate task of changing the bed of a grown man with bowel issues.

How (not) to skive school.

Most of the time, like most children my age, I hated school. Whilst I was a good boy and would not skive off the traditional manner by hanging round the shops or going to the park, when I wanted a day off school I would do my utmost to find a way to legitamize my skiving by faking illness. At least if I could convince my parents I should stay at home, I could watch TV and play computer games. My mother did not fall for the 'rubbing talcum powder into my face to make me look pale' technique, so I found something better: self-induced diarrhoea.

I am guessing I was around six years old at the time and my memory is vague, so I am not certain about how I came to formulate this plan but I do wonder what must have gone through my mind. Do you remember Fairy Liquid bottles as they were in the early 1980s? Rather than the nice small bottles that we have today, they were much larger long straight white bottles with a removable cap which when removed left an opening into the bottle about the same size as a modern five pence piece. The size of the neck of the bottle was key to my plan.

I took a Fairy Liquid bottle, removed the cap, and filled the bottle with warm water. Squatting in the bath with my trousers and pants lying on the bathroom floor, with one had I parted my cheeks and with the other I gently inserted the neck of the Fairy Liquid bottle into my rear-end. As I gently squeezed the bottle I felt the warm water rush into my rectum. Strangely enough, I remember the feeling to this day, and I enjoyed it somewhat. It surprised my how much water my arse could hold. As a side note, it seems strange typing this knowing that I was doing this as such a young child.

Everything I did next was carried out clenching my anus as tightly as I could. Carrying seemingly more water than a camel, I stashed the Fairy Liquid bottle, put my pants and trousers back around my ankles, sat on the toilet and let the water gush into the bowl. It was a thin, frothy, very pale-brown soup. And there was lots of it. All over the bowl. I called my mother, complained of a sore stomach, and showed her my 'diarrhoea'.

I don't really remember what happened next, but after recently confessing to my mother what had caused the diarrhoea she filled me in on the details. She drove me to our local doctor. The doctor referred me to the hospital. We went to the hospital and saw a doctor who also could not diagnose the symptoms. I left a stool sample (they needed to check for certain bacteria or disease) but they could not find anything wrong with me. The symptoms never returned, strangely enough.

I am typing this story as it is perhaps the earliest memory I have of me behaving in an abnormal way with faeces. My other half even wonders if this was the start of my inappropriate shit-related antics. Whilst it certainly got me a day off school, I didn't get to spend the day how I had planned. To be honest, I may has well have gone to school. Don't try this at home, kids.

Billy Hatcher and the Giant Egg

As mentioned in the earlier post I made about myself and this blog, most times I shat myself were accidental (see The Sicilian Pizza Trauma), but occasionally I did it on purpose. This is one of those times.

A few years ago (a quick check on Google says 2003... gosh, doesn't time fly?) a game called 'Billy Hatcher and the Giant Egg' was released for the Nintendo Gamecube videogame console. To save me typing, you can read more about the game here if you wish. I became almost addicted to this game and played it for several hours at a time. I was not living with my fiancee at this time, otherwise I very much doubt I would have been able to feed this addiction :)

Anyway, one lazy Saturday I was playing Billy Hatcher. I played for hours, and needed the toilet. I held on, and played. And played. And played some more. My stomach was getting sore, and the more I played the game the longer I spent sat clenching my buttocks to hold off the inevitable. The game was compelling, I was always thinking to myself "Oww, I'm desparate for the loo, but I'll just finish this little bit of the game" or "I can hold on for just another five minutes".

After holding it in for two or three hours it felt as if there was a battle taking place between my bowel and I, and my bowel was beginning to get its own way. Ladies and gentlemen, through a combination of an addiction to a video game and sheer laziness, I had 'touched cloth' - and still I did not get up to go to the toilet. I continued to play Billy Hatcher (just to reiterate, this was a really good game), and the turtle's head became a turtle's head and neck, and a short while later the pain in my stomach had gone. I had shit my pants.

A normal man would not do what I did next - but then again, a normal man wouldn't have shit his pants playing a video game. My girlfriend and I shared a common love of toilet humour so I called her on the phone to tell her what had happened. Between this incident and the aforementioned Sicilian Pizza incident about six years (and many arse accidents) had passed and this was the first time I had let anyone else into my little secret. My girlfriend took it well (well enough that she fell about laughing, and still does to this day) and she was the one who suggested that I share my stories. Without her, this blog wouldn't exist.

The Sicilian Pizza Trauma

When I was in my late teens a new style of pizza was introduced by Pizza Hut (for a limited time if my memory is correct) called 'The Sicilian'. The Sicilian was a square pizza with some apparently traditional (or secret - I can't quite remember) concoction of herbs and spices. The TV adverts made the pizza look absolutely delicious and, to Pizza Hut's credit, the Sicilian was indeed a treat.

At the time I had a good friend with whom I would visit Pizza Hut quite regularly. One Friday night we decided to share a Sicilian to see what the fuss was all about. We had a great night eating pizza and taking full advantage of Pizza Hut's 'Ice Cream Factory' (a self-service ice cream machine which you had unlimited use of), and we went our separate ways.

We met up the following morning as we had arranged to travel to Leeds for a shopping trip, kindly driven by my mother. When we were half way there I begain to feel uncomfotable; my stomach groaning as if I was hungry and twisting and contorting as if I was being massaged from the inside out. I decided to ignore the pains and with incredible willpower would attempt to disguise any external symptoms as best I could, hoping that we would get to Leeds soon.

Ten minutes later we drove into Leeds and parked in a car park next to the indoor market, not far from the West Yorkshire Playhouse. It was such a relief to get to Leeds without exploding - the pain in my stomach at this time was almost unbearable. We all got out of my mother's car and left her to deal with the Pay and Display machine as my friend and I started to walk towards the shops. At the precise moment my legs started to move I knew something was wrong.

The pain in my stomach suddenly increased an unbearable amount, and no amount of clenching my arsehole could stop what was happening. I was leaking into my pants. I stopped walking and made a feeble excuse about checking my wallet for money, naively hoping to buy myself a few seconds with which to regain control of my bodily functions. Success. The leaking had stopped. We started walking again, and I clenched my arse cheeks together with as much force as my muscles could muster. We reached the other side of the car park seemingly without incident, although by this time I was cold and sweaty and felt like I was going to pass-out. However, the reprieve was only temporary as the closer we got to the shops the more my stomach felt like they were being minced. Once again warm liquid began to ooze from my arse, a small squirt with every step I took.

"I'm just going to nip to the loo" I said as we approached McDonald's. I managed to get up the stairs to the toilets, accutely aware of the warm soft mass gathering in my pants. I burst through the door, went into a toilet cubicle, dropped my trousers and exploded all over the bowl. Imagine the scene from the first series of South Park where Kenny has explosive diarrhoea and you're pretty close. The diarrhoea had the consistency of double cream, the colour of Nutella chocolate spread, and it smelled as foul as anything I had ever had the displeasure of smelling.

After a couple of minutes of suffering terrible stomach cramps and further outbursts, I attempted to clean my pants with toilet paper. At the time this was the worst uncontrollable outburst I had suffered and I was an amateur when it came to clean-up. I used an entire roll of toilet paper trying to clean my pants and backside, and the bowl I had decorated, before I decided to give it up as a bad job. I rolled up the pants and carefully stashed them behind the toilet bowl. On this note I should say that since this happened to me, I have felt guilty for simply leaving my soiled pants hidden behind a toilet. I genuinely felt pity for the member of McDonald's who discovered them. If a McDonald's staff-member is reading this who worked at a Leeds McDonald's in 1994/5 and found a pair of Navy Blue briefs covered in foul-smelling diarrhoea behind one of your toilets, I sincerely apologise but there was nothing else I could do.

The friend I was with was female and therefore thankfully unable to come into the toilet to see why I was taking so long. I pulled up my trousers, washed my hands and composed myself. I met up with my friend who was in the restaurant enjoying a milkshake, and we reconvened our shopping trip. Whilst I felt a huge relief to be rid of whatever it was that was disturbing my insides, I felt dirty and extremely fragile. I had never experienced something quite like this before, but I certainly would again.