When you gotta go you gotta go. The taboo surrounding the number two. We don’t talk about it. We don’t want anyone to know we can create smells so bad it makes a pile of dog shit smell like a bottle of Marc Jacobs signature scent. Women are pretty, elegant and we smell nice. To even think about admitting we are harboring last nights food in our lower intestines and refusing to let it go because the only option is to poop in your boyfriends mothers shiny toilet is unbearable. The heat lifts to our cheeks at the very thought of leaving a skid mark in a toilet to be viewed by another who knows that was you releasing last nights wine and Shepherds pie. As a female this is an embarrassing act of nature. The sound, the smell, the mess everything about the number two taboo is mortifying. Unfortunately there is nothing we can do to stop the crappy critters, is there? No.
For me personally I just cannot bring myself to excrete my wastage in any ‘public’ area. ‘Public’ in this sense meaning anywhere but my own toilet. For years I have flushed bright red if anyone even joked that I was going for a doo doo, let alone actually committing the crime. If I ever went away with work and had to share a hotel room, stayed at a friends house or took twenty laxatives in a nightclub I still refrained. I would hold it in until my stomach bloated so much I looked 6 months pregnant and I would be crippled with the pain of toxins and trapped wind playing Twister in my rectal passage. My bum would grace only the toilet seat of my beloved apartment. That was all there was to it. No poopies in public. Then I got a boyfriend who has his own apartment. Shit.
Ok, so this isn’t a public place as such, my boyfriends. When he would visit me I would schedule my toilet time around his arrival making sure I went before he arrived and all evidence had been bleached away and the room Febreezed. If I ever needed to go with him in the apartment, I would send him to the shop telling him I have to go but he can’t stay because he might hear my plops. This went down like a sack of shit (excuse the pun) as he had no idea what my hangup was. Now I was staying with him I could hardly send him out of his own place, could I? So I decided to play a few cards on this one. Firstly I started off by “having a shower” – by this I meant running the shower, putting some toilet paper down the loo to provide a sploosh-proof and silent landing meaning no giveaway noises. I would then tensely do my business whilst trying not to let a stray fart give me away, flush the toilet, get in the shower and by then the hot steam had killed the smell and all evidence is long gone (He always heard me flush and knew what I was doing anyway he confessed eventually.) I gradually became braver and if I now need to go I will ask him to put on music. Loudly. That’s the best I can do. He still rolls his eyes but I can’t empty my bowels whilst he listens and then fall into bed naked it just isn’t a turn on is it.
After some time I braved the public poo, twice. Each time the toilets were empty and it was a race against the time I may not have had until a stranger walked in mid push. Luckily no one did walk in, which was lucky because it was a stinker. That was literally a crap-my-pants in public or use the toilets as that is what they were made for after all. I didn’t fancy being pointed and laughed at for shitting myself in the middle of London in all honestly.
How many times have you tactfully positioned yourself in bed with a man desperately squeezing your bum cheeks and wincing at the pain of holding in a toxic waste package? The many times of getting to the office and almost instantly realising you should have off-loaded that tractor full of manure before you left the house? Hosting a house warming and didn’t drop the kids off at the pool before you let the first guest in? My guess would be more than once. To be quite honest it has to be one of the most uncomfortable experiences tensing in your turds knowing the relief it would bring just letting them go. Thing is we can’t because we’re too hung up on the shame and embarrassment of the number two taboo. I’m not sure there’s a more uncomfortable and awkward situation than squatting over a toilet slowly trying to push, knowing there are people very nearby, people who might start to smell the potent gases, becoming more aware of the loud noise it will make in the deathly silent lavatory, deciding it was a bad idea and trying to stop it but becoming conscious of the fact there’s no going back now. Hoping no body has the faintest idea what’s going on in your cubicle. Although once it’s out you do feel ten stone lighter.
We all need a good clear out. Whether we talk about it or not. If anyone tells you any differently they are lying or seriously need to see a doctor. Let it out, if you need to bum blast then have a bum blast. Who gives a shit anyway?
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