I went to the gym today. Toby had some business to take care of at the Social Security office in downtown Brooklyn. I figured I’d drive him there and since there is a New York Sports Club in Park Slope I figured I’d take the opportunity and work out for an hour or so. And I beat myself up pretty badly. I tend to do that after realizing that the 18 pounds I kicked out not six months ago has slowly been moving back in.
After a nice long shit-kick, I wanted nothing more than a hot shower. But today I couldn’t get the temperature of the water right. When I got out of the shower, I was cold and wet. I felt like a pale damp slug.
I hate drying myself off at the gym. There are only so many places I feel comfortable putting those bleach infested, overused towels. So I tend to skimp during the dry off phase. I don’t rub all the moisture off of my body and I certainly don’t dab my ass crack with them or floss like some weirdoes.
I put on my pants and my bra and then my shirt. I sat down on the bench to call Toby. A woman walked in and plopped her belongings down on the bench to my left.
Hey hon. You ready yet? Have you gotten through security?
Not yet. Just go on home. I’ll take a car service or a cab.
You sure? OK. Well, I’ll call you once I’m in the car just to make sure.
I got up and walked toward the mirror. I inspected my ass in the mirror. I turned sideways to gawk at the bulges forming around my waste. They’re coming back. I felt depressed. The pants I had purchased while I was on my diet no longer fit right. They pushed my belly fat up like rising loaves of bread.
That’s when I noticed the damp spot. A bit of water had formed on the top of my ass crack. It was about the size of a fifty-cent piece. Clearly, I spotted the spot. You would have had to have to been blind to miss it.
Scooz me. Scooz me.
The woman who had sauntered in while I was on the phone was talking out loud. Was she talking to me?
She was talking to me. Why was this weird woman talking to me? What could she possibly want?
Yoo have sumtheeng on yah pants.
She had a very thick Puerto Rican accent. She held up her finger and pointed to my ass.
I Doonoh eef eets wet or eef eets sumtheeng dirtee.
Was this woman accusing me of shitting myself? I almost did at the mere thought of it.
No, it’s just water. I must not have dried off enough.
She pointed again and nodded.
Ya bettah hope so.
Now, I don’t know much about pant pooping, but I do know that normally poop is colored. However, I did once live with a guy in England who ate the meat from the local chip shop, the kind that spins dizzily on one of those big metal poles like some century year wrinkly old hooker. After a night with that, he moved into the bathroom for about a week. He shat clear liquid for the duration of his stay. It was truly horrific, poor fella. If what this woman was accusing me of were indeed true I would have to have one mad case of salmonella.
I put on my long coat and left hoping my face and my ass would eventually disappear from her memory.
One more reason why an extra layer between your ass and the world might be a good idea.
(probably slipped in pants-poop-overflow)
TOBY! he wrote that.
So, wait, you’re saying that people wear underpants to stop the poop from shining through? I had no idea! POOPY PANTS UNDERPANT PEOPLE!!!
No, not for the poop, but for any extra dampness.
Once you’ve shat yourself, who cares if someone can see it. They’re sure to smell it anyways, right?
well, if you had really shat yourself, you’d only have poop on your underpants. so you could conceivably take them off, throw them out, wipe your ass, and not stew in your own poop until you get home
or, you can not wear underwear and have the poop smeared onto your cheeks and the seat of your pants until you get home.