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I don't really *do* morning shits but that sort of roiling, noxious red-brown liquid runs that has the consistency of cooking oil and an acridly foul smell to it that permeates everything the moment the first hot squirt shoots down into the bowl so hard the shitwater spatters your gooch and the bottom of your sack and gums up the hairs on your scrotum, the harsh acidity of it that leaves your pucker raw and blistering before even the first wipe and even after a dozen you still feel dirty, making your skin clammy and sweaty from the irritation and the slight nausea and the certainty that twenty minutes later you will be in the exact same position again grunting and cursing quietly as the thin gruel pours out of you like a burst abscess, is no stranger to me I try not to pay too much attention or look too closely at the patterns on the toilet paper I buy; they remind me too much of the network of fissures that cover my red and ravaged anus. I haven't had a solid stool in four months. I remember the last time I consistently did so, mostly because it was the exact opposite of my current situation; my turds grew progressively larger, blacker, and harder, like the penises in the series of cuckold fetish videos I watched while masturbating for a couple hours late last Thursday. Eventually these sturdy logs--not to overdo the comparison to the male member, but they were so reminiscent of a phallus that I found looking at them made me feel inadequate--turned into nuggets, simply because pushing them out was such a laborious experience that I would inevitably have to stop for fear of a subconjunctival hemorrhage or passing out from a lack of oxygen, each crowning three-quarters-of-an-inch of dookie inevitably being snipped off like the head of a cigar or French aristocrat. After roughly forty minutes of this I would inevitably be left with a small pile of my leavings in the very bottom of the bowl, pitch-black and compact, sometimes squat and cylindrical in shape like a collection of vaguely sinister hockey pucks or more spherical, a pile of little round balls of poo poo as hard as ice, coal for bad children. I am convinced that making GBS threads is the closest I have come to knowing the feeling of dying. Not in general, and not every time, obviously, only with the endless and cloying rust-colored streams that I have discussed previously. It is an ostensibly normal bodily function that I undertake, I go through the same motions in my endeavors that a man dropping a perfectly healthy deuce would, but my sufferings separate me irrevocably from any sense of commonality with him, my humanity is sheared away from me mentally, physically I feel like this ordeal is not the mundane and routine expulsion of waste but instead the wracking tortures of a man nearing the end, my animal heart screams at me from my agonized core, it tells me I am dying, it feels it and it knows it, my mind and my reason knows it is temporary but my body knows the bowl will be my grave, the tank my headstone, it is the instinct of all creatures that tells me that these are the feelings dead men feel, this is the smell dead things make, and though I ultimately know I will not die from it my mind turns away, I reflect on my life and all its foolish mistakes and petty cruelties as if it truly were ending, since the thought that I will live on and experience this not once more but countless times, dragged by my bowels back to my porcelain prison, is truly more horrifying than the idea of my death. Some people express a fear of their bowel movement being heard in public bathrooms, a "performance anxiety" of a sort; one hears of this phenomenon in pop culture most often associated with urinating at the urinals in plain view of other men and the impediment thus being others' sight of you relieving yourself, but I don't think it's particularly surprising that it is just as much if not more of a problem for making GBS threads and sound as an impediment, since most cultures find flatulence and everything but the most discrete sounds of defecation to be shameful or embarrassing. I do not have this problem at all, though that may surprise you, as my shits are literally indistinguishable aurally from ordinary urination. I remember a time a month or so ago(perhaps more, I have always been a poor judge of the passage of time over the long term) I read an article about an experimental pure subsistence diet where a man essentially made this whitish slurry from all the essential vitamins and minerals needed for sustenance and combined it with enough water and calories, of what form I do not recall but it lacked roughage of any sort, to meet all of his bodies needs assuming a sedentary lifestyle typical of an office worker. Since his body was using literally everything he took in, he no longer needed to defecate, and he explained that while the mixture he'd made might sound good for dietary purposes it was a bad idea to subsist on in the long term since without regular use the muscles in the colon and sphincter would atrophy. Instantly I was seized with a mortal terror; it had been ages since my anus had produced anything other than rancid slime, and I was convinced that having gone so long without undertaking the efforts more traditionally associated with making GBS threads that I would suffer the same fate that the article writer warned of, albeit for a different and more tragic reason. Ultimately I decided such fears were unfounded. I certainly still strain myself while astride the pale horse--the angry scratches I occasionally carve into my acne-scarred thighs are a testament to this--and the panicked clenching of my pucker I maintain whenever the urge seizes me and I run wailing to the lavatory is a workout all its own.
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Nov 7, 2015 22:35
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| # ¿ May 22, 2024 13:52 |
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