Meet Rohan! He’s an author and a musician and crazy funny. Rohan’s here for the second time, but this time he brought poop. Everybody loves a good poop story. Enjoy his post and don’t forget to check out Rohan’s newest book!
I sprinted down the stark white corridor. My little space boots echoing around the cylindrical hallway as they met forcefully with the steel floor below. Always turning left, never right. This was, after all, a space station. I was running through a doughnut shaped centrifuge that span around the fixed axis of the central tower structure. In this way Earth-like gravity was able to be generated artificially. As I ran I looked to my right. Through the four-panes-thick fused silica glass windows I regarded the amorphous vastness of the universe in all its glory. Myriad nebulae, every hue of the rainbow represented, flooded my field of vision. ‘Who knew space could be so colourful!’ I was on the verge of becoming lost at the thought of my own insignificance in the face of such grandiosity when I remembered something. Something important. The reason I was running. I felt a strong discomfort deep inside me. A sense of grave foreboding. I needed to poop. Really, really badly…
I picked up the pace. My silver jumpsuit swished audibly as the insides of my, now perspiring thighs and butt cheeks, rubbed against one another. I studied the markings above the doors to my left as I passed them. I didn’t have much time. Hydroponics. Engineering. Personnel. Sleeping quarters. Cafeteria. Service elevator. Bridge Access. Bio-labs. Fitness and conditioning. Med bay. “I’m not going to make it” I groaned as I passed door after door. My legs were tingling and weakening. Sweat dripped from my creased and anxious forehead. I was on the verge of giving in and soiling my silver skin-tight lycra when I spotted it. Amenities. My heart skipped. I realise now that it must merely have been my perception at the time but it seemed as though the door glowed with divine light. I ran faster still, quicker than I thought was possible. The door hissed and slid open as I passed the electronic sensor. The cubicle read my biomentrics as I entered the room and prepared the toilet for my needs; dropping the seat and refreshing the paper supply. I turned 180 degrees and flipped down the little flap that covered my bottom and sat myself on the pre-warmed seat. Sweet, sweet relief. I’d made it. I actually made it! I laughed to myself, panting, exhausted from the running and from the strength mounted to contain myself for so long.
And then I woke up. In Dublin. In 1995. I was 8 years old and I was sharing a warm summer’s morning with an unwelcome bed fellow. That’s right folks, I crapped my bed. Now this was before I’d moved up to boxer shorts. I did that with a pair of satin Eric Cartman boxers in 1997. Nope, I was wearing my little blue undies, or jockeys, or y-fronts, or budgie smugglers. I knew that any movement would simply make things worse, and yet I knew I couldn’t just lay there all day. I think I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.
I’ll never forget that dream, nor will the memory of waking in such a manner ever leave me. Let us now fast forward to 2010. Back in Dublin after spending my teen years in Australia, I decided to take an evening walk around St Steven’s Green with my family. It was bitterly cold, the middle of winter, and I was damned if I was going to freeze. Vest/singlet, then t-shirt, then jumper/sweater, then cardigan, then jacket. Scarf and beanie on. Two pairs of socks. And finally, in an act of pure genius inspiration; two pairs of jeans! The inner pair were tucked into my socks to avoid any up-leg drafting, and the outer pair took the brunt of the wintry conditions leaving my legs toasty warm!
And so we embarked. Thick fog accompanied every word uttered as we carefully navigated the frosty streets. Down near the green the time of year immediately became apparent. Christmas lights, pine trees, merry slogans and garish decorations peppered the scenery and everybody’s favourite crooners could be heard belting out everybody’s least favourite Christmas tunes from every store in town. It wasn’t long before I noticed that something wasn’t right with me. My tummy gurgled loudly, accompanying (some would say improving) the carols, and painful cramps shot through me like a shard of sharp, under-chewed candy cane as it scrapes its way down your throat. Crap…literally. I soldiered on for another few steps when suddenly my legs began to buckle under me and I felt a rush of volatile activity from my nether regions. “Hey guys, I’m not feeling great. My stomach really hurts, I think I need to go home.” Disappointed that our seasonal jaunt was cut short, but sensitive to my situation, my family agreed that it was best to head back immediately. And so we did. My poor gut bubbled and rumbled all the way home and my rectal musculature was working overtime keeping the sluice gates from parting. Um, so to speak. I no longer required my heavy jacket due to my clenching and quickening pace, however I didn’t dare remove it. Diverting my attention, even for a moment, could have been enough to allow a lapse in my intense focus. I needed every ounce of concentration that I possessed simply to keep the wolves from the door.
My home was in sight. I fumbled for my keys. With a trembling hand I forced the key into the lock, which activated the tumblers, thus opening the door. I broke into a sprint. With the speed, fervour and determination of Pheidippides bringing word of Greek victory over the Persians at the battle of Marathon to the magistrates at Athens, I forced my way to the bathroom. I opened the toilet door, flipped up the seat with a sweaty hand and turned about face. I reached for my belt and somehow managed to loosen it. I knew that I was mere seconds from breach. She simple couldn’t hold on any longer! I slid my jeans down. I sat. Chairete, nikomen – we have won! I relaxed the muscles and allowed nature to take its course. But it was then that the colour drained from my face. My feeling of immense relief was intertwined with dread and disgust. In all the excitement somehow the fact that I was wearing two pairs of trousers had completely slipped my mind. I had removed only the outer layer, and was in fact sitting on the toilet fully pantsed. And those pants were now fully full.
The lesson? Never wear two pairs of trousers when you have a sudden bout of diarrhea.
I’ve pooped my pants, I’m not afraid to say it. I’d say some of you reading this have done it too. It’s just one of those things, right? And somehow I just know that I haven’t done it for the last time either. If there is any consolation it’s that at least pooped pants stories usually make pretty good blog posts!
Thanks for reading, all the best!
Want more from Rohan? Start here:
- Sexual Energy & 24/7 Sexuality!
- SEX, Not As a Separate Subject: What is Outercourse?
- How To Make Yourself Irresistibly Attractive To Others!
Click here for Rohan’s Sexy Book!