The Little Problem In French Class
The day was a Monday. The time just before four PM. It was November and the days were drawing short; darkness had already begun to set in, despite the early hour. The oppressive, gloomy sky presided ominously over my late afternoon French class -- the penultimate class of another long and stressful day in the life of an eleven-year-old boy. A boy whose life, and bowels, would soon be turned upside-down by the most ghastly and traumatic shitting experience he had ever known.
Sitting there quietly as the stern madame scrawled phrases on the blackboard and lectured to us about pronouns and prepositions, I was patiently watching the clock and waiting for it to tick �round to the hour, at which point I would be freed from this slow torture and allowed to escape to the relative levity of biology before embarking on the hour-long bus journey home. The end of the lesson was only five minutes away, but little did I know that my intestines had secretly been broiling up an unholy cocktail that would make these the longest five minutes of my life.
The first urges took me by surprise. As far as I could remember, my food intake over the past couple of days had been completely unremarkable, and my gut instinct gave me no reason to suspect that anything abnormal was afoot within my colonic chamber. Yet there it was, a little turtlehead pushing against my sphincter, begging me to release it into the wild world to take its first steps. Well, I may have been young, but I was no stranger to pooping desires; and I clenched my little buttocks together firmly, forcing Leonardo back into his sewer. I had no doubt in my mind that I could contain this rascal for another four-and-a-half minutes before hurrying to the toilets to set him free.
But as the seconds ticked by inexorably slowly, I began to realize I may have misjudged the little fellows persistence. Upon the second push, I decided immediately that now was not the time to be a hero. I raised my hand gingerly above my head to ask for toilet permissions (for this was the protocol in my educational establishment). Alas, the teacher's back was turned and I could not signal her attention. I waited desperately for her to turn around, but when she did, her attention seemed to be directed anywhere other than towards me. Other children in the classroom were putting their hands up to answer questions, and no matter how anxious the look on my face became and how frantically I reached for the ceiling, she refused to call on her best student for the answers to such trivial questions. And of course, being such a polite and well-behaved child, I was not about to break protocol and speak out of turn.
After a minute or so of hand-waving, with my ass muscles fighting a losing battle against what felt like some kind of nuclear rectal rocket, I had to re-think my options. The pressure down below was now so great that I almost certainly would not be able to hold it in all the way to the bathroom. Reluctantly I brought my hand down. This baby was coming out here and now, and it was simply a matter of fate and fortuitous timing that there were only three-and-a-half minutes remaining until the bell. I quickly prepared myself mentally for what was about to go down. The impending log, which felt ample in size but firm and dry, would squirt cleanly out, and sit enclosed within my underpants for a further three minutes, at which point I would be free to scuttle to the shitter and drop it to a watery grave. No big deal; no one need ever know. I could even throw away my underpants if need be. The only variable at stake here was the potential smell, but I suspected from my lack of farts that afternoon that it would leave barely a whiff of perfume and would hardly have time to reach the olfactory glands of any of my fellow brown-nosers.
Having chosen my fate, I hunched lower in my seat to avoid being noticed and prepared to at least glean some enjoyment from my shameful moment. Now, at this point you may be asking yourself: this kid is eleven. Surely he has enough common sense to just take matters into his own hands and do whatever it takes to avoid shitting himself in public. Right?
Well, you would be wrong. As a child I was shy and possessed somewhat poor judgment, and as a consequence I was about to take matter into my own pants. Sweaty-palmed, I opened the floodgates and began to usher my brown bog monster into the world.
At first everything seemed to be going according to plan; but I soon realized the error of my ways. This beast was not the heavily-compacted baby python he had pretended to be; in fact, he was becoming the exact opposite. As the first six inches or so (a rough estimate) entered my underwear, the consistency of the fecal matter turned from dry concrete into wet custard. It was the strangest feeling. At the same moment, I realized that my entire colon was backed up with what seemed like several gallons of this appalling fetid pur�e! A feeling of horror shuddered through my body from my anus to my frontal lobe; or perhaps it was the other way round. Already I was having to lean forwards, with just the backs of my knees touching the chair, to make enough room behind for this colossal evacuation.
The French lesson continued around me, but I was oblivious to everything except my malfunctioning bodily functions. Apparently nobody had noticed my bizarre behavior, my unusual posture, or the acrid stench which would be emanating from the back of my trousers any second now. (The trousers I happened to be wearing on that day were a pair of those baggy cotton tracksuit bottoms which young children are so fond of -- and which, very fortunately, have plenty of room for expansion in all areas.) As the seconds ticked away, I had no choice but to hold onto my desk for dear life as a stream of thick goo squirdled silently out of my backside like a giant tube of toothpaste. This was full-on diarrhea of the kind you hope to experience only two or three times in your life; and the hot and prickly emanations were leaving my asshole searing with turd-degree burns. By now I was sitting directly on top of a hot cushion of crap approaching two inches in thickness, and the stream showed no signs of stopping! My nerves were already shot to pieces from the sheer terror of losing control of my poop; but even so I started to have panic attacks about the possibility of rivers of shit coursing down my legs or spurting up out of the back of my trousers like a sperm whale's blowhole.
Finally the torrent of turd ceased to flow, and in my relief I could not believe that (a) the lesson was still going on, a minute short of four PM; and (b) no one was staring at me like they had just witnessed the apocalypse located entirely within the confines of my beloved tracksuit bottoms. So I continued to sit there atop the small mountain I had just given birth to, praying to God that the bell would ring before anyone noticed my sudden increase in height. Mercifully, it did, and in the chaos of twenty-five frustrated schoolchildren racing for the exit I was able to gingerly lift myself off my seat while stuffing my books haphazardly into my bag. After waiting for the classroom to vacate, I was able to waddle slowly towards the door under the bemused gaze of the teacher.
I tiptoed into the bathroom with my legs wider than a cowboy's after a month of hard riding, hoping to find an empty cubicle. I was in luck -- the place was empty, and the single stall, although not pristine, was in usable condition. There was some urine or maybe splashback water on the seat, and a couple of subtle poo-stains down the back of the dull-white bowl -- certainly nothing for a person in my situation to worry about. I snuck in, locked the door behind me, and, in the evening gloom of the badly-lit latrine, hovered over the bowl and pulled down my elasticated waistband to inspect the damage.
My trousers, which I had hoped would have escaped most of the damage, were free of solid lumps of shit, but sported a stylish brown skidmark down the asscrack where some of the liquid poop had seeped through my underpants. The underpants themselves, which were of the tighty-whitey variety (although tighty-bluey would be more accurate, not that you could tell any more) were completely annihilated. After cautiously removing them, turning them inside out, and tipping a vast quantity of disgusting lumpy sludge into the toilet bowl (I always think of this quantity now when I hear the word "ass-load�), I took a peek. It was like a shit explosion had gone off inside those puppies, followed by their usage as a bucket to carry ten pounds of liquid shit, and finished off with a thorough dunking into a vat of elephant excrement. Furthermore, although this whole experience had been surprisingly smell-free, these underpants now stank to high heaven. They smelled of shit -- a statement which may seem obvious, but, in its simplicity, describes the situation more accurately than any fancy long words ever could.
It was clear that this poor garment would never see the light of day again; the only problem now was that my thoughtful mother had sewn my name into the label, just in case they should ever get lost (why not put my address and telephone number too, Mother??), and the label was just about the only square inch of fabric which had somehow managed not to get drowned in shit. So that settled it: in order to remain anonymous, the underpants could not be left behind, and would have to be taken with me.
The next most pressing matter was how to clean up my dirty derriere, which looked something like a pale pancake smeared with a whole tub of Nutella. The previous occupant of the stall had left me with about quarter of a roll of toilet paper -- more than enough in most circumstances. But I could tell I could not afford to get too carried away with my wiping.
I did my best to return my rectum to a state of acceptable hygiene. After endless meticulous wiping of skin and trouser, I stuffed the remaining wad of toilet paper up my still-quivering crack and carefully pulled my trousers back on. I de-poopified the underpants as best I could, screwed them into a ball and stuffed them in my coat pocket, wrapped in a spare napkin I happened to have in there. The clean-up operation had taken most of the five-minute window allowed between classes, although I could have done a much better job with half an hour and unlimited loo roll at my disposal.
Picking up my coat and bag, I gave the half-full toilet bowl a powerful flush and backed out of the stall without waiting to see if my repulsive creation would disappear. I scurried away to the biology classroom, praying once again that the faint aroma of excrement lingering around my nether regions would not be detected by my classmates. What happened in biology and on the way home is another story for another day.
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French Class Poop Story
