The Girl From Starbucks
I had just gotten my coffee at the local Starbucks and made my way to the sugar and milk counter to doctor up my redeye (one shot). A cute little brunette was already there, swirling some Equal into her latte. She smiled at me and I smiled at her, and as she went to throw away the Equal packages her hand brushed against her cup and splashed it all over the counter. She was terribly embarrassed -- red faced and laughing. Her eyes actually started to water. My cousin is like this -- she becomes mortified and stammers and starts crying if she drops her napkin in a restaurant or something. She gets so embarrassed SO easily. I suspected this girl was the same way, and didn't want her to die of embarrassment, so I simply commented that it happens to everyone. "In fact," I lied, "it happened to me the previous week." And could I buy her a new cup of coffee? She WAS awfully cute.
She let me buy her a cup. I asked her if she'd join me at a table, but she declined, saying she had to get back home. But she asked if she could call ME sometime. I said sure and gave her my number. A couple days later she invited me to her apartment. To her APARTMENT! (Which, it turns out, was only a block away from the Starbucks). I figured this girl, despite her mousy performance at the Starbucks, was going to be an easy lay.
And I was right. I scored that first time I visited her place. I asked her if she wanted to go out and get a drink or something. She declined. So I left. Over the next three weeks or so we hooked up a couple of times a week -- ALWAYS at her apartment. She never wanted to go out. Never wanted to come over to my place. I wondered what was up with her. A couple of times during my visits she mentioned that she had to go to the bathroom to take a shot for some disease she had -- "Crohn's Disease," I think.
I didn't know what it was, and she never explained.
The last time I saw her -- at her apartment, of course -- we started getting hot and heavy. Next thing you know I'm laying on her couch and she's riding me. Like a piston. I don't mean to brag, but I really knew how to get this girl off.
Suddenly, out of the blue, she stopped.
I opened my bewildered eyes and looked at her. She looked like she'd seen a ghost. I'll never forget the look of astonishment on her face. Seeing it, I got frightened myself. "What's wrong?" I asked.
She simply stated, "I have to go to the bathroom."
I said, "Okay." She rolled off of me. That's when the stench hit me my bewildered senses.
Howard Stern was on the radio, and he was playing some "ebonics translator" CD, and the voice was saying, "Cancel Christmas, motherfucker..." My eyes instinctively moved from the ceiling lamp, passed over the fake oak entertainment center, across the Native American rug, and down to mine own naked body... there it was.
A fresh. Tropically steaming
on my balls.
I blinked a couple of times. My nervous system set off the alarm a couple of nanoseconds before, and my rapidly deflating fuckstick made the offensive ass snake appear larger and larger in contrast. In those first couple of seconds of shock, I found myself fascinated by the fact that the poop didn't slide off of my sweaty scrotum. It clung to it. The horror was heightened by that wretchedly unnatural union of feces and genitalia and veins and hair (I have hairy nuts) and sweat. The sight was so absurd that I would have laughed out loud had I not slammed my hand across my mouth -- I didn't want to exponentially increase her humiliation.
After those initial shocking seconds, I began to look about for something to clean it up with. I decided on my t-shirt, which was lying on the floor (I had worn a button down shirt over it). I collected the fecal mud off of my humiliated testicles, walked it to the trashcan in the kitchen, got dressed, and waited. I didn't want to leave before she got out of the bathroom -- that, it seemed to me, would only embarrass her more. I vaguely hoped we could do our best to "patch things up" with some awkward words.
She never came out. After about five minutes I left with a case of blue balls and a new appreciation for life -- a life of never fucking another girl with Crohn's Disease.
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Starbucks Poop Story