explosive diarrhea

Tori Young is one of my favorite bloggers. Her writing ranges from humorous to introspective to downright naughty. This little ditty was born after my January guest writer selected her as the winner of his book. He said: “That chick packed a lot into her comment. I want the backstory there.” That’s how Tori’s writing leaves you. Wanting more. Even if it is unsettling or yucky (and this one really is), you will still want to read more. Follow Tori on Twitter at @toristoptalking or at The Ramblings. You can also follow her on Facebook.

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Romancing The Throne by Tori Young

He thought I was pretty. I thought he was edgy and cool. We called it love.

Ignore my fragile, needy self-esteem and ability to cry at the slightest insinuation of insult. Never mind his rough Northern accent, claiming his harsh words were meant to be jokes. We forgave each other ourselves, found at least some things in common. He worked as a waiter, and wouldn’t you know it? I love food. He is short.  I am tall. He was the cosmic yin to my 6-foot yang. I can quote most lines from The Office. Sweet Destiny! He just so happened to have every season on DVD. We spent nights in his grown-up, studio apartment watching the movies because his cable was shut off. I liked his cozy little place, the thrill of having a guy bring me leftovers, and the pretty idea of finally being big enough to play house.

As our first Valentine’s Day approached, we made plans. He was thoughtful enough to book an intimate couple’s massage right in the comfort of his living room/dining room/kitchen. I went above and beyond to hand-buy from scratch a gourmet dinner from a quaint Italian eatery.  I arrived with foil carry out plates from the kitchen of a West Nashville trailer known for delicacies such as fried cheese and fried ravioli.

Ever the seductive sir, he poured liquor from its plastic jug into fancy speckled glasses he’d swiped from the bar at work. I was trying for romance, too, sporting secret, frilly panties I planned to let him see. They were a stretch from my usual boring bottoms, the kind of lace’n’string thing that screamed “SEX!” or “Thrift Store Score/Box Labeled ‘Granny’s Attic’ “.  And while the thought of this cheekiness made me squeamish, I went ahead with the scheduled wooing.

Sometime between 7 PM and cold pasta, a knock at the door said the masseuse had arrived. She smelled of chicken tenders. I soon learned she was a waitress alongside my beau. She assured me she was certified but did not clarify if that meant she had a license to rub me or serve booze to hungry diners in the state of Tennessee. She brought her own folding table with a head hole and a plethora of lotions, so I decided she was professional enough.

The friendly woman oiled me up as my boyfriend ate and switched out laundry. This being my first massage, my first true relationship, I tried to ignore the nagging tug in my belly. What am I doing here? Why am I with this guy? Who taught this lady to massage because I think she just broke a rib? Crazy talk! I reassured myself that I this discomfort stemmed from my not being learned in the ways of true romance. Yes, these were the joyous flutters of butterfly wings stirring my stomach so. My, what excited butterflies these were. How rumble-y in my tummy! As the stranger ran her fingers in between my toes, I felt a panicked pucker and jumped from the table into the bathroom. “You go ahead!,” I yelled to the boyfriend from my seat on his toilet.

Oh, Love Gods. Those weren’t butterflies.

The next minutes and hours were a blur of uncontrollable bowel movements and wrenching explosions.

His once cozy apartment now felt like a cage, giving me nowhere to hide, no window to crack or climb out of.  I tried to disguise the disaster by flicking on a vent, running loud water from sink and tub to drown out the gory sounds.

Occasional pauses were filled with my whimpering, little begs for mercy to make it stop. Desperation gave way to creativity as I showered the whole crime scene with the baby powder I found in a cabinet. I waited for the police to arrive, called from the upstairs neighbors who warned them: Judging by the stench and cries, something has died down there. It truly was a massacre. When the shit storm cleared in the wee hours of the morning I glanced around the square-foot bathroom like a serial killer must stare down at his guilty hands. Look at the horrid things you’ve done.

I limped from the bathroom to find the boy sleeping on the couch. “Do you want to–?” I tried to feign some Betty Davis eyes to no avail. Save face, save the sexy, save something. He was typically harsh and seemingly pissed at the audacity of my intestines; he grunted and rolled over.

That relationship didn’t work out. I know. I was surprised, too. As most bad phases do, that ugly night taught me a thing or two. Some really sweet friends make a point to the “Tori shat on V-Day plans” story with dinner tables full of strangers. Even this has become an invaluable method of determining which new folks I could befriend. I ask them to pass the rolls as they hear of my deepest, darkest encounters with a toilet bowl, and if they can laugh about it, still manage to make eye contact afterwards, I know they’re my type. The ones who dry-heave and suddenly need to switch seats couldn’t handle me anyway.

My so-wrong moment reaffirmed common sense that I let myself forget back then:

Never trust anything that comes from a trailer, but always, always trust your gut.

Have any really “shitty” stories you’d like to share?

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