While there have been many horrible things that have happened to me during my 21 years of life, I can happily say that at least I’ve never shit myself during a one-night stand. Not even once. Have I farted? Yep. Queefed? Sure. But have I ever unintentionally taken a giant dump in my pants? Never.
Then again, most of my one-night stands happened while I was black-out drunk, so there’s a better than good chance that some poor fratstar at UMD woke up one morning to a bed full of poop and no memory as to who the poop-atrator (har) was. Either way, this poor woman off of Cosmopolitan topped whatever poop-filled-destruction I could ever have hoped to achieve by not just having explosive diarrhea once, but twice in the same night after a one-night stand.
I have a one night stand story to tell. And by ‘story’ I don’t mean a roses-and-champagne fairytale; I mean a warts-and-all horror yarn re-told for the sole purpose of amusing others.
It all began in May 2013, during an eight-month backpacking adventure with my friend Lauren. I was loving the worldwide exploration as a single gal and never was there a riper moment for seizing single-ness by the gonads than when we joined forces with Lauren’s boyfriend Ryan and his troop of NINE male friends on an island off Bali.
It was 11 days of beers, big laughs and bellyfuls of Indonesian cuisine. Our bawdy group squeezed into three bungalows for sleeping and – while the ‘open plan’ toilet facilities weren’t exactly A-list – after months of kipping in dingy hostels and tents I certainly wasn’t complaining.
During our last night I got together with Ryan’s right-hand man, Lewis. We took things back to the bungalow and proceeded to revel in some skin-on-skin action before dozing off…
…A few hours later I awoke with an urgent need to use the facilities. To put it delicately, as much as I’d grown to love Indonesian cuisine, it did not love me back. Bowels a’twitchin’, I quickly assessed my options: use the open-plan bungalow bathroom within earshot of nine guys or get the hell outside and find an alternative.
It wasn’t a difficult decision. I made a pyjama-clad sprint to a bar two doors down and dashed across a late-night acoustic guitar set to get to the Ladies on time. I made it, and though the musicians were less than impressed with my interruption, I felt fairly proud of my swift handling of the situation.
‘Where did you go?´ a half-asleep Lewis mumbled on my return.
‘Oh, just for some air.’ I murmured serenely, re-assuming my ‘little spoon’ position. Feeling much better, I nodded off.
If only the story ended there. But no. Two hours later my dodgy dinner woke me up again. Without delay I launched myself out of bed towards my trusty late-night bar, but when I got there was faced with a CLOSED sign. Oh god, no! Time was running out! I said farewell to dignity, bolted to the beach and, with Balinese sands between my toes and the ripple of waves in my ears, ripped down my PJ bots and – sorry Mother Nature – offloaded. Oh, the blessed, glorious relief!
My reprieve was short-lived, however, as I suddenly found myself illuminated by a uniform-wearing official’s industrial torch. The Poo Police?
‘Please! Leave me!’ I cried.
Apparently this instruction didn’t translate and the torch-bearer continued to advance until the scene was unmistakable: 22-Year Old Woman Sh*ts Herself on Beach. Fantastic. At least this visage of horror scared the official away and I found myself hidden in the comforting shroud of darkness once more.
I gathered my undergarments and fled the scene of the crime. It was at this point I realised my PJ shorts had been somewhat tarnished during the event. Back at the bungalows, I suspected an ‘I sh*t myself’ anecdote wouldn’t make for great pillow talk with Lewis, so I went to wake Lauren. I needed her to give me some clean pyjamas and I needed to be telling her this story rather than living it. Of course, she was sharing a bungalow with Ryan. I stood for a while outside their love-nest dithering over whether to disturb them, peering through the window like some sort of soiled-shorts-wearing pervert. Eventually, desperation for cleanliness got the better of me and I burst through the door bellowing, ‘I slept with Lewis and there’s poo on my pyjamas!’ It was quite an entrance.
After the initial shock/bewilderment/guffawing had been dealt with Lauren did some seriously good friend-ing and I was freshly PJ-ed and back in Lewis’s bed before sunrise. The nightmare was over.
Women everywhere, I beg you take heed of my sorry tale and make sensible pre-sex food choices. If there’s any chance of a naked encounter occurring later that night please, under no circumstances, choose a dish from the menu that has a cartoon chili pepper drawn next to it.
Shittiest sex ever.