Well, owing to the fact that I now have a fifth story under my belt, I thought it time to finally share with you all how the fourth time I pooped my pants went down.
Back when I was living in California there was this rather bizarre five month period in my professional life with Macy’s where I was a Merchandising Team Manager for the store in Escondido. This role was more behind the scenes, one where my team and I would come in early in the morning and work on all the operational aspects of running a store like unloading a truck of new merchandise, working that new merchandise out to the selling floor, moving existing merchandise to make room for the new, signing the store, marking down old product, and a whole lot more. I was most eager for this promotion at the time because it cut my commute by nearly thirty minutes, gave me weekends off with a 6:00 a.m. till 3:00 p.m. Monday through Friday schedule, and would be the next step in my evolution with Macy’s.
Well, let me tell you what, this position was not the right one for me. I could go into extraordinary detail as to why, but none of that matters, what matters most is that I learned almost immediately that I hated getting up at 4:00 in the morning. What good was being off at 3:00 each day if all I wanted to do was take a nap when I got home and then go to bed two hours after waking from said nap? I wasn’t lovin’ it – at all. So, near the end of my tenure in this ill-placed position I experienced my fourth outing and of all my beloved stories, this is my favorite.
I woke that late summer morning just after 4:00 like I did every other work day and followed my usual routine. In order to be at work by 6:00 like I was supposed to I needed to leave my house no later than 5:15, so because this was just another typical day for me, I was climbing in my car at 5:30.
As I sped down Rancho California Road in Temecula to the I-15 I felt a slight rumble in my jungle, but it didn’t feel too severe at this point, so I thought it best to ignore it as I was already running late enough as is. I hopped on the Freeway and sped south towards Escondido as fast as my Dodge Avenger could go in regards to the multitude of other cars around me. As I rolled past the border patrol station and crested the mountain I could see that traffic was at an absolute standstill in the valley. This scene sent my body into full-on stress mode.
In the entire time I was in that position there were maybe a week’s worth of days where I was actually on time and this one was not going to be one of them, but seeing the valley flooded with cars told me that I was not just going to be my typical ten, but rather probably a solid thirty minutes late. This was not desirable. As I let my Avenger crawl to a stop, I started to feel my tummy turning again and thought that I should probably get off at the next exit and use the restroom at the gas station just off the freeway.
I took every opportunity to get over from the first lane to the fourth, so that when the time arrived, I could exit the interstate. It wasn’t easy as no one wanted to let me over, but I thankfully managed. With each switching of lanes I could feel my body move one moment closer to detonation. I knew that my time was coming and it wouldn’t be too much longer before my intestinal dam broke.
Just as I reached the fourth lane (furthest most right) I was really starting to sweat. Beads of stress (this is not a typo – it’s a very stressful build-up to shitting your pants) rolled down from my hairline and I turned my music off. I could not focus on anything else past my need to relieve. I rolled down my windows and began to breathe heavily as my stomach twist and turned like it only ever had three times before. I knew my moment was fast approaching and I dread the thought of defecating myself again.
With a huge sigh of relief, I had finally reached the exit ramp and sped down the line only to find myself at the tail end of a new queue of autos. This was most unsettling because I could literally see the Exxon/Mobil there on the corner! Had I of just parked my car and hustled up the hill I probably could have made it, but I opted to remain seated and I ended up paying dearly for this appropriate, but unfortunate decision.
My breathing hastened and my sweating extended to my collar and armpits. I was in the greatest displeasure of my life as I tried with all my might to keep in the confines of my colon, but I had reached the breaking point and regardless of the fact that I was now at the stop light making my necessary right turn, my pooper just exploded.
As I was seated firmly in my car, the sensation was incredibly similar to my third experience in Melissa’s car. My pants filled with fecal matter and I was forced to sit there in my self-imposed diaper. I turned into the gas station parking lot, but sped past the building and down the road to the Park and Ride. I knew there were three porta-potty’s in the Park and Ride parking lot and felt that they would surely be better suited for my immediate needs and spare me the embarrassment of going inside with a damp and darkened backside.
I parked to the immediate right of the third porta-potty and slowly got out of my car. I cautioned myself to not make any sudden movements for the fear that the sloppy stool residing in my boxers might make a mad dash down my pant legs. As I waddled up to the porta-potty and opened the door I noticed right away that there was no toilet paper inside. Immediately I shut the door and waddled over to the next one. I opened the door only to find myself seeing the same sight: no toilet paper! There was however those tissue paper toilet seat liners inside this one, but still, I shut the door and proceeded to the final porta-potty. I looked like a black and khaki penguin as I waddled through a horrible retelling of Goldilocks and the Three Bears only this was Ben and the Three Porta-potty’s. I was praying in my mind that there would be toilet paper inside this third unit, but my prayers went unanswered, it’s toilet paper holder was vacant like the two before. Seeing that this unit was as empty as the first I made my way back to the second one, at least there I could try and use those seat liners.
I hoisted my left leg up inside the port-potty and paused for a moment before slowly raising my right. My hope was to lock my stool in place, but I failed miserably as I could feel the warm oozing sensation of my poop dripping down my right leg. I abruptly locked the door and proceeded to strip myself from my pants and boxers. I pulled them both down simultaneously from my waist, but as I was doing so the unthinkable happened: I smeared my right arm near my wrist with shit.
I cried out in agony! In all my times of pooping myself I had never before got any above my waist and now my right arm was caked with it around my wrist. I was completely appalled at what I had just done, but nonetheless, I persisted and with one swift yank I thrust my lower garments down to the porta-potty floor.
This was perhaps not my best move for once my pants were down at my ankles and I was moving to step out of them I noticed that my entire right arm was smeared with poop. No longer was there just a large clump at my wrist, that blob and surely more matter from my boxers managed to make the bottom of my right arm look like I had just crawled through a thick pit of mud. I wretched my face in agony as I knew there was no possibility of cleaning myself up on site. The damage was far too severe.
Concluding that there was no possibility of preserving these boxers I used my already tainted right hand to grab them and toss them into the porta-potty’s watery confines beneath the seat I would soon be taking. I was so distraught about throwing that pair out as they were a favorite of mine. I’ll never forget, they were red with the Classic Coca-Cola insignia in white sprawled all across them. Having to part with them was sad, but it completely reshaped the way I buy my undergarments. No longer do I buy boxers that I could grow attached to. Now I just buy traditional Polo Ralph Lauren ones that differentiate in nothing but color. If I have to toss one of those out I am confident that I can go to Macy’s and immediately replace them.
As I sat there relieving myself of whatever was left in me, I took those razor thin tissue paper seat coverings and tried wiping my arm. As I proceeded to wipe my arm down my hand ripped right through the paper leaving shit stains across the side of my left hand’s pinky finger and palm. I was not about to make this mistake again, so I began doubling and tripling up on these seat covers. I already forfeited the full use of my right hand and arm, I couldn’t bare to allow the same to happen to my left.
Once I felt that my body had fully relieved itself I began wiping myself below using several of these tissue liners at a time. I stood up and tried wiping my backside down as I had smeared it entirely. Both of my ass cheeks and the upper part of my thighs were just caked in crap. I had truly made a mess of myself and these ridiculous seat liners were only a minimal help. The entire time I worked on cleaning myself up I did so only with the use of my right hand as I knew that I would eventually need a clean-as-can-be hand to drive myself home with, so this predicament made all my actions all the more difficult.
After concluding that I had done all that I could to clean myself and the inside of that porta-potty I returned back to my car and used the little bit of hand sanitizer I had left and a couple napkins to fully clean my left hand. I would need it’s complete cleanliness to drive myself home and text my peers at work to inform them I would not be making it in this morning.
Once I was done cleaning my left hand with my poop-residue right I took my right hand and clasped it across my chest and on to my left shoulder. I held onto my shoulder the entire ride home because I did not want the temptation to use that poop smeared appendage and risk soiling my car in addition to myself.
A little side bar here – naturally, the next day at work everyone assumed that when I said I got sick in my car that I had vomited. Well, vomit I did – only from my anus, not my mouth. I didn’t feel it necessary to correct them from the conclusion they arrived at till many months later when the opportunity to share my saga arose.
Once home I entered through the front door and my California dad Mark was standing there looking bewildered. “What are you doing home?” He asked cautiously.
I stood there before him and said nothing, but instead lowered my right arm from across my chest exposing the dried poop that had completely glazed it.
His eyes bulged out of his head and at first there was nothing but disgusted silence for several moments, but then he spoke, “get upstairs and take a shower.”
“I pooped my pants again,” I exhaled.
“I can see that. I don’t want to hear about it. Just go upstairs and take a shower. That’s disgusting.” Mark was very stern and direct and as I couldn’t wait to shower this shit away he didn’t have to tell me thrice. Up the stairs I went and take that shower I did.
Another little side bar here – each of the five times I have pooped my pants I always take what I feel like is two showers. One to wash away the residue of poop and another to really clean myself up. I think one can never be too careful after such an unfortunate altercation.
Well, I do hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I did retelling it! I’ll be back next week, so until then, hope you all are living your best life ever!
More pants pooping posts:
It’s your potty you can poop if you want to 😳 Happy Birthday Ben!!!!
AAAHHHHHHH! Yes!!! That’s awesome!!! Thank you so much!!!
‘Ben and the three porta-potty’s’ was my favorite line ever! 😂 this was such a good post!
Thank you, but that’s legit how it was for me that morning! Such a mess! Both my pants & my life! 😂
Maybe you should do commercials for Depends.
I wish! That’d be a dream come true!
This is absolutely HILARIOUS! I absolutely love your poop stories!
They’re my favorites too! I never tire of telling them!