When I was in 8th grade, I had gone to school and forgotten to put deodorant on. Being the self conscious child I was, I was scared to death that someone would tell me I smelled bad. I had no friends to ask at the time, so when I was in the locker room with the other girls, I watched them finish getting dressed and put the locks on their lockers. One of them didn't lock it, so during gym I asked to go to the bathroom and snuck back in the locker room. I opened the girl's locker, used her deodorant, and left. It was worth it.
The time has come to unload something unbelievably embarrassing. I'm in the music business and have my own little sound studio at home where I record bands from time to time. Last year, I had an all-girl, alternative rock band in. The lead singer is genuinely good-looking: nineteen years old at the time, perfect legs and hips, juicy butt, delicious little breasts, an absolute feast for the eyes. Understandably, I start hitting on her. At some point, she accepted my offer to go out for dinner. So I take her to a nice place. After our opulent meal, I don't feel so good, but don't let on. Naturally, she comes up to my place for "a coffee". Luckily, I had pulled out the satin bed sheets and laboriously made the bed again with them. We never get to the coffee, we start making out as soon as we shut the door behind us. I'm still a little bit nauseous, but it's manageable and no reason to "blow retreat". Anyway, we're both naked and start to make love. Great stuff, though she might have shaved her bikini zone a little better, but then she has other qualities. Finally, she turns over because she wants it doggy-style; in the moment when she offers me her pretty behind, I get a nose full of really disgusting fecal odor. I heave, but keep it under control, at least until I see that there, stuck on her backdoor among the hairs, are fartleberries from her last toilet run. Oh yeah, that is where I lost it. I throw up all over her back and my freshly-made bed. What went down after that you can imagine. The very next day the band changed studios. I shouldn't have told my best friend this little anecdote, because he's such a gossip, but unfortunately I did. In the meantime, it has spread through the music scene all over town. This incredibly stupid joke is making the rounds that my recordings are enough to make you vomit. But since my studio since then has become busier than ever, I've had the last laugh.
I must have been about 7 or 8 years old, and I was in a field picking strawberries with my grandmother. It was a farm where you picked your own and then paid just for what you picked, by the kilo! Apparently so many people were stuffing their bellies while in the field that the owners felt compelled to weigh people going in, note their weight and then compare it with what they weighed coming out. Well, I was just a little squirt, but I had this idea, and it made me laugh: when no one was looking, I would just take a crap among the strawberry plants! No sooner said than done. Then, when we were leaving, our bowl full of strawberries having been weighed and paid for, it was our turn to get on the scale. Grandma was fine, but when my turn came and the scale showed that I'd lost a half kilo, and I saw the crazed look on the face of the lady in the cashier's shack, I couldn't help it, I had to burst out laughing. Sorry about that!
I confess that as a child I once crapped into the cat box and that my mother puzzled about our kitty cat's unusually large pile. So then the poor animal had to fast for a day, but I secretly fed her, she was innocent after all.
I remember well the time when I crapped on the floor in kindergarten. It happened like this: whenever a kid had a birthday, all the tables would be pushed together in the middle of the room and everybody would sit at them. At some point I had to go to the bathroom very urgently. This I told to the auntie who took care of us. It seems she didn't grant me the relief and kept me from going to the bathroom. Since it became unbearable soon thereafter, I simply crawled under the table and did my business directly in the room's geographic center. Of course, the nasty pile was duly observed after the celebration when the tables had been moved back to their original places. We all had to line up and look straight into the aunties' eyes. In spite of the aunties' intensive efforts to discover the evildoer, he was never caught. They had no choice: they had to dispose of the pile themselves. On the one hand, today I feel a little guilty. On the other, auntie should have let me go to the bathroom.