Let me warn you right now: This story is disgusting.
I was 16 years old and had just gotten a new and exciting older boyfriend.
One day, in my bedroom at my mum's house, we were doing what a teenage girl and her new 20-something-year-old boyfriend do best. As I was merrily bouncing around on top of him, I felt a strange sensation around the back end. There was no sound, so I knew I couldn't have passed wind. Then, I started to smell it: the unmistakably sour tang of human feces.
I had no idea what had happened or how—a surprise poop mid-sex was a new one for me.
You Never Know When Your Chambermaid Skills Will Come in Handy
Praise Satan that my 16-year-old self had already developed a robust set of problem-solving and project management skills. Being working class comes with some notable disadvantages to be sure, but I had been in the paid workforce since I was 13 years old and learned a lot along the way. Chambermaiding is not a glamorous job, but it is an ancient and august line of work that had equipped me with the ability to project a false sense of happiness, smile passively in the face of abrasive and entitled hotel guests and, most importantly, to remain unfazed when dealing with human excretions.
Having registered the smell, I am sure that the terror in my eyes was only very thinly veiled. Nevertheless, I put on my best gravelly seductress voice and informed my boyfriend that I was going to do something to him that he would really like.
“Oh yeah?” he responded. “What’s that then?”
Now, I will grant you that a blow job is not the pinnacle of sexual innovation, but it served my immediate purposes, which was to distract my boyfriend so that I could begin my real quest of removing the evidence. With a grim finality, I descended to his groin, and my worst fears were confirmed: His balls were covered in poop. My poop. Since I had accidentally relinquished the little fecal nugget from my body whilst I was still galloping away on top of him, all that bouncing around had mashed the little brown medallion into a thick paste that had matted into his hair.
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It Wasn’t Pleasant, but I Persevered
I was mere millimeters away from the human canape I had just produced, and the smell was truly overpowering. Dedicated to my mission, I wrapped my mouth around him and got on with the real work: the cleanup. My strategy was that whilst using my mouth to distract his attention, I would sacrifice my discarded knickers to scoop off the nuttiest clumps and generally sort of wipe up the rest of him.
Of course, I couldn’t distract him with my fellating wiles without also coming into close contact with the unhappy product of my afternoon misadventure. That is to say, I got my poop on my bottom lip. I didn’t dare stop the performance, though, in case the respite gave him pause to consider what in the room smelled so sour or why his balls felt so sticky, so I just heroically continued, despite the nubbin of excreta that was clinging to my lip.
It inevitably, inexorably made its way into my mouth. It is a taste I will never forget. Incredibly pungent, unspeakably sour, exactly like you imagine swallowing a fart would be. But with texture. Even so, I persevered with the cleanup.
Once my knickers had become so soiled that they were no longer effective as a cleaning device, I had to change tack. A particularly stubborn driblet had adhered itself right to the bottom of his shaft. I was reminded of the halcyon days of my childhood when my grandma would spit clean chocolate or jam from my face using a moistened hanky. I would usually be horrified by thinking about my dear old grandma whilst in the full throes of coitus, but the ordeal of the day was such that I didn’t even register the thought—aside from the helpful strategy it gave me.
I detached myself from him momentarily.
“Yeah, you like that?” I goaded in my most sultry manner, taking the opportunity to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “How about this?” I rhetorically asked and spat a huge gob of saliva right onto the offending patch of ballsack. I proceeded to rub at the unwelcome morsel with the corner of my duvet cover, heedless of his reaction.
“Um,” I heard from above my head. “Yeah, I’m not so sure?”
I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to him so can’t say for sure whether he had noticed that anything untoward was going on or not. Consummate professional that I am, I was completely absorbed in the cleanup act.
But no matter—it was done. I had succeeded in my mission and felt a true sense of jubilance and triumph over very unfavorably stacked odds. I, a mere 16-year-old girl, had shat all over my boyfriend's balls and cleaned it all up nicely whilst providing at least a 5/10 blow job and, to the best of my knowledge, he was none the wiser.
Looking back now, I feel deservedly proud for my swift and pragmatic handling of what could have been an utterly mortifying experience. I gleefully regale my pals with this tale whenever I think they have really earned it by being very sad and in need of cheering up or when they have done something embarrassing and they need reminding that they are not the only revolting person on the planet. After all, a poo-roblem shared is a problem halved.