My Poop Horror Story: How I Hid a Turd From My Boyfriend
3 min read | Jul 2020

My Poop Horror Story: How I Hid a Turd From My Boyfriend

My friends, family and strangers see me as the face of feminism—but it was a face that couldn’t admit to certain things.

Ida A1 / Millennial / Progressive / Educator

A few weeks ago, I was on a run. I don't know if you've ever heard of the running shits, but they're a real thing. A very real thing. At the time, I was adamant that I didn't want to defecate in a porta-potty and I was pretty certain I could make it home. Well, by the time I got home, I somehow didn't have to poop anymore. But I wasn’t constipated. I was home for an hour and a half. I showered. I fiddled around on the computer. Still nothing. 

I left for my boyfriend’s to get lunch and the minute I got there, then—then!—I have to defecate. We got to the restaurant and it was such a hole-in-the-wall, I couldn’t see a bathroom anywhere. I told myself: I can conquer this. People have overcome much more dire circumstances. Plus, as the gnarliest of poops often are, I didn’t know if I was going to shit myself one minute or walk off poop-free into the sunset the next. 


A Number One Turned Into a Number Two

We got back to his house, and I had some time to kill before I went to the school where I volunteered, so I went inside. Then, I need to go to the bathroom. But I didn’t have to poop. I just had to pee because I ordered my Thai food medium-plus heat and, therefore, I drank four glasses of water and a Thai tea. I went immediately for the bathroom, confident because who cares if someone—even a woman—pees?

Then I sat down. 

And, man, this wasn’t just a pee. This was a poop that I couldn’t clench away if my life depended on it. 

I nearly hyperventilated, but then I thought: Fuck you patriarchyWomen poop too! So I tried to poop in peace and pride. Well, maybe not pride, but at least not embarrassment. I stood up and flushed the toilet. I washed my hands. The confidence I felt just fifteen seconds prior dissipated, probably suffocated by the fumes of this stinky poo I just took.

How to Flush Floating Poop (You Don’t)

I looked back down at the toilet before leaving the bathroom, and the water was just circulating: my poops like little boats being sucked into a whirlpool.

Jesus! Sweet, sweet Jesus! Do I deserve this? I waited for the whirling to stop and flushed again. There it went. This is going to be fine, I thought to myself, but then the whirling stopped for the second time and one poop remained. I realized that I really had no other option but to flush a third time.

I wondered if he could hear my flushes from the living room. I had flashbacks to being a kid, my brother running out of a restaurant bathroom, announcing to my parents' that he just had to double-flush his poop. I remember the way people stared and the way my dad made fun of him. 

Third flush completed, and this one single poop would not go down. I cursed the stars. I cursed 1960s plumbing. I cursed this world we inhabit in which I could be best friends with my boyfriend but not in the way that it was okay for me to tell him about the massive, shitty problem I had in there.

If this sounds familiar, it probably is. Many of us have been there. Unfortunately.

So then I did what I would like to have believed I could make it through an entire life never doing: I took some toilet paper, reached into the toilet and pulled my own feces from my boyfriend's toilet. I wrapped it in more and more toilet paper, trying to conspire some exit strategy for myself and that single shit. I looked in the mirror, breathed in deeply, sucked my stomach in, and stuffed this slightly-wet, TP-wrapped turd down my own pants. 


Act II of My Female Poop Desperation Story

I beelined for the front door, and it appeared that he was not in the living room after all. Sweet, sweet grace! I could explain leaving without saying goodbye to him later, and I could spend the afternoon praying he didn’t go in his bathroom anytime in those following twenty minutes. 

My hand was on the doorknob when I heard him say, "No kiss?" 

I turned to see him walking toward me. Then, before I could manipulate the situation, my boyfriend was kissing me whilst my own wet turd slowly soaked through half a roll of his toilet paper, and into my jeans. I pulled back and blurted, "Don't go in the bathroom!" He looked at me and before his expression could sear itself into my memory I bolted out the front door.

My feces now lie, unraveling from soggy toilet paper, somewhere in the 1200 block of South Ingalls.

My pride? Probably somewhere around there too.

This Narrative Belongs To:

Next Up