Howdy Pard'ner

It was that time of day. The urge hit. Stuff was...ah...moving. I had to go. And when I say go, I mean -wink wink- go.

Now, I don't know what kind of environment you grew up in, but I was raised in a proper home where we used a number system and euphemisms for anything to do with the private zone. #1 for the pee and #2 for the poo. Kept everyone safe and embarrassment to a minimum. It wasn't kosher in my house to talk about your hoo-ha or crinkle star.

(However, with age my parents have lost their personal-space inhibitions and I can't tell you how many times I've walked past a bathroom only to see one of them pondering their feet with pants pooled on the floor. Hell-O people. Shut the damn door. It's more traumatic then catching them canoodling under the sheets. Trust me.)

It's strange that despite my closed-minded upbringing, I've always had no problems talking about any subject in any context and will one day (hopefully) be pursuing a career in Human Sexuality, much to the dismay of my parents, but when it comes to the actual act of my personal, err...evacuation, I'm a totally freakish introvert. Private private don't listen don't watch don't talk don't think about me.

I am not an open-door restroomteur. I'd hermetically seal that sucker if I could. I don't want to share the experience with anyone. If some chick grabs my hand to go run off together to el baño, you'd better hope there's at least a partition between you and me. Unless I'm planning on putting my mouth on some of your parts during the evening, keep them away from my eyeballs too.

And I didn't used to be this bad. You can blame my x-husband, who with his asshole-of-torture ways would stand outside the bathroom and in a high-pitched cartoon voice say "kerrrrplunk". No, that is not funny. No, it would not be hilarious to do that to me now. And if anyone gets the bright idea to do that let me promise you this, I will smother you in your sleep with a pillow, bring you back from the brink of death, then smother you again. Got it?

And let me just say that most potty vents are too weak to mask every possible (probable) sound that will be emanating from my nether regions. And yours, may I add. Someday I'm going to build a house. And in that house will be bathrooms. And in those bathrooms will be fans so loud they will mimic a jet engine landing in a wind tunnel flanked by a tornado. Some people want walls, I want that.

Having to be away from home for the majority of my day does not afford me the luxury of relieving myself in private or perching my princess pooper on my own personal pot. Or assuring that I'll be exposing myself to only my germs. Gah. These are two facts that I cannot avoid, but try to put in the back of my mind, lest I invest in depends or butt plugs. I already checked on using the hill behind the building but the bitches in HR said no.

I have to share a bathroom with a whole building of people. It's AWFUL. There are 4 stalls in the only women's bathroom on my floor, one being a larger handicapable lavatory at the far end of the room, and my preferred location. If someone is in there and I have serious business to attend to, I'll haul my clenched ass downstairs to the other bathroom which isn't used as much. I'm a secret shitter and I will not apologize.

Today was no different than any other. I attended a meeting. (Of course.) Ate a small breakfast of 2 hard-boiled eggs. (Damn you carbs. Damn you to hell.) And within the appropriate amount of time had to lay some rope. (Here we go again.) I'm always anticipating what I'll find when I open that door. Will I have my hoped-for empty ladies room, or will I have bide my time distracting myself and trying to abate nature from taking its inevitable course. Waiting until whomever is in there gets their ass out.

To my chagrin, as I went into the washroom I saw stall number 1 was occupado. "Crap it all!" I said to myself. Dammit, dammit. And since I pulled my usual move of fucking around in my office until the last second, I didn't have time to get downstairs. I'd have to hurry it into the last stall and wait it out, if I could, and hope stall number 1 hurries the fuck up and gets out of here before things happen. Did I get my wish? Not so much.

Oh man, I thought inside my head, wrinkling my face with disgust. Doesn't she know what I'm doing down here? Shake it off and get the fluck outta here woman! This is the unwritten rule of the bathroom. Someone comes in, you hear the unzip and rustling of clothes. The tell-tale crinkle of an ass gasket being placed on the seat. Then nothing.

Don't you know what this silence means? Don't you get it when there's no gentle tinkle into the toilet? Yea, that's right. There's no peeing going on down here. There's STUFF. Private STUFF. Stuff that I don't want anyone else to experience with me! Hi! Get out! Brush your teeth at home!

Then I realized, to my horror, there were no sounds coming from stall number 1 either. This can only mean one thing, she was also in there to drop some kids off at the pool, and as the realization hit me cringing with resignation, she also had an apprehensive ass.

It was the dreaded sit-off at the P.U. Corral.

I began to sweat with anxiety. I was dead still. The muscles in my lower half starting to twitch. She was as silent as I. Neither of us were moving. Anything. OMG. The pressure was crawling up to my eyes. I couldn't take much more. There would be involuntary things. I don't have kegel muscles in my butt!

There was no way she was anywhere near completion of her task and leaving so I could be left in peace. Damn her. Now what do I do? I'll tell you what I did. I did the only thing a self-respecting coy crapper would do. I coughed like I was trying to hack up a chicken bone. I shuffled my feet and loudly unrolled enough toilet paper to cover the forests of Yellowstone National Park, and I blew my nose about 40 times.

I lost. I caved. I went. I humbly tip my hat to Stall Number One and her Supreme Sphincter.

I hope the feeling comes back into my legs soon...