I had the worst toiletry experience of my life today.
It all started on the train to work; I was sat contentedly reading some Foucault when I felt a slight discomfort brewing in my stomach, assuming it flatulence I manoeuvred myself to release the tension. When it returned I repeated this method expecting similar satisfication, however this time my clenches procured a dreaded rim-stinging shart. Annoying? Yes. Devastating? By no means. A few minutes later, arriving at my stop, I - to my naive delight - realised, after conspicuous finger tests, I had been fooled by a charlatan...there was no buttock moisture to be found. Happy to dismiss my plans to head straight to the nearest toilet, I took the escalator (or perhaps more suitably the escatoligator) down to change lines. As I got on the next train an sudden intense need for bowel explosion overpowered me. Long story short I withstood 10 agonising minutes of physical and mental torture before reaching my final stop and, more importantly, the promise of a toilet. With my workplace and its toiletry salvation in sight my floodgates at last began to crack. With squelches of liquid shit spilling out into my boxers and trickling down my thigh I ran into the nearest pub, fought through the crowd, my vision clouded by fear, and ran to the gents. Of course both toilets are occupied, of course they fucking are, perfect. But I couldn't just stand there and shit myself, I had to run into the womens' and lock myself in the nearest cubicle. Ahhh the bittersweet pleasure of release -... although release is the wrong word, more accurate would be eruption. Never has so much crap come out my arse at such velocity and such heat in all my life. After a few minutes of rather sickening expulsion I naturally began to inspect the wreckage. Not only was the toilet bowl and my pants plastered with brown paint, so was the seat, my hoody dangling in it, and the entirity of my buttocks, including the hairs of my gooch and my poor testicles. A fifteen minute clean up followed, including a lot of spit, toilet roll, and underwear being discarded in the sanitary-towel bin for some unfortunate menstruating woman to discover. My best option before running off to work (now 20 minutes late) was to dart into the mens, scrub my hands like the lady macbeth of feces, and lather up my arse as best I could with hand soap in order to disguise the smell.
I am now riding the same train home after a shift of freeballing, I pray I arrive in one piece. If only I hadn't dismissed that toilet at the start of my ordeal.
..
Moral of the story: listen to your body, our bowels may seem like pathetic factories of shame, but insult their power and boy will they make you pay.