That time I shat myself whilst getting fingered (what to do when you poop during sex)

Shout out to those lucky enough not to have a poo-related sex story. Pray for the rest of us.

Is there anything worse than something going wrong the first time you have sex with someone new? Yes, yes there is. When after the aforementioned sex, you’ve pre-planned a sleepover and there's no escape.

The sex was great. Not great, excellent. It was exciting and playful and incredibly lustful. We were like teenagers. We’d stop from exhaustion then minutes later we’d accidentally make eye contact and be right back at it. You know the kind. During one of our brief reprieves I got up to get us some water and as I kneeled onto the bed to pass him the glass, he leaned over and stuck his fingers fair up me. The talent!

It didn’t take me long to cum and oh boy did I come. And hard. SO hard in fact, that as I was experiencing this fantastic orgasm, it was swiftly interrupted as I felt something suspicious drop. It was amazing and then all of a sudden very, very bad. What I imagine giving birth is like: the best feeling ever until you realise you’ve just involuntarily shit in a bunch of people’s faces.

As the little nugget marginally avoided his hand and hit the deck, my heart stopped. As the panic brought me back to life, I realised now wasn’t the time to try to process the trauma, it was the time to strategise. Fuck.

On a verrrry hot Summer’s night, I had to pretend I was cold to have access to a blanket to cover up the very unwelcome new member of our throuple. I requested the retrieval of said blanket so I'd have the opportunity to assess the damage. Without getting too graphic… the situation wasn’t good.

I’m one of those people who sleeps hot. Correction: sleeps boiling. Like, you’d think I’d just gotten out of the shower and forgotten to dry myself. So you can imagine how delighted I was at the thought of trapping my heat under an itchy, woollen blanket and potentially baking an actual brownie next to me. I feigned exhaustion and complete satisfaction (true) and we said goodnight.

After what seemed like 9 years, he fell soundly asleep. Now was my chance! Like some sort of ninja, and with thanks to the lube produced by my own sweat, I slid off the bed, careful not to smear my creation. In an attempt to avoid squashing it, of course I did. I scooped up my dung stack and crept to the bathroom, only managing to kick one of my toes on the ridiculous amount of arm chairs he had, which I took as a win. I made it to the loo and off went my little log to Bondi.

The next morning he woke up standing to attention, ready to go again because of course he did. I too was very stiff – too afraid to move all night at the risk of disturbing the turd remnants and making the situation worse. My guilt about his fancy bedding forced me to pretend I was in the mood even though I hadn’t blinked once during the eight hours since The Incident thanks to the shit stain/inferno combo.

I gave a great performance to distract him from the literal birth mark on his very white sheet. After trying all sorts of back-breaking positions to make sure he would always be facing away from it, after a while, I realised my only choice was doggy so I could cover it with my hand. Gag.

A few thrusts later and he was done. I remained on all fours, encouraging him to use the bathroom first whilst I caught my breath. Now to get rid of the evidence...

Look, I’m not proud of what I’m about to say next, but I think we all agree what desperate times call for. I went into his bedside drawer looking for tissues and I found HEAPS of them. Heaps of damp tissues. And an empty tissue box (what was this guy, 16?!). So, I grabbed the least crusty one, spat into it, dabbed my mess and jammed the aforementioned tissue into the very back corner of the drawer. I quickly made the bed explaining it was the least I could do after him being such a great host, got dressed and Cathy Freeman'd it the hell outta there.

Surprisingly, I saw that guy again. A few times, actually. Either he didn’t notice the shit stain, hadn't opened the bedside drawer, or he’s into that sort of thing. I didn’t ask. I returned to the scene of the trauma but couldn't bring myself to open that drawer. We had sex again - the guy was sexually gifted, my pride could take the hit to go back there - and the drawer taunted me. It took a lot of brain power to focus enough to cum. When he went to pee I knew what I had to do to make this right.

I somehow conjoured up the agility and grace of an Olympic gymnast and threw myself over to his side of the bed with a flawless dismount. I opened the drawer, expecting to be hit in the face by overwhelming turdal wave aaaaaaaaaaaand: no tissues. Equal parts dread and relief washed over me at the same time. Here's hoping he just grabbed it all and the moisture from the nugg' was confused with cum and maybe he'd just farted and thought the smell was him, the beautiful idiot? Either way, on some level, I think I'd gotten away with it.

My big sigh of relief was cut short by hearing him flush. I still needed to close the drawer and roundoff back to my side of the bed. I made it back in time but not without noticing that whilst there were no tissues in the drawer, there were nipple clamps and a collar. Hmm.

So, the moral of the story? Don’t eat lots of feta when you’re not not lactose intolerant, don't do sleepovers with someone you don't know well, and always carry your own tissues. And remember, when you poop during sex, you can come back from it.