I had to take the biggest shit of my life.  I knew it would be something truly massive, solid and gooey at the same time, like a giant maggot oozing from the depths of my bowels........

COUNTINUED!

The Night I Found Out I Was A Somebody

By: Mathias Nelson

            I had to take the biggest shit of my life.  I knew it would be something truly massive, solid and gooey at the same time, like a giant maggot oozing from the depths of my bowels.  Lately my anus had been like a locked exit to a decaying fast food restaurant, there was lettuce and taco meat, nacho sauce and french-fry grease, chicken and beans, all sitting in my gut as if piled in by a garbage compressor, stuck inside my anal walls.

            When Josh stopped by I wasn’t feeling all that good.  I was still living at home with mom and dad too, twenty three and too disgusted with society to want to take part, but at least my parents were out of town.  I answered the door with a grimace.

            Josh walked in with a chuckle and asked, “Still got the shits?”

            “Constipated, yes.” I waved the thought away.

            He put his portfolio of poetry on the television and pulled a bottle of Crown Royal whiskey from his bag, my favorite.  “You’re still going,” he said. “If not to read then to watch me.”

            I had been telling him about not being able to shit, with hopes of skipping out on my first poetry reading.  I wrote to get away from people, not to read to them.

            “I don’t know.” I answered.

            “Don’t be a pussy.” he said.

            “I’m not a pussy.  I’m a clogged asshole.”

            “Well if you don’t come to this reading you’re a super asshole because you ditched on me the last two times.  I can only come in town so often.”

            I liked the idea of being a super asshole, of having a super release.  But I didn’t want to let him down.  We knew each other for too many years.  Still, I replied, “I don’t know.”

            “Come on, muthafucka!” He shook the bottle at me and lumbered to the kitchen, an over sized Italian with a buzz cut, not fat but stocky and controlled.  I heard ice clinking in glasses, then again, “Come on, muthafucka . . .”

            I went in the kitchen and gaped down at the whiskey on the rocks.  It looked good and I pictured it solidifying into a small mound of glorious poo.

            “Cheers,” he said and touched his glass to mine.

            “Shit,” I replied with a sigh, “whiskey does usually solve my problems,” and gulped it down.  I started feeling better, immediately.  We stood and drank and Josh told me about a skinny redneck he had choked out the weekend before, and I laughed.  He said he could feel the ripples in the man’s windpipe.  I completely forgot about shitting.  I was feeling brave again, drinking that good whiskey.

            “Lets get the fuck out of here,” I said and grabbed my poems.

- -- -

            The bar wasn’t too packed.  It was a local reading and we were unknown poets.  It looked fancy though.  There were little red lamps on the bar and the tables.  It gave the place a dark glow, which is good for the poetry reader because it could be hid behind.

            I noticed a girl sitting at a corner table by herself.  She sat very straight and kept her legs crossed.  Her hair was dark and big gold earrings bobbed with her movements.  A beautiful light skinned Latina or Filipina, I couldn’t tell, all I knew is she had the right features.  She was cute, juicy lipped, with a skinny frame.  A silky youthful glow, free of blemishes.  She seemed to keep glancing between me and my stack of poetry lying on the bar.  She’s anticipating, I thought.  She wants a poet and that poet is I.

            Josh went on stage and read his poems about crab pussy while I gave the girl subtle looks, reeling her in.  They laughed at the right parts in Josh’s poems and listened intently during the more serious ones.  He moved off stage with a raised fist in victory as they whistled and cheered him.  This is it, I thought, I should go up there.  If I go up there that clean looking girl will be all over my nuts.

            I went up there, a little nervous, but it was all right after the first couple poems received claps.  I didn’t get as many laughs as Josh because my poems were more on the serious side, but I had the crowds attention.  They regarded me with frowns of contemplation and recognition of a poet’s empathetic struggle.  I had to finish early though because I read a poem about death and shit that made my stomach rumble.  It was this one—

I’m an elephant being eaten

from the balls up

by a pack of lions

that yank the flesh off

my ass like rubber

tearing new holes

where my shit

will spew onto their faces and

stick in their manes.

My eyes are wide with fear

but all I can do is raise my head

and watch

them lick their chops

while the lion cubs ask

for seconds.

My elephant clan is looking,

basking in the death,

but they will not help,

just as I thought—

cowards.

What did I do in the afterlife

to deserve this kind

of fame?

They will all fall too

but in shallower waters.

An old hippo swims down the stream

without a care of death because he knows

there is no sense in fear.

He is happy and

I lay here with my intestines hanging out

while they suck it up and

swallow.

            —But, it all worked out.  I didn’t want to shit in their toilets so I sat at the bar and had another Crown Royal on the rocks and forgot about my stomach again.  The poems that I read were good, and the crowd had accepted me.  Josh mingled and I sat alone, enjoying the company of my drink, when the Latina sat in the stool next to me.

            “Vodka Seven,” she ordered from the bartender, and the bartender gave her a wink.

            Son of a bitch is moving in on my squirrel, I thought, so I said something stupid like, “Vodka Seven, mmm . . .,” to get her attention back on me.  Out of the few chicks I had boned this girl looked like she’d be the prettiest.

            “Yes,” she replied, “Mmm like your poetry,” and she cocked her head with a smile, ran a hand through her hair.

            “Thanks.  They’re very personal.”

            “I like a sensitive man.”

            “I like a woman that understands.”

            She brought the straw to her mouth with her tongue.  This made me at a loss for words.  I wasn’t good at talking to women and her tongue looked perfectly pink, with none of the nasty white residue most people have in their mouths.  I pictured it wrapping around my—

            “Can I buy you another?” she asked.

            “What?”

            “Drink.”

            “Oh yes.  Of course.”

            She reached down into her tight pant pocket and brought out a small wallet, while her purse sat on the bar, useless.

            “You don’t keep your money in your purse?” I asked.

            “I don’t keep anything in my purse,” she replied and opened it for me.  Nothing.

            “Then what’s it for?”

            She leaned into the bar and I caught a glimpse of her thong.  She looked at me and giggled and her earrings bounced. 

            “You want to get to know me?” she asked.

            I nodded.

            “How’s about we get some drinks to go.  You live around here?”

            I nodded.

            “Okay.  I buy the drinks and we go talk at your place.”

            I nodded, “Sounds like a plan.”

            “You can read me some of that great poetry too.  I can really tell you’re going to be a somebody.”

            She ordered two six packs from the bartender, Eddie, whom turns out she had known him all along.  She reached into her wallet.  Her long blue nails looked black in the red light, probably clip-ons, but each of her index fingers were trimmed down like a man’s.  Probably just broke a couple nails, I thought wrong.

- -- -

            We went into my kitchen and drank some beers.  Josh was gone and he didn’t leave his bottle of whiskey.  I was worried, the beer was starting to loosen things up in my gut, so I put on some relaxing music, some John Coltrane.  We were drunk, just the two of us.

            “So tell me,” I said, “why are you in my kitchen?  I’m a real ass, you know.”

            “Because I know greatness when I see it.”

            “Is that so?  What’s so great about me?”

            “Your writing.”

            “Yea?”

            “Yea.  I’ve been to T.C. Boyle’s house, Karl Koweski’s, and Annie Proulx’s. I have a fetish for good writers . . .”

            She looked good there, under the fluorescents.  She batted her long eyelashes at me and her eyes narrowed like a tiger on the hunt.  Maybe I am a good writer, I thought, who the hell cares, this is going to be terrific.

            “What kind of fetish?” I asked.

            She stood up from the kitchen table, pushed me against the refrigerator, and dug her eight claws into my chest.

            “For writer’s who are going to be a somebody,” she whispered in my ear and purred at my neck.  I grabbed her by the sides and pulled her close.  We tore into each other with our mouths, sloppily kissing, but too drunk to notice.  It was hot.  I ripped her v-neck shirt down the middle.  She pulled my pants down.  We got butt ass naked in the kitchen.

            “That’s not my only fetish,” she nibbled on my nipples and worked her way down with her perfect pink tongue.

            “Oh yea?  What else?” I looked up at the ceiling.

            “This,” she turned me around.  I put my hands on the fridge door and she wrapped her arm around me, grabbed my dick and started giving me a hand-job, all the while licking my ass.  It felt good.  It was a nasty thing to do, but when you’re drunk the rougher and nastier the better.  Then she started to take it a little too far, but I didn’t care so much.  She stuck her clean cut index finger in my ass, in and out while she licked and jerked.  My god, I could feel the shit loosening around the anus door of the decaying fast food restaurant. The licking and finger fucking was just what I needed.  I couldn’t hold it.  I let it spew onto her face.  It wasn’t like the oozing maggot I had thought it would be, it wasn’t solidified at all, it came out like mud being pushed by a fifty mile-per-hour gas.  I looked over my shoulder and saw her face covered with it.  She was moaning and fingering herself, and then all the sudden like a sprinkler turned off and on, she shot cum all over my kitchen floor.  I’d never seen so much cum.  She licked the poop from around her lips.  I couldn’t cum.  This was just too much for me.  But the shit was better than the cum,  I had been trying to push that out for days.  She grabbed her empty purse from the table and started shoveling the shit off her chest into the purse, scooping it from the floor, and wiping it down her cheeks.  She got most of it in there, closed the purse, and licked her fingers clean.

            “You are a freak of nature, lady,” I told her.

            “Four authors down,” she giggled.

            “Do it again, I think I’ve got a little more backed up in there.”

            “Oh yea.  Annie Proulx shits like a elephant, but I’ve never seen so much poop come from anyone but you.  You really are a somebody,” she opened her purse again.

            “Work your magic.”

            “Mmmph ohhhh mmmm nummm mrrrrr. . .”

            “I am—oh, ah—a somebody.”

Last update : 16-11-2007 16:38

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