Women Do Poo
Women Do Poo
‘And I’m Not Going to Pretend Otherwise’ or
‘A Comparison of Bowel Movements Between Human Females and Demodexmites’
There have been only a few occasions in our relationship when I’ve tried telling *James (my boyfriend) about needing to go number two. I’d always thought, “It’s something we all do. You should be able to say something if you need to.” We share one bathroom in our one-bedroom apartment. There are times when it feels necessary! But each time, as soon as he’s gotten a whiff of the topic he makes a pained expression of physical torture and yells for me to stop, followed by joking threats along the lines of “I’ll never be attracted to you again” and “One more word and I will leave you in a heartbeat.”
Am I cursed with a lower threshold for embarrassment than other people? Am I alone in feeling that his reaction might be skewed closer to the side of irrational? In the meantime, while you ponder these questions I’m just going to jump ahead to the vent because, WHAT IS IT WITH MEN WANTING TO PRETEND THAT WOMEN DON’T POOP?? It’s not like we’re frolicking into the world with Pomp and Circumstance and a banner waiving overhead. We’re not allowed to admit even a whispered utterance.
It leads me to wonder if it’s not the last step in the evolution of equality for the male species to understand that though women are different in many ways, we are also in-fact humans and our bodies have adapted to the same tendency that quite literally every other animal on Earth has! Correction, I just googled it and lab researcher Jamie Bechtel reports that exceptions to pooping lie with tardigrades (who excrete when they molt) and demodexmites (which lack an anus). And lest we forget the adult ephemeropterans who lack a digestive system altogether.
So you hear that *James?? If you’d like to find a sexual partner that doesn’t excrete waste you’re going to have to hook up with an ephemeropteran! — And won’t you miss my titties then!
I digress. Often during these quarantine times, I like to go on neighborhood strolls across the busy Franklin Blvd to the Hollywood Hills up above. By taking a set of stairs nestled into the hill, you can shortcut right up to the mansions, like traveling to the other side of the wardrobe; a Narnia of rich and luxurious landscaping of the upper class.
I was on one such walk, winding my way uphill amongst the pearly towers, passing by wealthy power-walkers and dog-walkers alike, when it happened. Bear with me here. My stomach gurgled. Then it gurgled even louder. Remember that scene with Sandra Bullock from Two Weeks Notice? It felt like all of my insides were trying to break out of their encasing. I won’t be too graphic with you, lest you should never want to have sex with me again either, but it was painful.
And terrifying. There I was in the middle of all of this splendid luxury (that of course I hoped someday to live in) and I was a good 20–25 minute walk back down the hill to the safety of my bathroom. It was a stretch. Every single ounce of me did not believe that I would make it. But I wasn’t going to give up so easy. I turned on a dime and started high-tailing it back down the street. This time when I passed the wealthy walkers I could swear they could tell by the way I used my walk that I am not a woman’s man, but a woman desperately trying not to explode diarrhea all over their impeccably manicured garden.
This is the image that inspired me to get the hell out of there. I saw the nightmare clear as day. I would stretch my leg out in front of me a little too far and lose tension on my anus and all at once my life would be ruined. I’d be standing there on the side of some 50 million dollar mansion trying to reason with what to do with my shitted pants. I wouldn’t be able to walk past all those pedestrians to my apartment! I’d be forced to hunker down on one of the estates and phone *James to come pick me up and what if he didn’t answer his phone?! Or worse, what if he did answer his phone? This was not the way I wanted the boy to learn the harsh realities of the world! So I’d be trapped there until they called the cops on me and can’t you just SEE the headlines! Ugh, the crappy puns my face would be under.
I booked it as fast as my anus-clenching legs could take me, sweating and teeth clenching, wrought with pain and agony. I changed the audio on my headphones from the soothing interview podcast I’d been listening to previously to a heavy beat dance playlist. I was book-ing-it. Nothing could stop me. Until, I reached the top of the narrow stairs. That portal between the lower class and the upper class did not allow 6 feet on either side for the passing of two people during a quarantine. The pathway is normally empty when I walk it but of course not now. Of course!!
A middle-aged couple, she gazing adoringly at the fresh cut flowers she held, and he gazing adoringly at her, were leisurely strolling around the steps without a care in the world. They did not realize that fast-walking up behind them was a young woman who would literally take a shit all over their romantic picnic if they didn’t move along a little faster. Unable to bring myself to yell at them (it would have involved unclenching my teeth) I sat down on one of the steps rocking myself from side to side.
As I rocked, my insides rolled and I waited for what felt like an agonizing eternity before the couple reached the bottom of the stairs. Then up like a rocket I shot, and down the street until going in for the final stretch. I bolted across Franklin Blvd and fled past the Hollywood pedestrians and up to my apartment complex like a cyborg power-walker on crack. On my way up to my floor, I nearly took out a guy holding a box in front of him who was coming out of his door. He yelled out in shock and hurtled back through the doorway and I could barely get out a guilty “Sorry!” as I tore past him and into my apartment.
Shutting the door behind me, a sudden wave of panic overcame me. Where would I go if *James was in the bathroom right now? I’d have to Hulk-style knock down the door and throw his pants-less body out of there! Luckily, it didn’t come down to that. I raced through the hall and only briefly witnessed his shocked expression from the bedroom before I slammed shut every door (two) that I could between us. With the airlocks successfully sealed, I finally set my ass down on the throne and let out more than a sigh of relief.
Only thirty seconds went by before *James knocked on the door to ask if I was “okay”. Why do people knock on bathroom doors to ask if the person inside is okay?? If I’d wanted you to know about the state I was in I would have left the door open for you to see for yourself! I demanded like the queen of the throne that I was that I be left alone at once.
He did leave me. (Not like that! No, geez, we didn’t break up!) He returned back to the bedroom and left me alone with my wounded pride. But he also left me with a small, teensy-weensy bit of satisfaction. By checking in on me he had let me know that, though he did not want to admit it, *James did care at least a little nugget about my poo.
