There was an unwritten rule at my secondary school that you did not shit on the premises. Certainly, if only due to necessity, this rule was broken more than any of us could know. But to be caught was unthinkable; not only would everyone know your business by next period, but in the typical style of an all-boys school, the story would inevitably change to the offender having been interrupted mid-wank.
So it was to my horror when I found myself clenching to preserve honour during the period before lunch. It was IT, and we were designing rollercoasters. I couldn’t concentrate; even the vicarious excitement was enough to loosen my ailing defences.
How could I cheat this fate? I could hold on and pray for the contractions to subside. I could waddle from the premises and defile an unfortunate bush. Perhaps my boxers could be fashioned into some kind of slingshot to pitch the evidence over the back fence? It was no good. This was my Waterloo.
The teacher charitably let me exit five minutes early after I flung my project at his beard. Likely he recognised the impending disaster etched into my face and decided his career would not recover from letting me loudly shit myself.
My options were few: most of the toilets were still locked, and those already open were missing cubicle doors. It was a risk I couldn’t take. Camera phones were the new craze.
On a (desperate, excruciating, agonised) whim I shuffled rapidly to the gym changing room. Here, the smell of mud, shit, and body odour was always so muscular that any contribution I offered would be background noise. A class was finishing as I arrived. The supervisor was Mr Meredith, an Australian teacher whom I’d become tight with largely by doodling Crocodile Dundee homage in the text books. Sweat soaked into my shirt.
‘What’s up, mate?’
I stood on a bench to reach his ear. There were still kids changing all around us. ‘I need to go number two,’ I whispered sharply to him.
He burst into laughter, and I feared he’d return me to my cross-legged walkabout. Instead he performed the greatest kindness on record from Aussie to Pomme. He ushered out the rest of the class, and dropped the changing room key into my hand.
‘Lock yourself in,’ he grinned. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
I slammed the door shut behind him and rattled the lock. One movement took me across the changing room, undoing my belt and plunging my trousers around my ankles before I even hit the bowl. There was no time to clean the area. I touched down, and opened the hatch. The release was so powerful that every valve in my body was breached. I sprayed piss over the floor, over my trousers, over my legs. Tears leaked from my eyes and snot dribbled down my face. I expected wet patches of lactation on my shirt.
This bodily stigmata lasted no longer than two minutes. My retention abilities have never recovered.
I cleaned myself up the best I could, blotting the piss from my clothes with toilet paper. My body felt light as air. I pirouetted across the changing room. As I unlocked the door, I noticed a stray £1 on a bench. I flipped it into my pocket with a smile.
Lunch ended, and there was no mention of my indiscretion amongst my peers beyond the suspicious sniffs of anyone within a three metre radius. At the end of the day I returned the key to Mr Meredith, and slipped him the £1 as a tip.
So it was to my horror when I found myself clenching to preserve honour during the period before lunch. It was IT, and we were designing rollercoasters. I couldn’t concentrate; even the vicarious excitement was enough to loosen my ailing defences.
How could I cheat this fate? I could hold on and pray for the contractions to subside. I could waddle from the premises and defile an unfortunate bush. Perhaps my boxers could be fashioned into some kind of slingshot to pitch the evidence over the back fence? It was no good. This was my Waterloo.
The teacher charitably let me exit five minutes early after I flung my project at his beard. Likely he recognised the impending disaster etched into my face and decided his career would not recover from letting me loudly shit myself.
My options were few: most of the toilets were still locked, and those already open were missing cubicle doors. It was a risk I couldn’t take. Camera phones were the new craze.
On a (desperate, excruciating, agonised) whim I shuffled rapidly to the gym changing room. Here, the smell of mud, shit, and body odour was always so muscular that any contribution I offered would be background noise. A class was finishing as I arrived. The supervisor was Mr Meredith, an Australian teacher whom I’d become tight with largely by doodling Crocodile Dundee homage in the text books. Sweat soaked into my shirt.
‘What’s up, mate?’
I stood on a bench to reach his ear. There were still kids changing all around us. ‘I need to go number two,’ I whispered sharply to him.
He burst into laughter, and I feared he’d return me to my cross-legged walkabout. Instead he performed the greatest kindness on record from Aussie to Pomme. He ushered out the rest of the class, and dropped the changing room key into my hand.
‘Lock yourself in,’ he grinned. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
I slammed the door shut behind him and rattled the lock. One movement took me across the changing room, undoing my belt and plunging my trousers around my ankles before I even hit the bowl. There was no time to clean the area. I touched down, and opened the hatch. The release was so powerful that every valve in my body was breached. I sprayed piss over the floor, over my trousers, over my legs. Tears leaked from my eyes and snot dribbled down my face. I expected wet patches of lactation on my shirt.
This bodily stigmata lasted no longer than two minutes. My retention abilities have never recovered.
I cleaned myself up the best I could, blotting the piss from my clothes with toilet paper. My body felt light as air. I pirouetted across the changing room. As I unlocked the door, I noticed a stray £1 on a bench. I flipped it into my pocket with a smile.
Lunch ended, and there was no mention of my indiscretion amongst my peers beyond the suspicious sniffs of anyone within a three metre radius. At the end of the day I returned the key to Mr Meredith, and slipped him the £1 as a tip.
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