Once again, I have written a post that contains more information than some people would care to know about. So I have this handy little alert system to forewarn readers who are faint of heart. If you don’t want to know about the status of my bodily functions, move it along and quit reading now. But if you’re sick like me, enjoy!
Every relationship goes through a series of noteworthy “firsts”: first kiss, first penis unveiling, first “I love you,” first fight, first breakup, and so on.
But there is one pivotal yet oft-overlooked milestone that unequivocally cements the relationship as “serious” and brings it to a new level of intimacy:
The first time the girl does a doody at the dude’s house.
This is a very big deal. Women will hold out on it for as long as possible. If left up to us, our fellas would operate under the illusion that we just don’t do that.
When I’m dating a new guy and he visits my home, I always hide my bathroom reading material because I don’t want to suggest an image of myself reading Charles Schwab’s On Investing while planting one in the porcelain.
What? I only use the toilet for number one, sweetie. Don’t be gross!
And I most certainly am not going to do my business at the guy’s place – there’s just too much at stake. If I’m in the bathroom too long, he’ll know what’s going down. And we mustn’t ignore the questionable sound and scent factors that could give it all away.
In the initial stages of dating, few things are more humiliating than a man finding out that we actually make caca.
Of course, deep down, both sexes know this is ridiculous, because everybody poos.
Beyoncé poos, Laura Bush poos, Zac Efron poos, Osama bin Laden poos and the entire cast of Glee poos, too.
So why are we so ashamed? Sure, it’s not a particularly glamorous act and it does involve a rather foul-smelling odor — but it’s something every single one of us does every single day of our lives (if we’re lucky), and have since the day we were born.
Still, most women would rather risk a ruptured colon than drop a stink bomb in a guy’s john.
Eventually, of course, the ruse must be exposed. You start spending entire weekends with your new boo, and there’s only so much mass a sphincter muscle can hold back.
(Oddly, for me, when I’m with a guy – even for a few days – my subconscious must secretly tell my bowels to suspend any action, because I don’t even get the urge. I’m not holding it – I just don’t have to go. Same thing happens when I travel. Weird.)
Where was I? Oh, yes, the ruse must be exposed.
Last Sunday at Tom’s place, after spending the weekend there, I finally mustered up the courage to do the doo. Tom was (somewhat disturbingly) supportive and encouraging.
After my performance, I emerged from the bathroom and made the announcement like a proud two-year-old who made her first poopy in the potty. Tom was elated and gave me a giant hug. His parents both gave me high-fives. Just kidding, they weren’t there.
Later that day, Tom one-upped me and took a crap with the door open. That really wasn’t necessary.
I think I’ve proven that I’m serious about Tom. I’m quite certain I’ve gone above and beyond the call of doody (I couldn’t resist!). Just don’t, under any circumstances, ask me to change my relationship status on Facebook.
Categories: True Story