We do this (nearly) every day yet don't talk about this enough.
Shitting.
Carl my dense friend, who was about to sip his latte, paused in mid-drink and looked at me nervously as if seeking clearance to go ahead with his beverage.
Stanley my sex bunny friend who is immune to anything that's filthy, proceeds to nosily slurp his Sunrise (over-blend, no whipped cream, and yes, extra large for the size queen please).
The three of us were at Coffee Bean, Rail Mall near Stanley and my mum's home and Carl was once again outnumbered and bullied into joining us in that part of the world.
It was a warm day and we were planning to set off for a house-hunting expedition with Stanley after brunch, who decided it's time to get his own place.
"Why are we talking about this, I want to know," Carl the dense one demanded.
It's a refreshing change that Carl - who doesn't care or know much about what's happening in the world - wants to know something. Anything.
"Well," I began with one of my favourite opening line when explaining complex concepts to five year olds.
"The other day, I was reading some gay forum when I came across a post where someone shared his experience of shitting in a cab or something," I said causally like it's the most common topic to talk about during brunch.
Carl allowed his lower jaw to droop in shock.
Stanley cut in, saying, "hey, that's exactly how my One-Night-Stand the other night reacted when I dropped my pants."
Carl shook his head rapidly like a wet dog, as if that very action could clear filth from what he's hearing - both from me and Stanley.
"I don't know if I can still eat my Caesar Salad," Carl said with concern, looking rather pale.
"Oh don't be dramatic now, Carl. Of course you can. Your salad, this coffee - and whatever you put into your mouth is going to turn into shit the next day anyway. Deal with it," Stanley said, then turning to me, added "Go on, Adam. Any topic that revolves around from my favourite orifice in the human body is of interest to me."
Carl covered his ears and wailed a mock cry of protest.
So like I said, someone in that gay forum wrote about how he shat in that driver's car... and had to deal with the embarrassing aftermath of cleaning it up for him, and pay for professional cleaning.
"Interesting," Stanley said.
So anyway, I shared my experience of having shat in my pants too, I said without anyone urging.
Stanley turned towards me, raised his eyebrows and said "interesting".
Years ago, in a previous life when I was still in my late-twenties, I was a fit triathlete and marathoner.
And during one of the yearly marathons when I was dying to beat my personal best timing of 4 hours 15 mins, I shat in my running tights during the marathon.
Carl gagged.
It was I think at the 23rd km mark when I let out a series of farts.
One of those came with a little something extra.
It was wet and slimy and I immediately knew the rest of my run would be shit.
Still, I carried on running - I was on form and my body was in full momentum of putting one foot in front of the other, my pace in tip top condition.
So I clenched and carried on.
Carl clenched his teeth, scrunched up his eyes and nose and let out a long eeew! that lasted 13 seconds.
By the time I crossed my finishing line that morning (timing was 4hrs 35mins - didn't beat my personal best), I had to quickly rush to the nearest toilet to deal with my aftermath.
And boys, let me tell you, it's not a pretty picture.
Stanley leaned in closer, enthralled by the squirmy, filthy elements of my story.
It was, let's just say, a widespread problem.
Lucky for me, I always have clean shorts to change into after every sporting event.
That was the last time I saw that pair of tights.
That afternoon, when I got back home, I scrubbed myself clean of that region using nearly one-third of my shower foam.
"Amen," Stanley said. "Scrub away - that's what responsible bottoms do."
"Boys, trust me. When you have shit around your anus for a prolonged period of time, it burns your sensitive bits as if someone had rubbed sambal blacan all over your asshole," I said.
Carl immediately gave up trying to pepper his salad with chili flakes and looked at me accusingly for not only ruining his brunch but also his favourite spice in the world for the rest of his life.
"Can we please, PLEASE put a pause button on this topic while we eat?" Carl said in exasperation.
And so we did.
We paused, and polished off our brunch with full concentration, careful not to let any disturbing images creep into our minds.
"Okay, we're done!" Stanley said, licking his fork clean of marinara sauce. "Faster, faster, carry on the story, Adam!"
Erm, that's all... that's the end of the story. How many times do you expect me to shit in my pants, bitch, I said.
"You're no fun," Stanley said. Then he pointed at Carl. "You. Carl. Surely you have shat in your pants before!"
"Shhhh!!!!" Carl whispered sharply.
"Keep your voice down please," Carl begged, knowing fully of how Stanley is capable of embarrassing anyone at will.
"Okay, okay. I have and I'll tell you. Just keep quiet ok..."
So for Carl, it was during NS where Carl was serving as a dog handler with the SAF.
He was washing his dog's cage when he felt especially farty.
And you know how it feels so free to fart loudly and openly without caring 'cos you're the only one around?
Yup, so that's how Carl felt and he went on a wild, farting spree while spraying his dog's kennel.
And for his finale, Carl thought he'd give an extra push so that he can end with a grand finish and that was when it happened.
Carl's final push turned out to be so effective he felt a warm rush of liquid spill all the way down to the back of his thighs and to his calf.
"Eh it's not funny ok," Carl said to a giggling Stanley and me, sounding hurt.
Anyway, Carl immediately wrapped up his washing of his dog cage and tip-toed awkwardly back to his bunk to begin the washing of his unleashed cage.
Carl said he remembered his friends commenting on how Carl must have worked so hard 'cos he smells like the dog kennel.
"I have since sworn never to exert any fart ever," Carl said seriously.
"Okay, your turn Stan," we both said.
Not one to be shy, Stanley said sultrily.
"Mine was really just recently."
Stanley, who takes it very seriously to douche before sex and cleanse after sex, had not expected that the combination of having sex with someone with a big tool and a heavy meal of malar (spicy stir-fried of assorted foods, China style) could be such a disaster.
"So there we were, going on humping intensely like there's no tomorrow when it happened.
Mr Big Tool drew out his probing stick and just then, a slush of diarrhoea flowed out like The Day After Tomorrow.
"EEwwwww!" both Carl and I said on cue.
"I've always wished to have hot, dirty sex, and God, I should have been more specific."
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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
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