The Boyfriend came home from work on Tuesday, and we proceeded to cuddle per usual. He was leaning against the headboard with his legs spread, talking about his meetings at work, when I caught a whiff of something fecal. I sniffed suspiciously and glanced in the direction of his crotch. Alarmed, he ran to the bathroom to investigate. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, I started following but immediately encountered a wall of fecal odor about a foot away from his ass. The smell was strong enough to propel me back into the bedroom and leave the inspection entirely to him.
A few seconds later, I heard a loud “Oh, no!” from behind the closed bathroom door. I started laughing uncontrollably and charged into the bathroom to survey the damage.
As I flung the door open, I saw the Boyfriend sitting on the toilet holding his underwear with a look of horror and dismay. Seeing me, he hid the underwear behind his back.
“I want to see,” I told him.
“No!” he shook his head.
“Dude, let me see,” I repeated, holding my hand out.
“You won’t like me anymore if I show you,” he whimpered.
“Whatever. It’s not the first time I’ve seen your poop,” I said. I snatched the underwear from him, looked at it, and laughed harder. The Boyfriend sat and watched me with panic in his eyes.
On the crotch of his green boxers was a small circle of what appeared to be a combination of yellow poop and anal mucus. The reason it was circular was that it had puddled before soaking into the cloth. I threw the underwear back to the Boyfriend in delighted disgust.
“How does a human being do something like this?” I demanded, still laughing like a maniac. “This isn’t just a skid mark. It’s an actual liquid stain created by poop that came out of your butt after your put your pants on. How did you not know about this?”
“Well, I farted a few times today,” he explained. “And then I scratched my butt. So I kind of knew. But I didn’t know it’d be this bad.”
I laughed and laughed.
The Boyfriend wrapped the boxers in a dirty T-shirt and tucked it into the bottom of the laundry hamper. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some pooping to do,” he said.
As I waited for him to finish the job he’d started god knows how many hours earlier, I was hit by a terrible realization. It wasn’t the fact that he had walked around all day at work trailed by a hemisphere of stink. It wasn’t that his jeans were probably also tainted by the same fecal-mucous mixture. It wasn’t even the idea that as an infrequent hand-washer, he probably ate with the same fingers he used to scratch his ass and subsequently ingested some of his own excrement. It was the knowledge that he thought nothing of touching human waste with his hand then using the same hand to grab my body parts. I probably had his shit all over me at this point. I probably reeked of it. Thank goodness neither of us had open wounds.
the Boyfriend’s poop-stained underwear, photographed the day after the incident: