I accidentally pooped on a dude.

That’s right. You read that correctly. I. pooped. on. a. dude.

A tragic sentence that played on a constant loop in my head for about 48 hours after the fact.

Here’s the thing. It was an accident – a total fucking accident. I didn’t mean to shit on a dude. A warm, muscle-y, big-cocked fellow whose bodily treats really brought the shat upon himself. I swear. The poop, it came out of my butt, and went on another living human being quite completely by accident. OHMYFUCKINGGOD. I can’t believe this happened to me!

But if he hadn’t bucked so hard inside of me; if he hadn’t had such a deliciously big cock that knocked my g-spot right off the map; if I hadn’t stayed on top so long; and if I hadn’t moved to the goddamned chair this never would have happened.

So here’s the deal — the God’s honest truth — SHIT REALLY DOES HAPPEN. And here’s how it all went down:

Jake had me from his first email: “You seem really cool and I love what you wrote. What do you think about a drink and some conversation? No expectations.”

There’s something about a man who says he expects nothing that makes me want to give him everything. It’s a balance of power and it’s just fucking cool.

We’d exchanged texts for a week or so, nothing too exciting, but I determined that he a) could punctuate correctly in a text (always sexy) and b) he was as cool as his initial email.

Turned out, though, our schedules weren’t matching up. All we could manage was a brief afternoon meeting at 2:30 on a Thursday at a bar near my house. And he had to leave at 5 to go out of town.

He was handsome and tan, sporting a Marine-short haircut. We hugged hello, sized each other up. I liked what I saw. The feeling was mutual.

He kept my hand full of Lone Stars and we braved the heat to share a couple of smokes; laughed and talked almost non-stop. At 5 he says, “Well, I can either hit the road or we can go to your place for a little while.” I opted for the latter, naturally.

I was excited. I’d never really done this before. I had a very strong feeling that to meet him was to fuck him, and I don’t usually. It’s too brazen, even for me. But his easy charm and warm smile put me at ease and I felt comfortable letting my Sex Freak flag fly high.

Once in my apartment I got us some water and we sat on my couch. I don’t even know how it happened, but we were all over each other. I was inordinately excited to take his socks offs. We laughed.

I wasn’t laughing when his jeans came off, though.

I think I may have growled when I saw his big cock standing straight up for me. Or maybe not. I don’t know. But I fell on it with my face like it would turn back time or something.

Immediately he says, “Jesus Christ, that’s awesome.” I murmured acknowledgment around his thick shaft. His balls warm and heavy in my hand, his silky head pliant under my tongue. I sucked harder.

He pushed me back and told me to take off my dress. I fumbled with the ties and trappings.

“You wanna fuck me, Hyacinth?”

“Yes. Very much so,” I answered with a smile. I recaptured his cock in my mouth and then released it, trailed kisses up his torso, nibbled his muscular shoulder and kissed him deeply.

He asked for his pants and pulled out a Magnum, swiftly rolled it down onto himself. I climbed up and slid down. The second my thighs reach his, when his shaft is buried deep inside me to the hilt, I drenched us.

We fucked like animals every which way: me on top, on the bottom, on hands and knees, on my belly. He grabbed my throat and pulled my hair repeatedly. My pussy was a goddamned river and my makeup looked like I was headed to an ICP concert.

“Can I fuck you in that chair?” and he motioned to my bowl-shaped lounge chair.

“Yes, of course “ I said between heaving breaths. “Have at it.” (And here is where I lost my goddamned mind. I had already felt that weird tingling sensation in my hips from the g-spot pounding and I KNOW that means bad things. I’d felt that numb feeling in the past, called off the sex and gone to the bathroom because I could smell something icky only to find a tiny mess on toilet paper. I’d been smart with the other two men this had ever happened with. Not so with Jake. I was clearly stupid-horny and so I pressed on. I think I figured that since only one of the two clues (just the numbness, not the smell) was present that I was in the clear.)

We moved to the new (dry) piece of furniture and he seated himself like on a king on a thrown: knees splayed, arms resting comfortably away from his body.

This chair is THE fucking chair. Something about its width and recline make it a great support for a man and its plush finish gentle for a woman’s knees and thighs. It’s wide enough to spread my legs just a little too far taking most of my control away. I am at the mercy of the man in this chair, and until yesterday, only Troy had ever fucked me in it that I can recall. And I was fucking excited to be in it again.

I rode him for several minutes, my ejaculate sprayed us as we slipped and slid all over each other, my D tits swung in his face and slapped his cheeks. His hands were all over me, grabbing me, pinching me, wrapped in my hair and around my neck. His kisses were searing.

“I want you to cum on me,” I whispered into his ear as his cock pounded into me. And then: QUIET PANIC. I smelled something. OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK.

“I want to cum in your mouth,” he countered. WHAT THE FUUUUUUCK!!

At this point, I know something has happened, but I’m certain he hasn’t smelled anything. I’m thinking that it’s just something I can smell, something on my bottom, nothing major. When he got up to switch positions with me I saw some poop on my chair. I threw myself down on it in time for him to sidle up to my mouth. THERE WAS SHIT ON HIS THIGH AND BALLS.


I deftly grabbed his cock with one hand and my mouth and with my other swiped the crap away. Voila! [Nearly] clean slate!

I sucked and licked and stroked with everything I had. Horrified on the one hand, determined to get him to cum so this nightmare could finally end on the other.

When he came he told me he was about to and he groaned or grunted or moaned or whatever it was he did as he left a hot, sticky little gift in my mouth. (And some of my own shit in my left hand which I’d kept down by my side out of the mix the entire time.)

I lay on my back, on top of the little shit streak on the chair panting. Glad I’d managed to pull it off. He grabbed a tea towel I had on my coffee table and handed it to me, but not before saying, “Uh oh, something a little messy…” and wiped (what I assumed to be) a fleck of poo off my belly. GODDAMNIT. I was so close!

I asked him to get me a glass of water and when he left for the kitchen I frantically wiped my hand clean and looked for any other mess left behind. When he came back he asked if he could take a shower before he took off. Of course I said yes.

While he was in the shower I ran around like a crazy person scrubbing my hand and throwing the towel away, scrubbing the shit out of the chair. OHJESUSFUCKINGCHRIST.

He apologized profusely for having to leave right away once he was out, but frankly I couldn’t have cared less. He gave me a big hug and a kiss goodbye and that was the last I ever saw or heard of him.

Oh God. Even now this story is mortifying and hilarious all at once. I’ve told 4 of my best girlfriends and they’ve all been in fits, tears streaming down their faces. “It only happens to you, Hyacinth!” they snort between guffaws.

And it’s true.

I immediately ran to the internets to research. Turns out I’m not the only one to whom this has happened and, depending on the partner and person, it ranges from something completely my fault and I’m a (literally) dirty whore or I was just a well-pleasured and unlucky woman. Either way, I found solace in the shared experience.

Which is why I’ve decided to start keeping track of these ridiculous stories here.

I pooped on a dude. And lived to tell about it.