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Full Disclosure: I Shit on a First Date

 

What doesn't give you hepatitis in San Francisco, only makes you stronger.

What doesn’t give you hepatitis in San Francisco, only makes you stronger.

All debate over whether or not there was any merit in writing this article ended for me when I still laughed-out-loud after the tenth time of running the premise through my head.

Let’s face it: everybody poops. Some people even do it soft-serve-style into cups (NSFW, but oh so tempting to omit that). But yet we still like to pretend it’s a thing that doesn’t happen, especially for women. Poop video tally: three.

Bring a romantic scenario into the equation, and suddenly the anti-poop ante is upped to gastronomical proportions. My worst fear, which has been actualized more times than the #2 is that I’ll clog a toilet on a date. And by the way, how do half of you women reading this NOT have plungers in your apartment? Do the bows make it more flushable?

Well you can imagine my trepidation this past Saturday, when on the bus ride over to a Mission dive bar for a first date, I thought I was about to lose my shit. You ever leave a bathroom and feel like you’d be cleaner had you not washed your hands? Welcome to all but five bars in San Francisco. Pops, Delirium, Beauty Bar, The Uptown are all better coke dispensaries than they are poop depositories.

Thankfully the date was taking place at our dear friend Dear Mom, which has a remarkably great men’s bathroom stall for a Mission SF dive, and an even better buffalo chicken sandwich. The circle of life continues.

As I approach the bar I make eye contact with my date, establishing that it’s her. She’s attractive, which in the online dating world is always a relief. But now all I can think about are about the scenarios of how I’m going to tackle my doo-doo dilemma:

“Hi, I’m Eric. Let me run to the bathroom really quickly.” Fast-forward 15 minutes and I’d be lucky if she was still at the bar.
“Hi, I’m Eric. I have a terrible gluten allergy, and the aroma of beer alone makes me have to crap my pants.”
“Hi, I’m Eric. I’m not going anywhere. Also, I just pooped myself.”

It’s also worth noting that this was my first date ever from Fetlife (NSFW, but an AWESOME social network for the kink scene. More on that in another article). Point being that I was already exceptionally nervous, and the last thing I wanted this chick thinking was that taking a dump was my particular fetish.

I decide on the only strategy that seems viable: I’m going to hold out for as long as I can. I order my first drink, and happily, she had already ordered hers. Once we established neither of us were weirdos or idiots, and as my drink neared its end, I tell her I need to run to the bathroom. Also, f*ck calling it a restroom.

Once inside, the game of “OH MY GOD HOW DO I GET THIS OVER WITH AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE” began. You should know I am not a fast pooper. Doctors are still trying to figure out what exactly is wrong with me, but when you don’t have health insurance, the Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic is the best option you have, and I’m still suspicious from when they told me my urine sample tasted awful.

Finally, I finish. I think about blaming the time spent in there on a long line (a COCAINE LINE, am I right?). I think about apologizing and telling her I had to take a phone call. But then I remember my own credo: Full Disclosure is always best. So I tell her that I was taking a shit and that I was never hugged as a child. She laughs. We had connected. We had stated what we both knew but was one of the unspoken things not to speak of on a first date. The rest of the night we were exceptionally intimate for people who’d just met. We held hands. I did not tell her that I didn’t wash them. But it was intimate. It was like having sex wasn’t even a big deal anymore, because we had gone there, man. We had gone to the toilet.

So if you want your next date to go well. Take it from me. Take a shit. At the very least it’ll prolong the length of the date, and they’ll be getting hammered while you’re doing your thing. Speaking of which, time to trade these typist hands in for whipe-ist hands.

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FREE Porn Pick of the Week (NSFW): Mom Catches Daughter – parenting the way it ought to be

Full Disclosure podcast Episode 36: Porn Star Courtney Cummz 
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Eric Barry - Starving Fartist

Eric Barry - Starving Fartist

Eric Barry is a writer and comedy nerd, currently living in Brooklyn by way of San Francisco.

When he's not writing or podcasting, he can be found drinking beer, rubbing pesto on whatever will allow it, or doing improv/sketch/standup.