Pocketful of Peens: Call of Dooty

Out of all the schmucks, assholes and peens, there is one who stands alone. One who broke me down to a shell of myself. One who turned me into one of those pathetic, yippy-yap twits. You know the ones. She can only talk about her ex-boyfriend. She somehow finds an “organic way” to bring his name into the conversation. News flash bitch! No one cares and he’s a sorry excuse for a man. Take his name out of your vocabulary forever. The joyous news is that my heart is completely patched up and his face has faded away from my daily thoughts. Now I am grateful I escaped his sub-par, mediocre ass and I’m shining like the bright spark I should be.


But before the shit hit the fan with this one, the shit hit the sheets.


It had been several months of a romantic courtship. And as young twenty-somethings do, we took our relationship to the next level – the sex level. After an “I love you” and sexual anticipation mounting, temptation won the battle. Good sex. Good chemistry. Just one little problem.


Although we’d been dating for several months, we hadn’t reached the point where we were comfortable talking about any bodily functions other than ejaculation. No potty humor here. Although no discussion of bathroom talk was shared between us, my guy was sharing something on my white sheets. We engaged in an afternoon sexual romp one day during the lunch hour. After we said our goodbyes, I went to make the bed and spied a foreign streak on the delicate, soft fabric. I still remember the first time I noticed the substance and the image is burned into my brain. I instinctively went to brush it off, but nothing was coming off. I guess completely blinded by love, my first thought was, “Are my boyfriends freckles rubbing off on my sheets?” Wow that must have really been true, slap your face, kick you in the crotch, heart-struck love. I don’t believe it’s physically possible to rub off your freckles, no matter how hard you’re banging. I looked a little closer and yelled, “Oh shit is that shit?!” I was mortified and embarrassed for him.


I dramatically flung my sheets off my bed in a hasty manor, blubbering obscenities. I grabbed every disinfecting substance I could find in my tiny apartment. I probably made a bomb in my washing machine with all the bleach, Clorox and Tide I mixed together. Those were some expensive sheets. I couldn’t bop off to Bed Bath and Beyond every time he decided to wipe his ass mid-sex. This girl’s on a budget!


A few sex sessions passed and he didn’t stamp my sheets with his poopy bum. I was relieved and hoped this was a one-time occurrence. Like all good things often do, the streak of streak-free sex came to an end. The bastard did it again. And not just one more time, three or four. I had my disinfecting bomb down to a science. Every time I cleaned the sheets, I was sure I’d burn a hole in them with the strong blend of chemicals.


I had a heart-to-heart with myself and decided I needed to confront him with this disgusting situation. One day we were sitting on the couch. I braced myself, held my breath and asked the question no girl ever wants to ask her boyfriend. “Not to make you uncomfortable, but are you leaving poop on my sheets?” His face turned bright red and he buried his head in the couch pillow and said “Yes! I don’t wipe very well.”


What in the Sam Hill are you doing, a grown-ass man, not knowing how to wipe after a dump? Forgive me for being refined, but isn’t this something you learned in the kindergarten era? Instead of this weird-as-hell conversation making me run, my infatuated heart hugged him and we laughed it off. I should have said “peace out” after the first “call of dooty” slam on my sheets. Lesson learned and new sheets purchased.


There are many more tales involving this man. Luckily no more that involve him dumping all over my sheets, just metaphorically dumping all over my heart. I can’t even think of a cautionary statement to end with. This is too ridiculous, foul and probably never happened to anyone before. I guess, word to the wise, wipe your ass if you’re planning on smacking it. Common sense, or so I would’ve thought.