Boosh. We spent the next hour trading stories. Eventually, after many drinks and a little public making out (nice), I asked her if she wanted to go back to her apartment. She said yes. We hailed a cab.
She said she lived in Brooklyn, which to me implied a short trip. Wrong. Caroline gave the driver the name of her neighborhood as we entered the cab, and promptly fell asleep. Twenty-five minutes later, we were still driving. I'd had to pee a little bit when we left the bar. Now I was battling one of the top-3 pee emergencies of my life. The driver turned around and said we were close and that he needed her exact address. Feigning calm, I shook Caroline awake and asked her to tell the driver where she lived.
She did, and they had a confusing back-and-forth over the issue, but ultimately he seemed to understand. Still, it was clear that we were a little lost or that we'd overshot the target and, for my bladder, this was too much to bear. I'd needed hope, something to boost my morale and power me through the home stretch. This was a death blow. I couldn't go another ten minutes, that was unthinkable. I had to pee, right then and there. Fortunately, Caroline fell back asleep immediately after talking to the driver (I know, I like this one), so I was free to make a move.
"Excuse me sir, pull over here please."
"What?"
"Stop, please, right here. I just need a minute."
He pulled over, not really sure what was happening. I ran into an alley between two brownstones and got down to business.
Time was a critical factor here. I'd made the cabbie promise not to leave, but that was before he realized I was about to pee on someone's house. If he took off I'd be in real trouble, because my phone was dead and I had no idea where we were. Caroline was asleep for the time being but could wake up again at any moment, and the sight of me holding my penis on the sidewalk might give her second thoughts about this situation. There was also, of course, the threat of a cop driving by and spotting me. With all these scenarios running through my head, I decided there was only one option, and that was to force the pee out as fast as possible. Which is what I did.
Which is how I pooped my pants.
Now, it wasn't a DISASTER. I'd estimate that what came out was no larger than a peanut. But, come out it did, and it was there now, wedged between my butt cheeks, a problem that needed to be dealt with.
Fortunately, though it resulted in me soiling myself, the push-like-a-woman-in-labor approach to urination was an effective one. I finished my pee in record time, and did so without the cab leaving or Caroline waking up -- a seriously Pyrrhic victory, sure. But whatever. I zipped up my pants and breathed a deep sigh of relief. But now: What to do? Poopy butt or no, the three nightmare scenarios I'd sketched out before could still unfold any second -- and how much worse would they be now with my "dark passenger" along for the ride? I had no resources for dealing with a problem of this magnitude, and no time. With little other choice, I squeezed my butt cheeks together, waddled back to the cab, and sat down inside.
"Thank you sir. You may continue now."
We got back to her apartment, and of course I bee-lined it for the john. I did my best to clean the region, but, in addition to being hammered, I worried that if I took too long she would think I was taking a dump (ironic), so I didn't get to be as thorough as I wanted. A more complete cleanse came the next morning, after I left her apartment and stopped inside the bathroom of a sandwich shop. As you can imagine, I made that toilet look like Mischief Night.
Caroline apparently never realized what happened, which is a relief. We are still in friendly contact, and I hope to see her again sometime, preferably without involving any "brownstones" (wink).
Yeah, but seriously I hope I don't shit my pants again.
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