Do I have a problem? Every time I go clubbing, I end up on the dance floor, needing to do a shit. Every time. And I don't even need a shit.
Look, just as I'm getting into the music and I'm feeling comfortable with my surroundings I get this nagging feeling that, yes, at some point I'm going to have to make my way to the toilets and do a crap. But then I start thinking: No! I don't need a crap, I'm imagining it (who imagines needing a shit??). I continue dancing, convincing myself that my slightly wet bum crack is sweaty and NOT shitty. Minutes pass. Ok, if my bum is sweating, how the FUCK do you explain the grittiness? There's definitely a gritty feeling going on down there - the sweat is not alone. No Dom, you can't have shit yourself. You're in a club, you're 24 years old...you do not shit yourself anymore. So how do you explain the grit? Well, I say to myself, maybe it's the particles from the smoke machine. Yes, that's it, the particles from the smoke machine have clung to the sweat on my arse crack and now share certain shit like properties. Yes, ok, it's the smoke machine doing this. Naughty smoke machine, nearly had me panicking then. Minutes pass. What the fuck is that smell? Is that... is that shit?
Don't think, get off the dance floor and your nasty ass into the toilets you freak crap-man. how the fuck did this happen? Panic emerges from within me like a blue whale breaking the surface. What's the matter with me? Rule one: don't shit yourself in a place with no toilet paper or locks.
So to the toilets. One cubicle free, it's fucking BOILING in here. What's this? There's no toilet seat!? Do they expect me to believe two bits of acrylic nailed to a metal hole constitutes a seat? The fucking door only comes up to my chin - with this place so crowded it will only take a slightly taller than average person to see me. No way, I'm going to the upstairs toilets.
Fuck! Is this a joke? Is this an actual prank? Why the fuck does the upstairs toilet not have a door? At all?!! Do they think we're animals who just casually take logs in front of each other? Still at least there's toilet paper (if a little moist - i wont ask), I'll grab a few sheets, stuff them in my pocket and take it back downstairs. If anyone wants to talk to me they can fuck off, I am not about to explain my thousand yard stare and the trail of white tissue flowing from my pocket.
Several times back in the cubicle I pull down my pants, hover uncertainly over the bog then bottle it, quickly pulling my trousers up, a sudden feeling that someone is filming me haunting me. In desperation I decide that I'm just going to have to take the bull by the horns, drop my pant and push like a bastard. Fuck my haemoroids, this bastard turd is gonna leave my arse like an otter off a bank. Huuuurgh. Nothing. Huuuuurgh. Still nothing. What the hell? Fine, if you're not coming, fuck you. I'll just give myself a good old wipe to get rid of the squealchy feeling. Then comes the real shocker. MY ARSE IS BONE DRY. There's no shit there, sweat, nothing. A phantom shit. A bloody phantom shit. This is the third time this month. Does my arse think it's funny, playing with me like this? IT takes horrible advantage that my digestive system is controlled by involuntary muscles, exploiting my naivety for just a sick joke. I leave the toilet releaved but also feeling rather empty. Even though I didn't want to do a shit, there's nothing in the world quite so disappointing as going to do a shit, only to find twas a mere fart. Or a phantom shit, but maybe that's unique to me. Thanks for that body.