by Julia Davies
I sat in the cubicle with my head crunching, trying to collaspe in on itself. My stomach was moving to a similar rhythmn that seems deliberately a few beats out of sync. Knickers round my ankles, but hunched, holding my stomach to my thighs, my head to my knees. Laying bets on which end will spurt first as I sweat and shiver at the same time while my body decides which part is next to fall apart. I struggle not to moan out loud. If I puke first I have to get off the toilet, spin through 180° and aim for the toilet bowl. Gipping at the back of my throat. Oh god is it possible to die of a hangover? Panic starts, no bog roll in the holder, shit shit shit; literally, I will have to walk out with shit stuck in my crack to find some, or grab the paper towels by the sink. Oh fuck I can't get up to look. A wave of illness washes me. The bottom end wins, a fat solid plug is expelled first. Black, like finest dark chocolate, and the rancid fruity smell I associate with the bears at the zoo. I must cut back on the red wine. Perhaps a intersperse each 75cl of Merlot with a bottle of Pinot Grigio? The solid shit passes and my arsehole contracts afterwards, a few times, a few waves of mild pleasure to counteract those of nausea, before the rest comes spurting, spattering out. The bowl is pebble dashed in 60% fine cocoa solids. I do groan now, my eyes are watering; and then I notice on the floor a few sheets of tissue clinging to the end of the cardboard reel. Oh thank fuck for that.
Julia Davies is a practised reader and practising writer & lives in Germany.
She still can't remember masturbating anywhere unusual, but European air traffic control permitting she is hopefully off on holiday in 42hrs so maybe this will change!