Scat that Saves

Sitting on the toilet. A great place to clear my head. Another fight with the old lady. What was it about this time? We touched on everything. Jealousy, laziness, money, futures, everything. Didn't matter what started the fight, the next fight would start on something else, end on something else, but it was always the same fight, the everything fight.

A chill goes down my spine as my asshole stretches, so I take off my shirt and kick off my pants. I bend all the way over on the toilet. It actually can make a BM harder to do, but resting my chin on my folded arms helps me concentrate on other things. I stare at the scale on the ground. I weighed myself this morning, a solid 184. What will it be after hitting the can? Solve for the difference. That's the toxic mass inside you. And you just fight it out.

No more stomping and pacing outside the door. But a soft sob. That's new. Maybe she thinks I can't hear her. She always hides her emotions. Keeps everything inside until it explodes into this mess.

I rock a little bit on the toilet. They say sitting in the same position for too long will give you hemorrhoids.

I'm moaning a bit through my nose as a long excretion falls out of me. My temples are sweating. I think that's it. So I start wiping.

The door flies open. I instinctively cover up and lean sideways away from the door.

"Jesus Christ. Think you could wait one minute?"

She walks in and stands in front of me, one bare foot toeing the scale that she gazes down at. She's gathering herself to say something. I'm sorry, it couldn't wait, she says. I look up at her, infuriated that she would disturb my peace, wondering why.

"It's just," she says while sobbing comes on. "There's s-something I haven't told y-you. I've been keeping it to myself."

Great, here it comes. Cheating, I already know. Drinking alone in secret, I already know. Spending, I already know. I'm not perfect either. After all, she's the one left crying after this period of the screaming match, not me. But I know all her deep dark secrets. Why do we even try to conceal them?

"I just, well it's been hard to be intimate. Y-you just don't understand me completely."

Yeah, probably not. I just want her to spit it out so I can finish cleaning myself for chrissakes.

"I... I, I..."

God will she ever?

She is still staring at her feet. I put up both hands. I'm done. I'm about to wipe once more, pull up my pants, rinse fingers and walk the fuck out. She is a total mess I can't clean up.

Then she dives between my legs, reaching her arm in the bowl and grabbing a handful of the waste, coated in soft, white tissue muck and shoves it into her mouth. She returns to standing, looking down, chewing slowly and softly with a trembling jaw. Fingers to her chin, politely covering chewing like a school girl. Something she never does at the table. Tears drop onto her pedicured toes. She doesn't dare look at me. I never knew she was so deranged.

A friend of mine works with the mentally disturbed. They don't give special treatment for eating feces. They say it isn't a serious risk to one's own life. This conclusion is the result of the case of a desperate prisoner who ate his own feces to try to prove his insanity and gain release. I wouldn't put the same tact past her. Then again, she really sells it.

Finally her eyes flick to mine to see my thoughts on my face. Our eyes meet for just an instant before she looks back down in shame. I can still see that look though. Looking for approval, or disapproval, or just looking at me. Bloodshot, doughy eyes. A little white slug of toilet paper on her lip, a little smear of brown on her chin where her fingers had left some of that sticky handful.

She's about to sink, shaking to the ground and die, I think, when I get up and pin her to the wall, with a deep kiss to follow. I feel her entire body go pointy with excitement. She will tell me later that it was the greatest moment she will ever experience in her life. She can feel my hard-on through that big Sabres jersey she sleeps in, the good old hometown girl she is. That same hard-on she feels makes it difficult for me to force out some fresh warm feed for her but I do it as I scrape shit off her tongue with my teeth. I reach back to my ass and grab the shit tightly in my hand, excess squeezed through my knuckles, leaving a tightly packed, sticky egg in my palm. I shove the whole thing in her mouth, past her teeth into her throat and I push it down with my fingers. I slip my tongue in and out the side of the slimy brown cesspool in her mouth as I do so. And when I'm done, I reach down to her sopping panties, push them aside, forever staining the front with brown residue and rub her, from her slick opening, up between the labia, past her little pee hole and finally her clit.

I'm able to force out one more modest portion from my exhausted asshole, which I insert inside her. She lifts her legs, I grab her sides, leaving shitty hand prints on her jersey, and fuck her up against the wall. Churning the shit into paste and slime. Her pussy leaks sludge that creeps down my balls and joins her tears on the scale between my legs. She comes constantly and when we pry our mouths apart they are painted brown, but empty.

She tells me later it was the single greatest moment in her life, and the best she will ever have. And we are happy to live and love in our squalor until everything else comes around.