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Author's Note:

Beware. The following story is most certainly not for everybody. For those who find graphic depictions of bodily functions erotic, by all means please continue. If farting, pissing and shitting really aren't your thing, then kindly move on to another story.

My intention here was to create a story that incorporates romance along with animal desire. I hope I have succeeded at least a little in achieving this goal. Thank you very much for taking the time to read it.

Oh, and as always, all reference to persons, places or events is entire fictional. Any similarities are entirely coincidental.

I.

Ever so gently the breeze rustled the grass clippings, cut not more than an hour ago and still bleeding freshness and vitality into the air. It crossed the playground, paying little attention to the children running about, their ruddy faces perspiring and their fingernails gathering dirt, but stopped instead to play with the lilac bushes at the far end, where the park met the sidewalk. From there it traveled down the street. It sideswiped garbage pales set out for the following morning and wound around maple, oak and ginkgo trees. It hit Mrs. Green from behind as she was watering her tulips, sending ripples through her floral print dress. It ran up Mr. Weinberg's stubbly cheek as he was bending low, match in cupped hands, attempting to light the charcoal in his grill, and it passed through an open window into Joanne's lesson room. She closed her eyes and took in the sweet august aroma.

The child sitting beside her was restless; she could feel it as she guided his tiny hands across the ivory keys, showing him the positions of the notes with great patience as he fidgeted. He wanted to be outside with the other kids on the playground, swinging high into the air and squeeking with relentless energy as they ran after one another and kicked up the dirt. She wanted to be somewhere else too. She needed to clean yet, and to cook and get dressed. It was a quarter to four. Howard would be coming at six.

They closed the songbook when the doorbell rang, and the child darted from the room to greet his mother on the porch. He hugged her legs and tugged at the bottom of her shirt.

"How was he, Joanne?" she asked as the child ran in circles around her.

"Just fine, like always," Joanne said with a warm smile. She reached down and patted the little boy on the head.

They waved their goodbyes and mother and son climbed into their car. Joanne watched them drive off down the street.

"I don't know how you do it, Joanne."

The voice came from the left. Joanne turned her head to see her neighbor David standing in his yard. A tall man, and thin, he was mostly bald except for a ring of graying hair that ran around the back of his head from temple to temple. She descended the steps and sauntered over, her arms crossed.

"They're not bad at all."

"Oh jeez, I don't know. Brian's been talking about adoption recently, but I don't think I could stand one of those things running around the house all day long." As he said this David scrunched his face up into a humorously disgusted look. Joanne couldn't suppress a small chuckle.

"Your in good spirits today, aren't you?" he said.

"I guess so."

"You know, I ran into an old friend of mine yesterday."

Joanne knew where this was going. "Go on," she insisted.

"And I was thinking."

"Uh-hu?"

"That he would be perfect for you!"

She closed her eyes and gently shook her head back and forth.

"But Joanne, he's a great guy. And how long has it been since Richard left? Two years?"

Richard. Once the love of her life. That name used to stop her dead in her tracks. Right now it wasn't the name that hit her, but rather the fact that its impression was negligible. This left her smiling inside.

"That's right, two years."

"So don't you want to get on with your life? Who knows, if you settle down with somebody you might even start playing again."

These words had more of a punch. Her stomach knotted up now at the mere thought of standing on stage in front of a crowd.

"Actually," she said quickly to steer the conversation away from the topic of her failed music career, "I won't be needing your friend."

"Why not?" David asked, his eyes perking up with interest.

Joanne shot him a smile. "I've met someone."

His jaw dropped. "That's great! What's his name?"

"Howard."

"Where did you meet him?"

To give a truthful response to this question or not?

"I met him online," she said. She checked her watch. "Damn. David, I hate to cut it short, but he's actually coming over tonight, and I've still got to get ready."

"Okay I'll let you go. Make sure to stop by sometime and tell me about your date."

David gave her a peck on the cheek and disappeared into his house. She stood there for a few seconds, taking in the smell of the lilacs. They smelled like she felt inside.

Walking back into her house, she let the screen door slam shut and bounce back and forth into equilibrium. She looked about the house and an intense feeling rushed over her, a realization about the last two years that she had been living.

She needed music.

In the living room she placed a CD in her stereo. Ahhh . . . Rachmaninov. Those delicate notes, saturated with passion, swirled around the air like specks of dust illuminated in an afternoon sunbeam. They filled every corner of the house, bringing to it a velvety ambiance. With her head lost in the music Joanne glided into kitchen, the aging floorboards creaking under her feet. There she placed a large pot on the stove, chopped up some vegetables, threw them in, set the burner on low and glided out into the dining room. Here the table was full of old newspaper clippings and scrap-book supplies, remnants of her latest newfound hobby. She swept all of these up into her arms and threw them into a box in the corner for later attention. With an old cloth she polished the dust from the table.

In the living room she pirouetted as she ran a broom across the floor. She picked up cheap romance novels from a large pile at the foot of the recliner, arranging them in no particular order on her several large bookshelves. She pulled up the blinds, cleaned the windowsills and the lampshades, and replaced the potpourri on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She set down two wineglasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon before twirling past the entry hall and up the stairs to the second floor.

Quick facial, shower, nails, stray hair pluck. In her bedroom she fretted over which dress to wear, deciding finally against a dress and opting instead for simple jeans and a blouse. She looked at herself in the closet mirror. Though by no means out of shape, in the two years since Richard had left she had let herself go. They were small things: a tiny bulge around the waist, her cheeks a bit fuller than normal and accentuating her slight overbite and her cute button nose, her naturally curly brown hair longer than usual and slightly unkempt. All of these sights forced themselves upon her in the late afternoon sunlight that crept through her curtains. But then, at the same time none of them seemed to matter all that much.

In the kitchen, as the pots on the stove boiled away, sending a thick aromatic steam into the air above, Joanne stood at the backdoor, sipping on a glass of beer and watching a robin hop across her backyard. The doorbell rang.

"Hey," she smiled, opening the door for Howard. He came in with a bottle of wine under one arm and a record under the other.

"I hope red is okay," he said as he handed the bottle to her.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing to the LP.

He flashed an excited smile. "Well, I remember you saying that you have a turntable, and I thought that you might like to hear this."

Joanne took the record and read the title out loud. "West Meets East: Yehudi Menuhin/Ravi Shanker. Howard this is amazing. Where did you get this?"

"I found it at a used record store downtown. Shall we put it on?"

"Of course," she said as she moved in to the living room. The receiver gave a loud click as she switched it to phono. The stylus lowered on the rotating black disc, the speakers crackled with static before the sound of tanpura and violin gently filled the air.

"This is exquisite," she said.

"You look exquisite," he said.

She turned around to find his face inches from hers, and all of a sudden her ground rumbled, as if threatening to break away beneath her. He leaned in and their lips met, and the ground did break away from her.

Howard stepped back with a warm smile. "I think dinner's ready," Joanne said meekly as blood slowly drained from her face. She felt like fanning herself.

They sat down at the kitchen table. She watched him efficiently unfold his napkin and place it on his lap, and then pour himself a glass of wine. Like a professional he swirled it around and sniffed it before taking a small sip.

"How is it?" she asked.

He smacked his lips. "Taste's alright. I've had better."

Inside she had to laugh. Never had she met a man who was so refined, yet so matter-of-fact. "And this is the guy? This is the one?" she said to herself. "This is the guy who's going to help me fulfill my fantasy?" It was really too good to be true.

Just to be sure, in her mind she turned back the clock four and a half weeks, to the time when she signed up at the sex site and placed the add. Did it seem like a ludicrous idea? Yes. Possibly the last act of a desperate woman? That was a big affirmative. Would she get responses? She was unsure at the time. She didn't know if any man would care to sit with her while she took a dump.

Apparently quite a few, judging from the responses that she got. Seeing the packed mailbox, her first reaction was anger at her ex-husband. Why couldn't Richard be more understanding of her needs? Any one of these guys was perfectly willing. But then she started reading the responses, and she realized that these men were pigs; they were simple perverts and nothing more.

But not Howard.

She thought about the morning of their first meeting, about how she got up and lost her nerve, and almost didn't make it. On her way to the coffee shop she stressed over what she was going to say, how in the world she was actually going to get the right words out of her mouth. It almost seemed impossible.

Sitting there, watching him chew, she mentally reenacted the meeting as she would do so for years to come.

II.

The coffee shop belonged to a national chain. No matter how hard it tried to hide this fact with it's numerous statements about simplicity and sustainability, statements about commitment to organic free-trade and commitment to underdeveloped communities, at the end of the day it offered nothing more than smartly designed furniture for people to sit on, and from which to drink high calorie drinks out of 30% recycled paper cups. Joanne hated these sorts of places. She preferred local over national wherever she went. She enjoyed walking on dirty, scuffed marked tile floors that were incapable of a proper cleaning. She preferred sitting on peeling chairs that were sometimes in such a state of disrepair that they needed duct-tape to stay together. She loved drinking her coffee out of plain mugs handed down between generations and permanently stained with years of use.

But under the circumstances, in which anonymity and public exposure were essential, she was perfectly willing to make the sacrifice.

Through the large window – her heart accelerating with the thrill of prospect – she scanned the room for her date. It was 7:25, too early yet for the rush of professionals in desperate need of caffeine to get through those first crucial hours of the morning. Joanne saw a couple of older gentlemen sitting to the right, obviously together but each engrossed in the morning paper and not paying the other any attention. She pinned them as retirees. Behind the counter at the rear of the shop there were two baristas attending to their various duties – checking temperatures and pressures, grinding whole beans and pouring them into various machines, arranging sweets and baked goods and breakfast foods in the glass showcase.

There, to the back and left. It was a young guy sitting alone and typing away at a lap-top. Was that Howard? She stepped in, getting a nose full of freshly brewed coffee and ears full of Joni Mitchell as she did so.

Timidly, she approached. "Howard?"

The young man looked up. His eyes widened. "Joanne?" he half said, half asked as he stuck out his hand.

Somewhere in the distance an artillery shell exploded.

His irises were green with a slight hint of yellow, and they were vivid like an acrylic painting. They exuded a sense of wonderment.

"Joanne Wachouski?"

"You know who I am?"

"Wow! Of course! You played with the London Symphony Orchestra. I've got your solo album. I simply love your work. I think your brilliant!"

She had fans? Real fans?

"Um" was the only word that she managed to get out. Then, "I'm just gonna grab something to drink." Howard nodded with a wide smile and went back to his computer.

So many thoughts raced through her mind as she ordered her coffee. "I can't believe that he knows me. Should I just leave?"

She turned her head to look at him, now quickly typing away. A quick scan of his person: cross trainers, corduroy pants, a dark green T-shirt. His silky brown hair was long and well kept. His chin was made pronounced by a day's worth of black stubble, and his nose and mouth were slender.

"But he seems like such a nice guy. And so cute. Could this really be him? I was expecting somebody much creepier."

A horrid thought occurred to her. Maybe he misinterpreted the add? Had she made it explicit enough? She thought back to his response, which she had read so many times that she had memorized it:

Joanne,

This sounds like a wonderful opportunity to fulfill a longtime fantasy of mine. I'd love to meet you.

Yours sincerely,

Howard

These were the words that grabbed at her. They were simple, but in them she read an undercurrent of the same kinds of feelings that she had felt for most of her adult life.

Back at the table.

"Just a few more words," he said without looking up from his lap top. "I'm so sorry about this . . .and . . . there we go," he added as he forcefully hit the enter key. "I just had to finish responding so some student e-mails." He turned his full attention to her now, eyes locked in. "Wow," he said in a tone of tremendous satisfaction. "Joanne Wachouski, sitting at my table."

She took a sip of her coffee. She was trying her best to meet his gaze, though the feeling that her face was currently engorged with blood made this very difficult. "Howard," she finally said. "I'm flattered, really, but please don't."

"I'm sorry. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable? How else was she supposed to feel? She hadn't anticipated coming across somebody that knew her so well. And now, through this gorgeous specimen of a man, she had inadvertently given the outside world a peak into her dark inner self.

His head perked up and he smiled, revealing a set of beautiful white teeth. "Okay. So you don't know me, and we can pretend that I don't know anything about you. Why don't we get to know each other, then?"

She liked the thought of this idea; it felt like something that she could handle.

"Okay," she said. You said something about students. Are you a professor?"

He grinned. "I'm flattered that you made the mistake, but not by a long shot. I've got quite a few more years to go until I get that far. I'm a graduate student."

"What do you study?" she said as she took another sip of her coffee.

"I study philosophy."

"And that's what you're teaching?"

"Yeah. It's an intro-continental philosophy course. You know – Hegel, Kierkeggard, Derrida. That type of stuff."

"Oh," she said while nodding, though she wasn't paying much attention. Howard caught on.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What?"

"The way your looking at me, almost like you don't believe me."

"I'm sorry," she said. "That's not it. I was just wondering."

"Wondering what? Go ahead, ask me any question and I'll answer it."

There it was, on the tip of her lips. She didn't know if the time was ripe to broach the inevitable topic hanging on the horizon, but it needed escape. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a half-whisper. "Why did you answer my add?"

He looked pensive, as if somebody were playing a joke that he didn't quite get. "Shouldn't I have?"

"It's just that you look so . . . so normal."

Now he grinned. "I've got news for you." He leaned in closer and his voice, too, dropped to a whisper. "So do you."

A young woman brushed by the table and walked into the bathroom, only a couple feet away. Howard instinctively shot a glance in her direction, and then turned back to Joanne, feeling slightly guilty about his wandering eyes. But in her eyes he met a cool understanding. They sat there in silence as behind the thick wooden door they heard the toilet flush and the sink run. The woman came out and brushed by them one more time.

"Hey," he said. "Do you want to take a walk?"

Outside the air was still cool, though the sun was threatening to cast a blanket of heat over the land. The sky, now a pale blue, boasted only a few faint wisps of cloud. The two headed down the street to a bridge. There they turned off on a path that lead down to a canal, joining several couples walking their dogs.

They strolled lazily, hands in their pockets and heads down, like in a movie. Howard closed his eyes and took in the rich, earthy scent of the water drifting slowly by. In the middle of the river, where a pair of mallards scooted around and bobbed under the surface, the ripples on the water caught the sunlight with sparks. In the thick underbrush birds fluttered and insects buzzed around as if they were high on some controlled substance.

"Joanne?"

"You can call me Jo."

"Is that what your friends call you?"

She smiled knowingly. "Just my special friends."

"Why did we meet so early?"

"Oh, that was a test." She drew closer to him so that their arms were almost touching. "You see, in my experience weirdo creeps don't like to get up before noon at the earliest."

Howard chuckled. "Man, I can just imagine the kind of responses that you got to your add."

"Oh my God! It was disgusting," she said, now laughing too. "All of them were

complete sleeze bags. You can't begin to imagine the kind of stuff they said that they wanted to do to me.

"Well, it's nice to know that I'm not a weirdo-creep."

Behind them a tiny bell chimed. They both stepped off into the grass as three cyclists speed past. Watching them pedal off into the distance, Joanne suddenly felt like she did as a child walking home from school, when she crossed the railroad yard against her parents wishes, and stopped to gaze down the tracks into the unknown.

"Well," she said smartly as she turned now to look at Howard. "I never said you weren't weird."

She could feel his face pull forward, as if by some invisible force. She would have let him kiss her right there, would have been perfectly fine with it.

"I'm really glad you decided to show up," he said.

"Me too."

"You up for a walk?" He motioned down the path, where far off into the distance it turned around a bend.

"Yeah, let's do it."

III.

It's now close to 8:30 and dinner is over. The bench, held up by two hinges screwed into the roof of the porch, gently rocks back and forth under the momentum of the two bodies occupying it. Joanne is sitting back and Howard is lying down, his head resting in her lap. She has one arm fully extended, felled lazily over the back of the bench, and the other positioned over his scalp, her fingers gently running through his long hair.