****** Daily Dump Stories ******
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Marsha's Stories


(June 22, 1996)

Over the years (I'm 37), I've had an evolving relationship with the act of
taking a dump. I've gone from a state of conflict to a point where I just plain
enjoy moving my bowels, and all that goes with it. I've found a number of
others over the years similarly interested, thought I'm not sure they always
admitted it to themselves. My first intimate (but unintentional) sharing of
this most private of acts came when I was 17. I was at my boyfriend's house.
His parents were gone and we were listening to records when nature began to
call. I tried to ignore it so I could wait till I left, but that was 3 hours
later, and after 30 more minutes, my muscles were squeezing like a python. I
excused myself and went into the bathroom, closed the door for privacy (I
thought), pulled down my pants and sat down on the toilet. I had just initiated
my first big push when the door opened and there stood my boyfriend, with a big
grin on his face. I was just frozen! To preserve my dignity, I said, "Oh good,
now I have someone to talk to." What a stupid thing to say! I hoped he'd close
the door, but instead he said "OK," and sat down on the floor. I had to go too
bad at that point to stop, or even worry about dignity. I just prayed I
wouldn't fart (I didn't). My dump was huge as I knew it would be, the size of
an ear of corn. My boyfriend and I kept talking as if we were still in the
living room, and while I was still torn, I have to say I was kind of excited. I
noticed my boyfriend had a hard-on, so I guess it turned him on too. He may
even be on this page for all I know. Anyway, I finished and wiped my bottom a
half dozen times. My boyfriend said, "Don't light a match." I giggled and
pulled up my pants and flushed. We continued listening to records and didn't
say anything about it. What could you say? This was the beginning of 20 years
of passion regarding the act of dumping, and finding a lot of other people
along the way who were turned on by my bowel movements. I'll share some of my
other experiences later. Glad I found this page!

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(June 24, 1996)

My ex husband was in Vietnam, and he said dumping in the army was very
familiar. We had this open relationship at home too, but I doubt it turned him
on. My current boyfriend teases me that women always have to go to the ladies
room in groups, and that's true, but once there, it's so funny, there is a big
division between the ones who are open, and those who need total privacy. And
if they need privacy from other women, they certainly are not going to be open
with a man. Some of my girlfriends who have had a man walk in on them, I swear
could die! And here I am laughing to myself with my little secret turnon! I see
you at a stage I was at earlier. While you enjoy a good dump, and enjoy sharing
it anonymously, you stop there. I guess I still have somewhat conflicting
feelings about being seen, but I also feel an unexplainable erotic excitement
too, especially if I sense the man is turned on by seeing me! Oh, is that ever
the best! I sense your husband may be turned on by your dumps, but not know how
to deal with it or admit it. Why don't you slowly take the next step: allow
yourself to be caught on the pot "accidentally" first by your husband, then
others if you feel this would be exciting and feel comfortable with it. Whether
you do it with a stranger or someone you know is up to you. See if you like it.
I do, but I'm still exploring. I believe my conflicting feelings is a big part
of what MAKES it so exciting!

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(July 8, 1996)

At a race years ago, the lines at the porta potties were so long, that I began
to look for "other alternatives." This was not easy, since it was an urban run,
and a lot of the foliage was already occupied. But following the religion of
the runner - "dump before the race, or dump DURING the race!" - I was
persistent and found a pretty good spot. I had a wad of Kleenex with Vaseline
on it that I had used on my inner thighs (to reduce the friction running). Not
ideal, but beggars can't be choosy - better than leaves! I was squatting down
when I noticed a guy off to the side, standing there first peeing, then just
continuing to stand there. I had sunglasses on, so I could watch him without
him knowing it, and it became quite apparent that he was watching me. He was
transfixed! I was at such an angle that he couldn't see much in front, but as
he moved a little to the side, I realized that it was my bowel movement he was
interested in. Oh boy, this was certainly not one of my easier bowel movements!
It was large, and in two pieces, but I really had to work overtime to get
those. It was a push, "shit!" grunt, "ohh" strain, "phew!" type of an effort.
And that wasn't all - the only thing I had for toilet paper were those four
pieces of Vaseline coated Kleenex. Gross! I finished, went back to the race
area to warm up, and never saw the guy again. By the way, if #613, you know the
race up in San Fran, is on this page, that was me in the light blue shorts,
yellow T-shirt, shades, and white baseball cap with the pony tail out the back.
Was it good for you too!? LOL!

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(July 10,1996)

Once after a dental appointment, a big dinner the night before and the stress
of my visit for root canal work got my muscles working, and I stopped in the
ladies room to take a dump before I went home. I dropped my jeans and sat down,
folded my hands in front of me and just relaxed; I'm a sitter, and when I can I
like to just sit and daydream till the magic moment arrives. About 10 minutes
later, the door opened, gym shoed feet entered and went into the stall next to
me and immediately flushed. I didn't hear any "sounds of relief," and didn't
see any feet. Hmmm. I then saw a movement reflected in the chrome of the door
lock and a shadow. I knew someone was there, but I just sat there seemingly
oblivious. I wiped my bottom once, then as I was reaching for the toilet paper
again, I glanced up, and there was a teenaged (I think) boy looking over the
top of the stall at me. I let out a "Hey!" and did he ever take off! He would
never have understood if he had seen me laughing. I HAD to laugh, because given
my bent, I really didn't mind. I didn't see him in the building or the parking
lot afterwards; he was probably a mile away by then! This isn't the first time
I've been the object of a bathroom voyeur, and several of my girlfriends have
been too. I wonder if they are there for the "traditional" peeper's interests,
or if the bathroom part was what interested them. I suppose it varies. I do
know that even with someone who pulls their pants way down like I do, you would
probably see more at the beach, other than the moment when I sat down or got
up, so maybe it IS the bathroom part, plus the rush of the danger. It also got
me thinking how truly helpless I am sitting there on the toilet with my pants
around my calves, ESPECIALLY if a bowel movement is 1/2 way out! This point
leads me into a neat fantasy that my bathroom voyeur victimizations and a movie
triggered. I'll post that tomorrow - I've used up enough of the "airwaves"
today!

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(July 17, 1996)

This story involves a late night run quite some time ago with my boyfriend. All
right, what's the 1st thing to remember when going out for a long run, almost
as important as "Did I put my shoes on?" Right! When did I last take a dump,
and do I have to right now? Take a dump before a race, or during a race! The
same applies to runs. I had to go a littttttle bit, but my boyfriend was there,
we were ready, and we set out. Well, thank God, practically all of our routes
are circuitous ones; an out and back would have been a disaster. Within a
couple of miles, the waves had really started to roll in, and I'm not talking
about the Pacific Ocean, either! I told my boyfriend I was going to need a
bathroom, and thank God most of our routes are circuitous ones, because I'd
have been dead if this had been an out and back.

Anyway, my thoughts were, did my boyfriend know what the situation was?
(probably), did he know how bad it was? (probably not), would I make it? (up in
the air). At mile 3, we were within a half mile of home. I opened the door and
FLEW for the nearest bathroom. The waves had become spasms, and it was only
superhuman will and a little luck that got me to the pot safely. My shorts were
part way down as I entered the bathroom, and as I was sitting down, my muscles
were no longer in control.

Try as I might to maintain control and dignity, I took anything but a ladylike
shit. I sounded like a truck driver from hell taking a mammoth chili dump. My
boyfriend tapped on the door, laughing, and asked if I was all right. I told
him to shut up, that he was such a jerk, etc., but I actually was giggling too.
Ohhhh! Did that feel good!!! I've been close to disaster a number of times over
the years, but this reminded me once again, why don't we try to use our head a
little better next time?
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(July 24, 1996)

This is a long story about a race I did in Chicago in the late '80's. I'll do
part before my run, then part after, with a cup of tea, once I've cooled down.
I used to go visit friends the first weekend in June in the Chicago area. This
was convenient for them, plus there was a cool 9 mile run for the Chicago Zoo
the first weekend in June each year, a big run. I always have a fairly simple
routine the night before a run: eat lightly and simply, to bed fairly early (I
need 6 or sometimes 7 hours), up, take a dump at home 50% of the time, at the
race 50% of the time (the WHOLE dump either time; the location is the 50%
proposition! LOL!) Well, I took a VERY average dump early Saturday, no 2nd
Saturday BM, and none Sunday morning. We ate some very exotic foods, hit a
night spot for drinks, and stayed up fairly late. They're runners too and knew
this wasn't that great, but were just trying to show me a good time. At the
race sight, I immediately hit the john in one of the buildings. Nothing. 7:30,
a half hour before race time, I'm in a porta potty, straining hard enough to
shit a football sideways. Nothing. Damn, damn, damn! 9 miles to go. Will I get
lucky? I figured I HAD to be as full of shit as a Christmas turkey! My friends
were running too; he is tall and thin and very talented, and faster than I am,
and she is much slower, so I was all alone running. Actually I felt pretty
good. It was hot, so I was drinking heavily at the water stops. A little after
the 10K water stop, it was such a strange feeling: it was like something fell
off a shelf and dropped down you know where! Actually I had had a few gurgles,
and a little gas, but this was so strange!

I have great control, but when this hit, I wisely headed for the next john I
could find, BEFORE it became a crisis. It was a brick park building and I
headed in the first door, noticing as soon as I entered that it was a mens - no
big thing. I went into a stall, closed the door, dropped my shorts, and plopped
down. I noticed there was a guy two stalls down, a runner, and he had the runs.
Ah, the pure life! Here I am in a filthy bathroom in a park in a strange city,
shitting hot lava, with a man 2 stalls away with the runs! I thought, as I sat
there, NO MORE breaks in routine the night before a race, and no exotic foods!
I normally have a couple of bowel movements a day big and nice enough that you
could mount them, and now here I'm shitting this awful thick muddy stuff. Yuck!
I DID find it extremely erotic to be taking this very physical dump six feet
away from a man on the pot! I wiped my bottom with several wads of sandpaper,
realized I wasn't done yet, and released another load; it was sort of like
squeezing thick toothpaste out of a tube. Would this be all? In the meantime,
the guy finished and left. As he did, my fantasies kicked in, and I thought it
would have been so cool if the stalls didn't have any doors on them!

OK. Then I started to think, and I giggled out loud at this one, what if the
guy was gay, and decided to take a little peek? He looks, and there sits Marsha
instead. The incongruence of what he's heard, and what he now sees has to be
too much! I would've said, "Yeesss, may I help you?"

LOL!!!

I got done, and no soap. Figures - it was so dumpy in there, I'm surprised the
plumbing worked. The race finished uneventfully, but I did sit in a porta potty
about 45 minutes after the race with an ice cream bar, for another short
installment. I told my friends about the incident (minus the open stall
fantasy) and they got a good chuckle - all runners have been there! Phew! What
a story!

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(July 24, 1996)

Since I'll write lots of posts about races, let's look at them! First, you'd be
surprised at how much real estate a circuitous 5K (3.1 mile) race covers, let
alone 10k and up, so there is quite a lot of change in scenery. Lots, if not
most, of big city races have a lot, if not most, of their races up to 10K and
beyond in that city's park.

At some point of emergency, a person says "Who cares?" if anyone sees them, and
just gets whatever "cover" they can. With me, whether there's cover or not
takes on a special meaning too (naughty smile). Grete Waitz didn't have much
privacy one time in NYC when she got ambushed. Except for world class marathons
(Boston, NYC, Chicago, etc.) races are over on Sunday morning before most
people are up, so there isn't anyone lining the route, and "leaving the course"
doesn't matter (compared to high school track where you're disqualified for
leaving your LANE), unless it's a biggy race and you try to "win" as Rosie Ruiz
did in Boston years ago, when she rode public transportation (unfortunately,
she wasn't sweating at the end of 26.2 miles! among other clumsy giveaways).
Your body has enormous need for water in a race, plus when you try to drink on
the run, you spill half of it, so you're just barely staying ahead of
dehydration - there is none left over to pee, plus that would be VERY
irritating to your legs. I guess that about covers the questions! Now back to
the dumping stories! Peace - Marsha.

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(August 2, 1996)

Oh, are you missing out on a marvelous part of your dumping experience! For me,
there is nothing better than a nice big juicy 12 incher (10-1/2 inches last
night late, after climbing!), just for its own sake, but also because I know
then that I am going to need to wipe my bottom a minimum of 6 times, probably 8
or 10. Part of the thrill of the whole fetish is the tabooness of it. So to
wipe my bottom after a big soft dump is VERY erotic! I insert my index finger
into a moderate sized wad of toilet paper and slowly pull it between my cheeks,
probing all around the area until I'm clean. I love those little squares that
come out one at a time, but you don't see them much anymore. My bf has
commented how much he likes my buns, and he loves to touch them during
lovemaking, so an added bonus while I am wiping my bottom is that I can sort of
connect to him. I can even pretend it's him, but I think he'd flip at the
thought of this! The main attraction is the intimate hand contact with this
unmentionable area of the body. My need for hand washing is there, but not as
unyielding as it once was; to wash my hands actually accentuates the nastiness
of it, which, as we all know, is part of the attraction!

Once out of the bathroom, however, I want no more contact with shit, not on my
hands (I go CRAZY if I have gotten some on them!), not on my clothes, nowhere!
Sometimes, I'll notice a woman in a public john who's taken a dump, and my God,
her buns are big enough that her whole hand must disappear between her crack
when she is wiping! LOL!!!

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(August 5,1996)

This happened this spring when I was driving up north along the coast. I was
tooling along, sipping on a Mountain Dew and listening to the most beautiful
tape - sounds of nature with beautiful music accompanying - I so love these, I
must have a million of them. Well, there was, I must add, an additional
accompaniment: I was letting some of the worst farts imaginable! They would
start with a little pain which would come and go, then I could feel them gurgle
and shudder down through their full inner journey, then it would just rip! They
sounded like a chainsaw ripping apart a watermelon! LOL! Well, finally, the
soft drink kicked in, as usual, and I had to go to the bathroom. I stopped at
one of those gas station/truck stop/food mart places with about a hundred
pumps, went in, bought another Mountain Dew, and headed for the john. I was
sitting there merrily going about a gallon, when another "gas pain" began its
way down. Now these had been somewhat intensifying on the road - more extreme,
greater frequency, but I thought, "Ready girls?" to the other occupied stalls,
because this one was going to crack the mirrors outside, and I giggled in
anticipation. Drawing in a breath, I gave a mighty push, and really, you know,
I should have known. Had I been more aware, I should have expected this. If you
are paying any attention to the signs, there really isn't much excuse for
shitting when you expect to fart. And I DID realize it the second I strained,
and should have before with all those other telltale signs, that there was at
least a POSSIBILITY of this happening - I'm not 4 years old! Well, with a
powerful grunt that, when my mind first said, "Strain," had meant to initiate a
fart blew absolutely THE biggest, wettest, loosest dump into the toilet. It
wasn't like diarrhea, it was, like that race in Chicago, like thick wet mud,
but like diarrhea, it wouldn't stop. I didn't look at my watch, but I must have
sat there at least 20 minutes. This really shook me up. Now each wave that came
down produced another load of this, and there four of them, plus little ones in
between. The women who came and went (there were 6 stalls), as well as one who
was having trouble with a dump and was there the whole time must have wondered
if Big Louie, some 300 pound truck driver was in that stall! When I was sure I
was done, I wiped my bottom (funny how one like this takes LESS tissue than a
normal one), and left, a shaken and wiser person. WHAT IF this had happened in
traffic (with friends!), at a party, on the street, etc.? Because I'll tell
you, by the time I realized that I WASN'T going to fart, a split second before
my big push was over, it was too late! OH...GOD...!!! I would have been
disgraced for life! Headlines in the National Enquirer would have said
".......Comes To Fart, But Shits!" as a play on that little saying! Yet, you
know, the closeness to disaster was,....exhilarating! Go figure.

===============================================================================

(August 9, 1996)

NYC started out as a way for me to escape from a number of extremely vexing
constrictions that often had cast clouds over many races I did: watch your
fluids, eat precisely this and that, get enough sleep, take a pre-race dump,
gotta get a good time, and so on. It started that way, and progressed through
several layers to an experience I'll never forget. I've set up situations where
I was walked in on, etc., still do, but this time I went for it so massively
that ever since I have been on a quest for that feeling that comes when you "go
for the vault."

I decided to let all these concerns go, and also decided that if I didn't take
a pre-race dump and had to enroute (likely), that I'd duck into some thick
undergrowth and go there! How exciting, taking a dump in there and watching
hundreds of runners go past, and they don't know I'm in there! It was a
beautiful Fall morning, perfect for a 10K in and around Central Park (it
actually was probably all IN the park - it goes all over the place, and so did
the route). I spontaneously decided not to even attempt a pre-race dump and
follow my other plan! So, I started out, and within a couple of miles, my
muscles sent me the no-nonsense message that while it was not, "Gotta go or
I'll shit my pants," it was still time to begin looking for a place. I found a
thick semi-circle of bushes with a tree to the left, and a real thin bunch of
bushes in front of the tree, leaves still on - just what I was looking for -
about oh, 30 - 40 feet from the route. I went in, and as I did, that's when it
hit me, and I LITERALLY shuddered with excitement!!!

I shifted on up behind the THIN foliage in front of the tree and the thicker
bushes. This was it! Oh boy, there was JUST enough cover to say I'd made the
effort to find some, but...not really! To begin with, it was at the start of a
sweeping curve. Anyone not looking directly at the foliage might miss me, but
anyone who even casually glanced at it would see me easily. For your average
person, they might say it was better than doing it in the open and that was
about it. But I had something else in mind! I was dressed in yellow shorts, a
white race shirt with red and blue lettering, white shoes and a red baseball
cap with ponytail out the back. Not real camouflaged. I stepped up, quickly
pulled my shorts down to slightly below my knees and squatted down. With shades
on, I could watch people without them knowing I was. It was extremely
stimulating to be squatting down like that in such close proximity to hundreds
of runners (mostly men, of course), as I knew it would be.

The view to a runner's left, if he caught me immediately, was, following the
line from my right cheek up my thigh to my right knee, where my shorts were,
but probably no "scenery" from the front, other than just me squatting there,
possibly a little flash of thigh as I shifted in my efforts to get done. From
the other, gone past side, as runners went by - my left thigh, leading down to
the left curve of my hip. Perhaps, if someone had STOOD at the point at which I
could first be seen, they might have seen all the drama of elimination, and a
good part, if not all of my bottom; I can't say for sure; we'll never know,
maybe someone did.

Now, the full impact of what I'd done hit me. Most of the people were not only
able to see me, but most DID! The reactions ranged widely: some were enigmatic,
there was detachment (seeing but not seeing), curiosity, humor, VERY intense
interest, and embarrassment (they did not want to deal with me being there
doing that, perhaps visualizing a horrifying - to them - reversal of roles in
which THEY were in there). The dump was a decent one - maybe a 6 incher, and
one smaller one. I wiped my bottom the best I could with the bunch of Kleenex I
had, pulled up my shorts, and scampered back out to rejoin the pack.

By this time, the pack was getting toward the back with slower runners, so I
was passing all of these guys, guys who had seen me in the bushes! That was the
beginning of a wave of sensuality that was to build even further after the race
was over, and I felt a considerable flush of excitement! At the end of the run,
I went to the john to finish wiping, came out, got some water, and a banana,
stretched and walked around to cool down. In reviewing the swirl of images
coming back to me, I realized I was in the midst of hundreds of runners, mostly
male, of whom perhaps a hundred, or more had seen me squatting in the bushes
moving my bowels, may have seen me wiping my bottom, and my fantasies began to
feel that virtually ALL of them had seen me. That is the nature of not knowing
who DID! I saw their glances as telling me they had seen me, and as I returned
their gaze, I was telling them that, yes, I knew they had seen me and there was
nothing I could do about it. My shades perhaps added to the scene for them,
because they could not see my eyes and know for sure what I was going through.
I was frozen in time. I HAD to go in the bushes, I couldn't stop them from
looking, and now I couldn't take the memory away from them, and now, here I was
right there among them. What a range and dichotomy of emotions! Part of me
wanted to say, when I was in the bushes, "Come on, you guys, don't look,"
almost feeling like crying, but another part of me knew that wasn't true, and
felt the wild eroticism of the moment. The fact that they WERE looking, and
weren't going to stop was.....thrilling! I felt vulnerable in there, helpless
then and after, but oddly, I also felt FREE! And I felt exhilarated. I had
entered the Vault.

These feelings have come to me before, though not on so grand a scale, and they
have afterwards, in intensity, though once again not on such a large stage. The
Vault is addictive. Anyone who has ever been there will do what it takes to go
back, they HAVE to, and I have, creating moments that will take me back either
through the bigness of the moment, the intenseness of an orchestrated
situation, or the thrill of an unexplored inner frontier.

===============================================================================

(August 12, 1996)

Three of us had breakfast at McDonald's this morning, after a long bike ride,
and had an interesting experience. We were two booths away from the john, and
midway into our meal/socilaizing session, when a woman, dark haired, mid 30's,
in shape (our peer and interest group) bustled quickly in. She was dressed to
the nines in a very sharp business suit, but she had a different kind of
business in mind. I looked casually at my watch, as the bathroom door shut, and
she was in there a little over 7 minutes. When she came out, she left, without
buying anything. In roughly 5-10 seconds, the wave from where she had opened
the door hit our booth. My two gf's are cool too, and we went through the
"Don't look at me!" and "All right, who stepped in it?" etc. routine, and got a
few laughs, but we knew it was the woman who had gone into the bathroom so
quickly. Wow, she must have been REALLY hurting, and felt a LOT better 7
minutes later! I've noticed that real chilly air conditioned air seems to hold
and even intensify that type of smell. Have you noticed that? Actually, maybe
we need one of Marsha's Top 3 here! Top 3 atmospheres for intensifying a Really
Bad Poop Smell the most: Marsha's choices: 1. Chilly air conditioned setting,
2. Steamy bathroom, 3. Any poorly ventilated, hot area (obviously). Another
setting where it seems to be extra intense is any incongruent setting, such as
at a lovely party or, say in the bathroom of an elegant art exhibit, something
like that, which is, of course purely psychological.

===============================================================================

(August 13, 1996)

A theme in here occasionally is the guy who is with a woman who takes a shit.
At times, the guy seems almost amazed that she DOES take a shit (ever), at
times it is a huge grunting affair, and often it ends with at least a night of
wild lovemaking, or even a discovery that they like some part of the whole
affair. The stories seem to usually have happy endings of one type or another,
as I recall. It doesn't always work that way, though. When I was in my early
20's, a guy I was dating then and I had gone back to his apt. for some a drink
and some more music after a concert. He was getting something for us to eat and
drink, while I hit the john. Just a run of the mill dump. Not gigantic, no
farts, no sound effects, nothing. But it did smell. I mean so bad, it was as if
it was pulsating! It also was one of those nondescript dumps that you wipe
forever from. I came out of the john with a cheery remark unrelated to the
dump. My bf replied that he had "to take a leak." I had closed the door when I
came out because of the smell, and was a little embarrassed that he had gone in
there immediately. I heard him say softly in there, "Oh GOD!" but he didn't say
anything when he came out. He was, however, distant the rest of the evening. It
was never a big deal romance, but I always thought that had SOMETHING to do
with our breakup. We had two more dates, and on one of them he asked before we
left if, "Everything, bathroom, and so forth, OK?" I cried a little later
because I realized so many ways he had made me feel dirty. I later realized HE
was the one with the problems, but in those days I was in my mode of just
trying to do what I could to compensate for any imbalance of needs between
myself and my partner, and I did it to a fault, as many women I've known have
seemed to do, at least early.

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(August 30, 1996)

You know, there is a period of time when a hard dump and a big one feel just
about the same. It is a short lived gray zone though, because a hard one can be
held for a pretty long time, but a big one gets urgent PDQ! Even though I'm 200
crunches a day flat in the stomach, I always get a little bulge in the over the
waist of my pants area 4-6 hours before a big dump. A generic BM Wednesday
night, and none Thursday AM, some good exercise, food, and an intensifying of
my emotional state, plus finding the rhythms of what I'm doing - the stars were
getting lined up. I was able to hold this one for a fairly long period of time,
so I figured it would be a hard one, and really hoped it wouldn't turn into a
20 minute sit of straining and puffing, trying to get out about a half dozen
bullets. As I felt a simultaneous pressure in my lower abdomen, followed by, I
guess you'd call it a feeling of urgency way deep down inside, intensifying
over a period of maybe 10 minutes, I decided it was time to go into the
bathroom. I just had a pair of blue jean shorts and a T-shirt on, and I pulled
them down below my knees and sat down. Knowing I can go whenever I want because
I'm on the pot always increases the urgency, so I like to hold it till I can't
anymore, then just relax my muscles, and savor the full range of sensations. As
I relaxed, there was a lowering of the pressure sensation, then a momentary
stoppage, so I thought it must be a hard one.

I took in a breath and gave a big push, and felt the first part emerge,
definitely the head of a "potato dump," and it was big, that was for sure!
Then, all in a second, but it seemed longer, the potato dump feeling went away,
and as I let out my breath in a big "Phew!" I stretched REALLY wide with what I
knew then was going to be a real porker. At this moment, I was just along for
the ride; I could not have stopped for anything. Now it was obviously wide
(perhaps 2-1/2-3 inches), I could tell that, but didn't realize till I stood up
to look how long it was. It made a gentle stirring of the water sound, as it
slid into the toilet and that was IT! I had to laugh, because the way it was
sticking up out of the water, kind of to the side reminded me of one of those
Three Stooges skits when the fish sticks its head out of the water and squirts
Moe. I mentioned last night and today that I was not going to post till I had a
dump worthy of coming back into the Dump, and this was it! I got a ruler, and
used a pencil to pull it out of the bend so I could measure it. The final end
didn't have much of a little curling point, because I had not pinched this one
off with my sphincter at all. It was a total cleaner-outer! I got the ruler
down near the potato part, and put my finger on the ruler at the tapered end of
this ear of corn-sized bowel movement, and I was at 10 1/2 inches!!! It was a
prize - a very nice cigar color, soft for a great feeling, but a nice firm
consistency too. Not a lot of smell, not as much as you'd think, anyway, and it
was only a 4 wiper (and I'm a thorough wiper), once again probably because it
was a total purger. There was OBVIOUSLY nothing more that I was going to have
to grunt out, so I pulled my pants up, washed my hands, and went out to watch
Bill Clinton. I felt so good, it was almost like a buzz! Now if only I had my
Cooties, and could have preserved this monster for just a little while.....LOL!


===============================================================================

(September 12, 1996)

While I have never shit my pants, this was in the same family as that in a way,
and certainly rates 4-1/2 stars towards a "Duh, Marsha," award! We were at a
late movie ("JFK," when it came out, 5 years ago), and had had deep dish pizza
for dinner. This was the 9:00 showing, and I had felt some urge at the pizza
parlor, but waited, and by the time we got to the theater, I had to take my
(late) evening dump. I went into the ladies room, into a stall, flipped up my
skirt, dropped my panties, and sat down, squeezed hard, with a huge strain and
a grunt, to get done quickly, and in my haste squeezed my muscles too quickly,
pinching off the poop too soon. Now you all know what that means, right?
Exactly - a TON of wiping! Now guys, there's one thing you should know: when a
woman has a loose skirt on, it is important that she pull it tight against her
back, then around across her waist, then thighs in the front, and lay it over
to the left (if she is right handed) in order to avoid what happened to me. I
didn't, and when I had finished with seven deep wipes, flushed and left the
stall, the smell followed me like a dog! I rolled my eyes, because I realized
what I had done, and sure enough, scrutiny revealed a considerable mess, made
worse by the folds of the material when I'd been sitting down. I took my skirt
off, washed it thoroughly with liquid soap in the sink, and blotted it dry with
paper towels (could have used an electric hand dryer). The dump wouldn't have
taken too long, but the cleanup did, and my date gave me a quizzical look when
I came out. I offered no apology or explanation! I just looked him straight in
the eye, and cooly said, "Ready?" to which he replied, "Um, yeah." LOL!

===============================================================================

(September 18, 1996)

This happened quite a few years ago, when I was still married. We went on a
trip to Greece, starting in Athens, followed by a cruise through the Greek
Isles. Now I don't get traveler's diarrhea, I get traveler's constipation, and
only on the way over. When I get to the end of a long flight over, I'm wired
for energy, but just can't have a bowel movement, at times for as long as three
days, (a little more on two occasions), and for me, that can be as many as 6
dumps down, depending on my rhythms at the time! We flew into O'Hare from LA,
had a 4 hour layover due to complications on a connecting flight, and had a
nice meal there, followed by an average dump in the airport, maybe a 6 incher,
but one of those really hard potato dumps. Then on to Kennedy in NYC, with a 9:
00 PM flight out. We spent a day and a half in Athens, with plans for two more
after our cruise, which departed in the evening of our second day. I had not
run in Athens, due to the heat and extreme pollution, and was feeling heavy and
loggy, physically, by the time we set sail.

I spent time right after coming to our room on the pot, reading an article on
the Plain of Marathon, a site we planned to visit on our return to Athens, and
tried, unsuccessfully, to take a poop. I didn't have a prayer, and finally
abandoned any idea of relieving myself. We had a fantastic seafood dinner (we
sat at the captain's table - more on that rascal later), danced, sat on deck,
and I will have to say that other than a little pooch of stomach (typical for
this woman in my state), I was feeling fine. However, I did take a laxative
before going to bed. Up the next morning early. Real early. I went up on deck,
and it was so gorgeous looking out over the sea that I got goose bumps! The
smell of the salt air, then the smell of coffee! The crew was getting ready for
breakfast, and coffee was available, thanks to the captain, who shared a cup
with me. He also was laying some fairly massive moves on me, though nothing
physical, but was a charming and intelligent man, and we talked of many things
as I drank 3 cups of sweet coffee, hoping to get things stirring. I feared the
laxative kicking in the middle of our conversation, but decided to rely on
control that had never failed me yet. I had some dry cereal (sugar coated
shredded wheat, an egg, orange juice),then went up on deck to stretch and walk.
Should be about 20-30 minutes away! Felt very full. Kind of fast forwarded from
talking with the captain, through breakfast, and up on deck again, but the time
in between was uneventful. A half hour passed, and nothing! I stretched,
walked, sat and massaged my stomach gently, even felt sorry for myself, for
crying out loud! And still nothing. As I sat looking morosely out over the sea,
I could see the National Enquirer headlines: "Marsha Dies On Greek Cruise From
Constipation!" My husband suggested I see the ship doctor, but I declined,
because I figured he would give me an enema, or one of those nuclear
suppositories or laxatives, and I'd be on the pot all day, or worse yet,
unpredictably!

I could not have gotten a more intense reaction if I had strained! The initial
poop slid out so fast, it was as if my rectum was greased - it had a hard tip,
then a soft, long, and extremely wide body, and it just exploded out into the
toilet with two accompanying basso profundo, echoing farts, and was immediately
followed by two softer poops that started out as one, and broke up, the second
one with a simultaneous wet fart. I was merely a helpless spectator at this
point. I involuntarily sighed, then took in a breath and strained, emitting two
huge hog farts (one of my xhusband's favorite terms), and four smaller soft
loads. I felt the contractions start again and the inexorable feeling of a
large warm mass moving down to relief, and I leaned forward, slightly on my
tiptoes. This was a mixture of extremely thick hot lava with a few soft chunks
that came out with a soft farting noise. My husband called out from the other
room, "Jeez, Marsha, what's going on in there, are you OK?" and he was just
hooting. I replied, "I'm Ok, and I'm really sorry, oh God, this is
unbelievable!" Actually, I was laughing too at this point! The storm was
beginning to subside, and now it was a matter of just oofing out the remaining
smaller remnants of this beast. That was the most intense twenty+ minutes I've
ever spent in the bathroom, helplessly sitting there as wave after wave hit,
having one terrible bowel movement after another. In retrospect, it was very
erotic, and I looked at it that way then too, it's just that I was also very
busy! It was also a turnon to do this in such close proximity to my xhusband. I
finished, and used a ton of toilet paper to thoroughly and deeply wipe my
bottom, then I pulled up my shorts, washed my hands and emerged rather
sheepishly back out into the room, although my xhusband and I did share a thigh
slapping laugh together, as he teased me relentlessly, which I respond to so
well! We also decided to leave the room for awhile, as the stinky bathroom was
enough to make your eyes water! We had an enormous and lovely dinner that
evening, once again at the captain's table, immediately to his right! LOL! I
wondered what he would have thought if he could have been in the room with me
earlier! I will have to admit I was looking pretty good that evening - I had on
white pants, a navy blue and white striped nautical sweater with a crew neck,
simple shell necklace and earrings, and navy blue slippers. My hair was
casually combed, and was sun bleached, and I was squeaky clean from a shower,
and strategic dabs of my Joy pefume. As we were dancing, he said the most
interesting thing: "God you look great, Marsha, and smell so good. I just love
to touch you, and you turn me on so much, but you know what's so strange?
Somehow, after that dump you took earlier, it makes the way you are now that
much sexier. Funny, isn't it?" He had never shown any interest in dumping
specifically, as I do, and I was always very uninhibited about him seeing me
using the bathroom, but even a non-dump lover experienced at least a part of
the turnon we all know so well!

===============================================================================

(October 12, 1996)

Years and years ago, my xhusband and I went to Carlsbad Caverns. We had just a
blast exploring the cave systems, and the bats were unbelievably fascinating!
We then camped for a few days in the Guadalupe Mountain area, which is maybe 75
miles from there. In our explorations of the lovely trails, we decided to do
something kind of naughty, so we took all our clothes off, except our shoes of
course, put our clothes in our small trail packs, and continued on! At around
10:00, I announced I had to go to the bathroom. He watered a cactus, and I
squatted down to take a dump. We both had to go bad, and I pushed really hard,
and squeezed it all out in about 10 seconds flat. Well, most of it. I find that
when squatting, I am usually not as able to get everything out as I can when
sitting on the toilet, possibly because a toilet seat naturally spreads my
cheeks slightly. He was still talking to me as he went, and I was rummaging
around for something to use for toilet paper. I carry those little Kleenex(tm)
pocket packs with me, and that's what I used. It was a really juicy wipe, and
took eight to do the job. I finished, and we covered the pile of poop and
toilet paper up with a bunch of dirt and little rocks. The whole naked hiking
experience and the dumping in his presence out in nature was a tremendous
turnon for me, and would have been greater yet if the actual dumping part had
turned him on at all. The only thing he said was to comment that, "Geez, you
really had to go!"

===============================================================================

(October 28, 1996)

When I was in 4th grade, two boys, another girl and I were playing a game we
liked to do at recess sometimes, called "Invisible Man." In it we would sneak
into the building, and roam all over the place, with the purpose being to do so
without getting caught (no one was allowed in at recess). At times we caused
minor mischief, and at times, we would have to bring back a souvenir to prove
where we had been. Anyway, we had been inside, and had stopped by our room for
some candy in the other girl's desk. The school was a one story sprawling
number and each room had a bathroom and an outside exit door. One of the boys,
whom I shall call Bud said, "I'm going to open the door, I bet someone's on the
pot!" He had opened it once a month or so before, and one of the girls had been
on the pot then, and I'm sure he relished another such chance. The bathroom was
on the way towards the exit door, and we were all in a group, and
simultaneously with the end of his sentence, and before anyone could say
anything, he pushed the door open so hard, the doorknob ricocheted off the wall
to the right. There we were in the entrance to the small bathroom (toilet,
sink), and there on the toilet in front of us sat our teacher! We kids were
frozen for maybe 5 seconds, as was she. She had on a Tartan check skirt, and it
was pulled back and over to the left. Then we, as one, ran for our lives, only
to be halted dead in our tracks by "Bud, Brian, Jackie, Marsha! Come here right
now!" We would gladly have fallen into a pit and been buried forever, first for
what we had done, and were obviously in trouble for, and secondly, I know what
was going through all of our minds was, "Is she still on the pot?"

We were called into the bathroom, and be this time she had pulled her skirt
down over her legs and knees, so it looked like she was just sitting there, as
if on a chair. We got lectured about being in the building, knocking on closed
doors, how would we like it, etc., and were then told to go back outside. One
of the boys had giggled, and was asked what was so funny? It was probably
nervousness, but also could have been the terrible stink in the bathroom - Miss
Springer (our teacher) had obviously had an enormous bowel movement, and
probably was in the process of wiping her bottom when Bud kicked the door open,
because she exited the bathroom soon after we were back out on the playground.
Miss Springer was a nice, vivacious, pretty and well dressed teacher with a
good figure, probably early 30's, and was a good role model for little girls of
that age, someone we looked up to, and we all liked her. Nothing more was said
about this. Perhaps it wasn't that big a deal to her, or maybe she would have
been embarrassed to relate the incident to the principal or our parents. I
remember thinking how embarrassing it must have been for her, and how mortified
I would have been to have been in her place. However, I also know that there
was also the strangest curiosity, urge, desire, whatever, to be in her place!
It was a very conflicting train of thought. I remember that whenever a boy saw
me on the pot around about that age (infrequently, and always by accident, at
least on my part, in those days), I always was devastated, but also, vaguely
exhilarated. Of course we all know where that all went! By the time of the
incident with Miss Springer, it is likely that a good many building blocks were
already in place with me that eventually led to my exotic quirk today, but I
believe this incident added a few more of its own!

===============================================================================

(November 11, 1996)

Saturday night, we went out for dinner to a cool country place near the site of
The Project at this point in time. We had great big juicy cheeseburgers.
Mmmmmm! Boy, were they good - must have been 4" across and close to 1/2" thick,
with just everything on them, and on a chewy bun. Big thick fries completed the
picture, and we shared a pitcher of Moosehead beer. Oh, was I full, but am sure
looking forward to another one soon!

A little after 9:30 Sunday morning, the sensations started, way up inside,
about midway between my belly button and my anus. I know, it isn't really that
high if I'm ready to poop, but that was what it felt like. I was at my
computer, chatting (about Gettysburg on a Civil War chat!) and in this
neighborhood too, and could have gone anytime, but held it for close to an
hour! Of course the urgency wasn't real bad when it started - as I said, it
felt like it was way, way up inside. By around 10:30, it was ready! I was
really squeezing my cheeks together by then, it was uncomfortable to sit flat,
and I actually felt a slight pain in my lower abdomen. Time!

I sat down in the bathroom and just released my muscles. Sometimes on big ones,
you can't tell till you look, but with this one, I knew - it was pretty thick,
I could feel that, but rather than the stretch, the thing that was amazing was
how it just kept coming! Another sign of a real monster are the little soft
farting noises that accompany it. I could feel it touch porcelain, then 1
second later, it pinched off. Of course, it was in the cave, and protruded out
of the water at the top. It was just average poop color, like a cigar, and very
smooth, with few facets (sounds like a jeweler - LOL!). The smell began within
seconds after I released it, which is very typical after I have eaten as I did.
There were three little pieces around it, and the whole picture reminded me of
the Remora fish that follow a huge Great White around, attending to food it
doesn't eat! I pulled it out with a long pencil and measured it, and was all
enthused and ready to call Guiness when I remembered that exact size is
classified, since current family standards in the Dump do not permit
publication of actual measurements (plus, some of the guys start spazzing out
every time someone does post inches - we get silly back and forths going; one
side claims no one takes dumps over 3" or something, while other reports start
coming back of taking four 18 inchers in one day, and stuff like that). I wiped
my bottom 5 necessary times, 1 for good luck, and was starting to hallucinate
on the smell when I flushed. The skidmarks looked like some teenager with brown
tires had done a bleachy in my toilet! For the first time I actually had two
small skidmarks out of the water in the front! A commercial toilet would have
handled it, but there was no way here. I had to cut it in half with a table
knife (yes, I washed it, but don't know which one it is; maybe if we meet over
here for a dinner mtg. one night, Larry or Moe will use it), and had to plunge
a whole mess of times to get it to release down in the pipes, then it was
sluggish for two more flushes before clearing. I remember a line in the movie,
"Glengarry, Glen Ross," where Al Pacino mentions to a client, something about
"...ever take a shit that made you feel like you'd slept for 12 hours?" Well
this was it! I felt like I could have climbed the Empire State Building! LOL!

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