Here's the truth: One night stands, outside of the sex part, are pretty awful. Especially if you need to use the bathroom or make a quick getaway or accidentally shit yourself because you didn't carefully consider what you were going to eat beforehand. See? Awful. And here's a tale to prove it.

Cosmopolitan UK, America's cooler and more sexually free cousin (at least when it comes to pooping oneself) recently ran a story of an anonymous woman's journey through the nightmare of having to go to the bathroom twice during a booty call. The story, which I've decided is "true enough for you," is both harrowing and hopeful, suggesting that even after sharting all over oneself, life goes on, which is something I wish I had known that one time I had a dude over and we just cuddled because I had really bad gas but refused to use the bathroom in the presence of someone I liked from LiveJournal. (I am old.)

Here's the setup: Anonymous woman is on backpacking trip, hooks up with a dude in Bali and then suddenly has to crap post-coitus. The first time (yes, the first time), she makes it to the bathroom of a bar two doors down (again, you don't let people hear you poop until you're sharing a toothbrush) just in time. The second time she isn't so lucky:

Two hours later my dodgy dinner woke me up again. Without delay I launched myself out of bed towards my trusty late-night bar, but when I got there was faced with a CLOSED sign. Oh god, no! Time was running out! I said farewell to dignity, bolted to the beach and, with Balinese sands between my toes and the ripple of waves in my ears, ripped down my PJ bots and – sorry Mother Nature – offloaded. Oh, the blessed, glorious relief!

My reprieve was short-lived, however, as I suddenly found myself illuminated by a uniform-wearing official's industrial torch. The Poo Police?

'Please! Leave me!' I cried.

Oh, god. This is just like the time I was in a public bathroom at a deserted office park (putting this together, if you must know) and someone started banging on the door like some kind of angry poltergeist with a scat fetish. They didn't stop until I started screaming and I vowed never to use a public restroom again. HOW CAN THIS STORY GET ANY WORSE?

Apparently this instruction didn't translate and the torch-bearer continued to advance until the scene was unmistakable: 22-Year Old Woman Sh*ts Herself on Beach. Fantastic. At least this visage of horror scared the official away and I found myself hidden in the comforting shroud of darkness once more.

That's not it, though. That is never it:

I gathered my undergarments and fled the scene of the crime. It was at this point I realised my PJ shorts had been somewhat tarnished during the event. Back at the bungalows, I suspected an 'I sh*t myself' anecdote wouldn't make for great pillow talk with Lewis, so I went to wake Lauren. I needed her to give me some clean pyjamas and I needed to be telling her this story rather than living it. Of course, she was sharing a bungalow with Ryan. I stood for a while outside their love-nest dithering over whether to disturb them, peering through the window like some sort of soiled-shorts-wearing pervert. Eventually, desperation for cleanliness got the better of me and I burst through the door bellowing, 'I slept with Lewis and there's poo on my pyjamas!' It was quite an entrance.

This is making me rethink my stance on pooping while in the vicinity of others. On one hand: embarrassing and awful and makes me want to die a painful death; on the other: Only one person has to hear it and they might like me anyway? The alternative here, pooping on the beach and then connecting one's shitty undergarments to the man you were trying to hide them from? It just seems a little much, right?

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