Garden Party

My mom was having one of her garden parties. All the neighbors were invited, including my hot next door neighbor Chase. We had played together as kids but tonight was one of the first nights I had seen him in a while. He had been away volunteering for the Peace Corps. But he had a bad boy side and the two of us got high behind the Porta Potty in the backyard. We have two bathrooms that Mother prefers people use (they are clean and properly scented) but she understands the alcohol flows and there is usually a line for those bathrooms at these parties. So, she got a Porta Potty which stood out among the lovely tulip arrangements and lilacs.

Mother made me attend the garden party. My stomach was feeling kind of funky so I had wanted to stay upstairs with a heating pad for the cramping. Mother said that everybody poops and to get over it.

I was fine the first half of the party. I enjoyed the alcohol (I'm twenty-two, it's legal) and the appetizers. But then my stomach was starting to rumble louder and louder, churning liquid like a cement mixer.

"Did you hear something?" asked Chase, handing me the joint. I had accidentally farted. I blushed so hard that I knew it was a dead giveaway.

"My stomach growled. I'm just eager for the main course," I explained. Chase shrugged but I could tell he didn't believe me. Luckily, the marijuana masked the smell.

"Diana?" It was Mother. Chase hastily threw his joint in the rosebush. Mother did not look pleased to find me skulking behind the rosebush with a guy. Even though he makes Mother melt just as much as he makes me. He has that effect on women.

"Diana, I need your help passing out plates for the main course," Mother said. I shot Chase an apologetic look then abandoned him behind the Porta Potty.

"Mom, I need to use the bathroom first," I whispered urgently, trying to keep my voice low. Mother didn't bother.

"If you really had to go, why didn't you go earlier? The food is hot now. You'll help me, then you'll go to the bathroom," she said in a voice that didn't leave room for argument. I hastily grabbed some paper plates and started shoving them at people. By this time, the pressure in my ass was really urgent. My stomach was making ominous noises.

Finally, I had a choice. I could shit my pants in front of the entire neighborhood (people who literally had known me since I was in diapers) or I could relieve myself properly in the bathroom. I ran inside but both bathrooms were occupied with people waiting to wash their hands before they enjoyed their dinner. I danced from one foot to the other. I won't describe what was going on with my body, but suffice to say I was dangerously close to soiling my thong. So, I turned to the only option I had left: the Porta Potty with Chase still standing behind it.

I was hoping it would be a quiet poo. One of those silent ones, if you know what I mean. It wasn't. It was loud. Worse, as soon as I let go (and couldn't stop) I could hear the garden party get very quiet. I swear, someone even turned down the music. I realized my bathroom habits were perfectly audible through the thin doors of the Porta Potty with everyone trying to enjoy their dinner. I was in there for a while too. Finally, after about ten minutes, I emerged from the Porta Potty. Everyone was staring at me.

"Diana, that's where you were," said Mother. And I realized she was the one who turned down the music as punishment for not listening to her. One woman came forward. I recognized her as Mrs. March.

"Do you have Crohn's, Diana? That sounded like one upset tummy,"

"I'm not going in there anytime soon," said Mr. Cavendish, who had too much wine. Everybody laughed. Mother gripped my wrist and pulled me closer to her.

"Why did you humiliate me like this? And ruin my party? Those noises were disgusting. Do you realize everybody stopped eating. Do I have to take you to the doctor? Is there something wrong with your bowls?" I wasn't sure why this was my fault so I wrenched myself out of her grasp and ran across the lawn, tears falling in full view of the whole party,

"Awww, she's crying," one woman muttered.

"I'd cry too," her husband responded. I was halfway to my car, now mercifully, out of sight when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned expecting to see Mother but it was Chase. As if it couldn't get any worse.

"I'm so sorry that happened to you," he began.

"Thanks," I couldn't look at him.

"But I'm not sorry I witnessed it. That was hotter than any porn video I've watched. Or rather listened to. Does your stomach get upset often?" he asked. It was like we were talking about the weather. In a bit of a trance I replied, "Yes. I think I'm lactose intolerant,"

"Brilliant," And he pulled me close to kiss me. That was the first of my legendary upset stomachs Chase witnessed. But (and this is between you and me) it wasn't the last.