Chapter 4: Loaf of Breadth

He moved toward the shower, turned one-eighty, and flicked the door knob on the first try. The glass slid on its suspended track and he stepped into the pristine cubicle.

But what first? If he turned on the shower now, his filled underwear would act as a coffee filter and fill the basin with a thin layer of fecal brew. It would be silly to splash around in it: poop was not a plaything; it was a force of nature. His thumbs found the velcro tailstrap of his underwear, remarkably tight from the load waggling in the rear. Pride filled his chest, coupled with a masculine sense of duty to carry this burden to the end. He had fought his desperate need to shit, and while he had initially lost by dropping a small, odorous lump in his briefs; the act of surrendering control of his bowels was actually one to release his bowels and observe them.

Gila had ultimately won because he was alive and undamaged, wiser; if just supremely odiferous. Sticky and soaked in the front, and slimy and smothered in the back, the cat undid the strap around his tail and started to peel his briefs down. The clingy sensation of separation permeated his buttocks and undercarriage, the scat becoming more real as he removed it from himself in preparation for disposal. Echoing in the shower went the creamy, crickly-cracks of fetid frosting: as his mass was pulled free, it gained a more independent weight and swung between his thighs. Now he could feel the remnants generously coating his lower buttocks, hole, and perineum: this was the shit that was spread all over him, what he would clean in just a few moments.

Boop went his waistband as it popped over his package. His cock was not erect but hanging, humbly plump, over his balls. Smooshed forward by his thighs, it sat cutely atop as his precious sensitive organ. He wobbled as he entered a point in his squat that his arms would need to be further back than he could lean forward. Gila stood a little bit, and spread his legs to look at his prominent burden.

The garment drooped down with his load. The front, extending all the way to where his hip bones would be, was a pale yellow spread, containing at the center of its pouch pearly strings and beads. Then began the head of his crowning achievement; two semi-whole turds sat side-by-side in the understrap, half-flattened by his body and the stretch of cotton. Gila could somewhat make out the back, peeking past his balls and through his thighs. The rear of his sac and the top inch of his thighs were coated in his dirty push; he drew good pride from the gastrointestinal storm he’d weathered and the debris it’d harrowingly flung on his shores.

The seat of his briefs were an optical illusion, appearing as a vast, deep pit full of his excrement. The pile in his broad cotton sack seemed like tons, not pounds, but as Gila rationally reined in its scope, there was still no doubt that he’d made an excellent poop. He’d shat his undies thoroughly, and the gratifying size of his adversity would be the breadth of his achievement.

The cat wiggled his legs and thumbed at the descending waistband. He hated to see it leave, to lose his big load, but even if his husband was a complete coprophile there was still the practicality of bacteria. Gila’s buns were indeed starting to itch, and he would be remiss to ignore one natural need when he so passionately embraced another.

Husband, right. “Hey, Go-Ogle, call George?’”

They’d thought it silly at first to put a smart speaker in the bathroom, but morning shower podcasts were pretty nifty.

“Calling George. Ringing…”

The cat’s heart thudded a little. If that garage door opened, only so many Big Caligula’s pizza jokes would keep the bathroom door shut. He wondered about this morning, when his stocky leopard gecko went to the bathroom. Wondered if his dump was long and formidable.

“Y’ello. What’s up, baby?”

He felt like he was cheating on George with the load in his pants. World’s first poop cuck.

“Hey baby, just wondering where are you?”

“Few blocks, half ‘mile. Wanna watch a movie or something?”

Nononono. Don’t you dare.

“No, yeah, that sounds great!” Gila said, waddling with a soaked elastic strap around his thighs. The odor of his mess had seemed to vaporize, a billion poo particles in the air, infusing themselves into his fur, the walls, the towels.

“Are you in the shower?”

Don’t keep him talking; keep him driving.

“Y-yeah! Lazy afternoon I guess. Did you pick up Thai food?”

There was a pause. “Oh God damn it; knew I forgot something.” There was a loud sigh over the truck mic. “How ‘bout I head home and we get it delivered?”

“For ten extra bucks?”

Another pause. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Saved a few handgun articles I never read; they’re fast cooking it. All right; be right back. Love you.”

“Love you, too!”

Bingo.

“Hey wait before I go, how about you order and I pick it up? Save us ten minutes.”

“I’m in the shower,” Gila reminded him.

“And I’m drivi … okay yeah, I’ll grab us something beef, something duck. Should we be real Yerps about it and get Pad Thai? See if it comes in Pumpkin Spice?”

THUD! went Gila’s soiled underwear, hitting the shower pan like a gong hammer and making the cubicle ring and vibrate the cat’s whole body.

“What was that?” asked George. “Throwing shampoo bottles?”

“Nah! Was just stretching myself out with a large toy; get ready for you!”

There was a growl over the phone. George’s pants would be an inch thicker, promising several more. “Now tangy-hole, you keep talking like that and I’m coming home with five speeding tickets. Ouch … even if you’ve already drained me twice over.”

“It’s all right; go and recharge!”

“Guess I’m waiting at the Thigh place with a half-chub. Later.”

So it was George, and he did know how to pronounce it correctly. Occasionally.

Gila’s groin twitched; he could definitely go for another round. Super horny today: if only he could be invisible, or if George was waiting at a table with a floor-length tablecloth, he’d open his fly and stretch his throat around the gecko’s thick shaft while they waited for their food. What a great appetizer that would be, the hot soup of his husband’s seed filling his belly.

Focus, Gila.

Below him lay the bounty of his bowel mastery. Two whole pounds of poop sat piled in the seat and strap of his briefs, lovingly lain by his body and embraced by evidence of a buttock ridge down the center. Its smell was pungent, almost overpowering, and its myriad textures painted a landscape of firm mountains and moist valleys. A river and a train ran through him.

“Lordie,” Gila said with breathless giddiness. He knew not what portion was thrill and what was its prominent aroma. The cat stood before the pile that he had not only made, but conquered. He plucked its waistband with his toes, but then stumbled and put his foot squarely in the mound. Its warm squish embraced him and, when he removed his paw, perfectly captured his footprint.

When you saw only one set of scatprints, it was then I carried yours…

Gila smiled. He couldn’t throw out his briefs. Not after their magnificent effort. He squat down and picked them up behind his back, then carefully hefted the valiant undies over the threshold to the tile, where he lowered to place them.

Gila wobbled again and dropped them square on the bathmat. The briefs overturned, laying their glistening, odorous bounty upon its surface.

His brow creased, adrenaline flowing through him. This was another turn in his great battle of load. The toilet seemed to smirk at him.

“Every step further is a memory I create,” he hissed at the porcelain.

He didn’t have forever and George had two modes, not unlike many reptiles: leisurely and slow, soaking up the sun; and lightning fast, focused on achieving the goal at hand. Gila turned on the shower and stood with his back to its rinsing stream, wetting down his shorts until they loosened. A couple of twists and tweaks with his aching shoulders and the garment was freed from his wrists; he turned them upside down and dropped the clandestine loaf that had snuck from his gaping tail-clasp. Gila hoped the elastic was as supple as his natural tailhole. He wrung the shorts out and rinsed them: his nose was rewarded with a burst of masculine sex as George’s thick cum, bounty of his heavy balls, drooled out of the garment in long, viscous strands. Gila draped the shorts over the bar holding the shower doors.

Arms free and quite wobbly from their long imprisonment, he pried the drain cover open with a couple claws and then picked up his turd by hand. He paused for a moment; this was the first time he’d directly touched his excrement. Sure, he’d had more contentious defecations on the toilet before, going through multiple wipes of toilet paper and getting little smears on his fingers when the paper broke, but this was him picking up and holding the dirty logs that exited his body.

It was a thing of strange admiration, the natural processes of his body. His system was able to take in and process all sorts of organic matter, extract its energy and nutrients, then deposit the rest as these soft, compact, odorous cylinders.

Gila nodded to the relic, having completed its journey and purpose. It had congealed in its bowels, formed of the unnecessary components his body had ingested, and exited through his rear end to cleanse him of unneeded material. He dropped it down the drain: there was plenty more to clean up.

The cat turned his back to the shoulder once more and lowered his paws to clean his rump cheeks. The soft, sticky clay fell out of his fur bit by bit, sometimes in clumps, and other times as a peeling pad. He saw the water around his feet turn a light shade of brown, the tone of which would vacillate darker and lighter as he washed his undercarriage of his coating filth.

In went the shampoo, up went the water temperature, and soon the room was suffused with an invigorating heat and humidity that cleansed his body and senses. Yet still in the air hung the distinct malodor of his adversity, that mound of packed dirt that had filled his briefs was now staining the bathroom rug.

It was all a return to form, though: one step at a time; one trial at a time. Bit by bit Gila returned to his default state, vivified by his victory. He felt just as glorious as in any afterglow with George, and in both cases he was completely naked, ready for the world without flaws.

He did not mind the slight pudge on his tall frame; he did not mind his small genitals. His rump and his furrowed hole were not scandalous areas: it was all him and his body, and it delivered him to his dreams.

“Text George, ‘hey honey what’s up?’” Gila asked.

“‘Oh hey on the way home, just left the restaurant. Shouldn’t have worn these old pants luh-mao.’”

Gila knew just the pair George was talking about. The things were from the time George had started Fort Knox Motors, and practically white in the crotch from wear. There was a hole between the legs in which the cotton of his underwear, or the skin of his ballsack, would peek out after thirty minutes of walking. The cat hoped, with a warmth spreading to his stomach and his thighs, that it was the latter.

Gila also knew that he had twenty to twenty-seven minutes before George walked through the garage door, and there was still a pile of his shit on the bathroom rug.

Cheating takes so much math… he abstractly opined.

He left the shower on because his hands were going to get dirty. The nude cat squatted down and rolled the errant turd and three round lumps back into the crotchstrap, gingerly picking up the tired sling. Again, he had to marvel at the amount that had come out of him. It was not by any means a medically-concerning or record-breaking amount, but when it was not deposited as a couple cables and clods into a frivolous bowl, and instead packed and spread out into a garment, even its regular volume was one to be appreciated. Moreover, it echoed through the ramifications of the last hour, spreading and packing several events into what was supposed to be a five-minute chore. Virtually everything behind the front pouch was full of thick mud, spreading all the way up the back to the tail-catch and, as he vividly recalled, spilling over.

This is what the body dealt with and created.

Gila looked at his contemptuous, spoiled ex-partner the toilet like he was tossing a ring into a volcano. Or rather, he was taking his volcanic ring elsewhere.

“You won’t make it a half-day without me!” it growled.

“You’re a convenience; nothing more,” Gila returned.

The cat opened the shower drain and poured his impressive movement down the hole. As hunks and clods tumbled in, they formed a plug, and Gila speared the center and broke them apart. His fingers and palms became brown once again with the sticky filth, but he rinsed them off in the shower and ran a little more shampoo through them. Then, squatting like a tribeswoman before a river, he rinsed his briefs until there was just a giant smear of victory.

A singular half-poop had fallen back onto the carpet; Gila picked this up, too, and discarded it and then washed his fingers. The smear on the shower door was a spritz and a wipe, then he rolled up the carpet and picked up his underwear and left the door … hmm.

Should he spray freshener and seal the room, or should he leave it open and … leave the top floor smelling like a sewer. George was bringing home SO2 Scrubber, and so there was already the premise that his digestive tract had had a vociferous argument. A bowel brawl!

George just didn’t know it’d spill onto the streets.

Gila shook the can of freshener and did a long spray. Maybe in a cyberpunk future there’d be a microchip for the rectum that could do the same. But then everyone would be triggered when the room smelt like roses…

He left the door a crack open and went downstairs to the laundry. The drum was empty, of course, because his husband arranged both his tools and their clothing like a retail store employee. “Do it perfect because you’re perfect, baby,” he’d say. So there’d be the issue of these two very specific items being cleaned at the same time. Sherlock Holmes had already figured it out across the Atlantic, and he wasn’t even a real person.

His briefs needed bleach and an insanely long soak. Bleach would discolor the bath mat, but the bath mat was the conspicuous article. Gila wondered if George knew how many pairs of underwear Gila had, what with his excellent sorting. “We bought your undies in packs of three; you have twelve,” he’d say, then there’d be a stack of ten in the drawer with one pair on the cat’s hips.

On top of that, Gila couldn’t betray his briefs after their stalwart effort. He couldn’t throw them away like a diap— like a piece of trash.

Clock’s ticking.

Gila had showered not as a redemption, but as a coronation. He was ready to stand tall to the world, especially to the man he had vowed to spend his entire life with. He would just use extra detergent, put it on soak, and then volunteer to do the laundry before George’s giant cock of productivity got hard.

Who was he kidding; that was always hard.

“What’s so bad about saying I pooped myself?” Gila asked, tossing the two articles into the washer. He looked over the rim and saw just how brown the back was: he had initially pooped himself with that small nugget falling into the back, but then he shit himself.

“I wanted to know what it was like?” he asked himself. His fur prickled with a wave of embarrassment. Either he could admit that he consciously filled his briefs with scat, or cover it with, “I had a cataclysmic accident that would lead to distinct public humiliation if we were out and about.”

He just had to hope it’d wash out.

Stand in the light of your fears: it will not dissolve you; merely expose. Stand in the light and burn away the impurities; all that is left is the naked truth.

“I can’t hide this,” he told himself, turning the washer on, “either it is or it isn’t me … and in that kitchen, in that bathroom …”

Gila trailed off. He thought of his revolutionary war against the toilet. The turds he threw in the harbor. “I’ll talk to George. Eventually. Talking is never a dealbreaker.” His heart fluttered.

Or was it a Civil War to keep my cotton slave operation…

“Jesus Christ,” Gila snorted, then cackled as he went to the kitchen. Ope, wait; gotta be sexy for George. The cat ran back upstairs, even bounding up on all fours with his claws grabbing the carpet. He was in his bedroom before he realized that he was not a cheetah in the Olympics, and let out a gust of hard exertion as he wobbled to the dresser.

Go to the gym, be a twink with a six-pack for George; a boytoy with chiseled cable legs and thigh-high socks…

All lovely fantasies. He opened the drawer and saw a perfect double-stack of eleven paper-white briefs, soft and delicately fragrant from detergent and a scented bar of soap set alongside. The cat gently peeled a pair off the top and unfolded it like a flag, grinning from ear to ear as the center panel unfurled, ready to secure his sensitive pouch. The sides spread out, ready to grip and frame his hips, the brief shining bright against his black and white thighs.

He slipped them on and put everything in place, then flexed in front of the mirror. For a resplendent moment, Gila Straczynski saw himself as the man that sparkled in George’s eyes. Whenever he was feeling bloaty and scraggly and tired, trying to make coffee with the sluggishness of a spunk puddle running down the wall, this was the man that George latched onto and wedged his morning wood between his scruffy cheeks, trying to penetrate with his every molecule.

“Cream of the crop rises to the top, oh yeah!” he growled in his best professional wrestler voice, then turned himself sideways and thrust out his golf ball-sized bulge.

Nah, maybe tennis ball. Racquet ball.

Be nice to yourself, baby.

Gila muscle-strutted back to the stairs and caught a whiff of the bathroom. “Phew, Jesus!” he exclaimed, still as tangy and acrid as a fresh fart. “Light a match, buddy!”

And then the house blows up. He pushed and pulled the door like a giant fan, mixing freshener chemicals and his mighty anal fetor. It smelt like he’d eaten a whole hedgerow.

Maybe in a Cyberpunk future, the cops would have pepper spray microchips.

He went back downstairs and saw the mess he’d made on the floor. He’d left a pearly trail circling around the center island, and there was a pan-sized puddle in front of the sink where he peed. Gila ran upstairs again on all fours and grabbed his wet shower towel. Oh, fuck, then there was his cum-streaked shirt and shorts. He grabbed those, too. The bathroom farted on him when he entered; that was still contentious. Back downstairs he went and he started mopping up. He added a little cleaner to the towel, then ran it around until the tiles sparkled. The towel was now soaked; he ran to the laundry, paused the washer, and added that to the no-no tub, as well as the shorts and shirt. The water was sudsy and clear, but the back of his briefs were stained a uniform brown as if dyed in the factory.

He hoped the impressive cleaning power of Tied™ would work its magic.

Then he got to washing dishes, going so far as to wish for an apron to keep his pristine tighty-whities sparkling clean. The washer thunked as it switched gears, swish-swashing the bath mat and his old war panties. Gila looked out to the backyard with renewed vigor, seeing the smooth grass stretch out to the wood fence and the houses and the mountains further beyond. That yard was the place where he and George frolicked, lovers energized and aroused and drinking deep of their partnership’s pleasures. It was all so wonderful: the sun set lava-orange against a purple and blue sky, and here lay life in all its glory.

Possibilities abound when oneself is unbound.

The soapy scrubber brush went sliding across the counter and through the dishes, picking up his sneaky spunk and rinsing it away. The dishes had a drippy glaze about them, not unlike a stack of syrupy pancakes, and they did revel in the exertion and expulsion of revelatory sex, but just like Gila, it was time to reset because afterglow and the fluids and solids themselves had such a preciously short shelf life. A man’s heart, by contrast, had a ridiculously long shelf life, and it would sit there full of restful contentment and itchy ambition, ready to leap for adventure. Epiphanies, like Gila, came and went.