What’s your worst/best one night stand story? If it doesn’t end with you pooping all over yourself and yelling “there’s poo on my pyjamas,” then you’ve got nothing on this British woman, who shared her sh*tty story with Cosmopolitan UK.
It all began in May 2013…
It always does.
During our last night [on island off Bali] I got together with [her friend’s boyfriend] Ryan’s right-hand man, Lewis. We took things back to the bungalow and proceeded to revel in some skin-on-skin action before dozing off…
…A few hours later I awoke with an urgent need to use the facilities. To put it delicately, as much as I’d grown to love Indonesian cuisine, it did not love me back. Bowels a’twitchin’, I quickly assessed my options: use the open-plan bungalow bathroom within earshot of nine guys or get the hell outside and find an alternative.
She took care of business, BTO-style, and came back to bed. Then, tragedy.
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.
Apparently they listened, because whoever was watching the storyteller take a good ol’ fashioned beach dump bolted, leaving her be. She fled the scene of poopy crime, but the evidence lingered.
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!’
The moral of the story: “make sensible pre-sex food choices.” Also, don’t sleep with guys named Lewis.
