I was 19, my hormones frenetically scrambling about as if a boot camp drill sergeant was barking at them as soon as they got off the bus for basic training. They were, indeed, energetically ready, licking their lips and rubbing their hands together vigorously—like they were preparing to dive into a juicy steak. So was I.
She was 30-something, sexy, shapely, and stylish, a single sultry mom, recently divorced, who was seemingly in the midst of a dating-more-than-one-man, party-girl frenzy. I was in her bed, down to a pair of shorts. However, I still needed to…
Well, the reality was, dear reader, that I needed to, pardon my French, throw a pile of shit off her bedroom balcony somehow. Yes, you did read that right. If anything was going to transpire between us, as I had incessantly envisioned and hoped for for the last two months, accomplishing that grotesque task surely had to happen first. But how?
“Think, Mike, think!” I thought. “What if she goes out onto her back balcony? All she has to do is draw the curtains and look out. If she does, I’ll definitely have a lot of explaining to do.” Such a discovery would have spoiled my chances, completely.
My heart raced. My salivating, champing-at-the-bit hormones were growing increasingly pessimistic. Poor fellows. Buckets of sweat formed on my brow (for all the wrong reasons); Angel Falls in Venezuela had nothing compared to the amount of sweat cascading down over my eyebrows at that moment.
For the two months before that memorable morning, that sizzling summer I spent in Virginia Beach, Virginia (USA) in 1988, my more-often-than-not horny teenage mind had been running in overdrive, on a continual basis, with thoughts of how I could somehow gradually circle the bases with or, better yet, score a walk-off homerun with this woman, the hottest woman on the block.
Even now, twenty-five-plus years later, I vividly recall that that summer was dreamlike. I’d gone down to Virginia to stay temporarily with my childhood best friend, to make some money and to simply live large, all before heading back to college in the fall.
With an evening job as a parking valet at a local, slightly upscale, popular restaurant, at which we made respectable cash in tax-free tips, my days were free to languidly hang at the beach with a few buddies, our late nights filled to the brim with non-stop partying opportunities. Moreover, to park all sorts of cool rides, such as Porsches, Mustang GTs, and an occasional Ferrari, for a teen lad who was into that sort of stuff, made for a grand way to spend my summer—especially because we had such a blast doing it. We’d often have to wait for customers to pull up for valet service, so we had plenty of time to chat about all sorts of topics and to goof around, and we’d routinely joke with attractive gals if they came in, one of whom I eventually dated. Blissful and stress free the summer was. Fun with a capital F.
I assume for a business-world-bound bloke, a blossoming banker, or a broker-to-be, an internship on Wall Street would have been more respectable and commendable, but for this chap, a summer of partying, of making decent money, and of enjoying fun in the sun was what was needed and savored most. I’m certain those banker and broker types were envious.
During the first two months there, my buddy Derek, with whom I was living, his girlfriend, Edie, and I would periodically interact with Kathy, the aforementioned older woman down the street, for she was always needing babysitting services for her four-year-old son, and it turned out that Edie and her younger sister were the ones to often help out.
When you’re a teen looking for an “in” with an older woman, as is the fantasy that plays out in many an adolescent male’s mind, this scenario was perfect. Actually, let me backtrack and say that it isn’t many minds but all teen boys’ minds. The Graduate, the movie, wasn’t just hypothetical nonsense to entertain the audience. It was reality coming true (at least on the big screen) for all puberty-experiencing, hormone-driven lads. We’d simply all go and visit together on evenings before babysitting commenced at her house so that we could get a look at Kathy all decked out, ready to paint the town red. It wasn’t just me who thought she was someone to behold: My friend and his girlfriend both admitted that Kathy was a hottie. Something about her turned heads and dropped jaws.
To have her as my Mrs. Robinson would have made my movie dreams come true!
One particular weekend towards the final days of the summer, not long before I was to head back north to college, the same routine events unfolded: We partied way too hearty, we drank way too much, and we crawled home way too late. As was sometimes the case, I was the third wheel on that outing, too; Derek and Edie wanted some time alone when we got back to his house, so I wandered out into the neighborhood, probably somewhere around 2a.m., wobbling a bit and confused about what I was going to do.
Who am I trying to kid! I wasn’t wobbling; I was staggering like a twelve-point buck that’s been shot by a bow hunter, on its last legs with an arrow impeding its every step, draining its energy and affecting its senses. Moreover, I wasn’t confused about what I wanted to do! I had one thing on my mind: Kathy.
I knew time was running out, for it was nearing the end of the summer. However it was going to turn out, I wasn’t sure, but I needed to act on my desires for Kathy. A light bulb went off somewhere in my under-the-influence mind, and my hormones gathered in formation, ready to march to the target, calling cadences such as “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to Kathy’s we go,” and “I used to drive a Cadillac; now I want Kathy on her back.” You know, the usual stuff that soldiers sing.
Arriving on the backside of her town home, I gazed up at the second-story balcony where her bedroom, a sort of rapturous fantasyland in my mind’s eye, was located. Having lived in the same neighborhood a few years before, a few doors down, back in high school, I knew that one could easily step up on the air conditioning unit’s wooden frame outside the ground floor living room window, grab a hold of the balcony’s joists overhead, and then catapult oneself up to the railing, which was then easily scaled.
Within moments, I found myself standing anxiously in the middle of her balcony, wondering if she was actually home. Having noticed that the flickering lights coming through from beneath the curtains must have been the TV, I stuck my chest out to gather confidence, while inhaling deeply, curled my fingers into a knocking gesture, and raised my hand to tap on the glass.
Then, it happened. Shit.
Yes, that’s actually what happened. No figurative language there, folks; it is as literal as can be.
“Oh, crap!” I exclaimed. “Why, why, why now?”
For the year or so prior to that instant, I’d occasionally experienced severe cramping, resulting in horrible bouts of nearly uncontrollable bowel movements. Rarely had I experienced such moments, but when I did, it was, naturally, embarrassing. Little did I know at that time that my life would later entail oft-debilitating irritable bowel syndrome symptoms, episodic issues with ulcers, and an upper-GI bleed that almost killed me. Even now, 2013, I have my doctors stumped about what’s going on, but let’s get back to 1988.
In the middle of her balcony, with my judgment clouded by my beer-on-the-brain state of intoxication, I pulled my shorts to my knees, squatted down and relieved myself. No toilet paper. No common decency. Even I was shocked and repulsed by what I’d done. I just, well, at the time… I just couldn’t help it! Relief is what I needed, stat.
In unison, half of my hormones heaved a sigh of disappointment that could be heard around the neighborhood, rolling their little eyes upwards, appalled at what I’d just done. The other half gasped simultaneously, clenching their tiny chests as if they’d all just experienced miniscule heart attacks, incredulous that my bowels had just rained on their parade, disparaging me as they did.
Perhaps it was the combined resonance of my hormonal sighs and gasps that startled Edie’s 14-year-old sister inside, but within a minute or two of my defecation, she parted the sliding glass door’s curtains to look out, which resulted in merely a semi-shocked response on her part. A stray cat would have prompted more surprise.
(To this day, I have no clue why she simply didn’t go into cardiac arrest.)
“Michael? What are you doing out here?” she queried, naïvely.
Only when I realized that she could not actually see behind me on the balcony because it was dark outside (and because she was merely looking at me in the eye, not expecting anything out of place behind me on the mini-deck) was I able to let my guard down.
“Oh, uh, hey, I thought I would stop by to see if Kathy was in,” I responded, totally unsure how that was going to sound, especially because there were NO stairs up to the balcony. How on earth did she not freak out, I wondered. Only stalkers undertook such actions.
“Well, she’ll be home soon, I think,” she replied. “Why don’t you come in?”
With that, she invited me in, sliding the door closed and drawing the curtains shut behind us, thankfully.
For twenty minutes or so (actually, I don’t honestly remember how much time passed, but I’ve got to have some transitional period here), we watched TV in Kathy’s bedroom, sitting on the end of the bed. Surely, I must have been leaning over exaggeratedly or slumped forward dramatically by that point, a marionette on slack strings. She was just a kid, so I didn’t say anything about my hopes and desires, the real reasons why I was there, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew.
That’s the last I recall, for I then passed out on Kathy’s bed at some point.
Around 6a.m., the lady of the house returned from her night out, surprised that I was in her room but cordial and, enticingly, cool about it. With her return came the departure of the babysitter.
In my mind, I recalled then, as she sat down on the other side of her bed, fluffing up the pillows on the headboard next to me, that she had told Edie’s mother (who of course subsequently told Edie) that I should have looked for a job as a male dancer in a club in town where she and her friends sometimes went for happy hour. The reason she suggested it was because she was impressed by my body, which she’d seen once while I, shirtless, was helping my buddy Derek wash his car outside, just down the street from her pad.
That knowledge helped me get the courage up to even consider making a move. Yes, my hormones had re-awoken, recovering from their pseudo-heart attacks somehow, forgiving me for my momentary lack of reasoning (and bowel control).
Because it was warming up in the room, I asked if I could take off my shirt. Without hesitation, she responded that it wasn’t a problem. Increasingly more excited I became. This was the stuff that teens’ dream of! Finally. Fantasies were coming to fruition.
“Hell, yeah! Derek and Edie aren’t going to believe this (really, they weren’t going to)!” my mind yawped. Hormones bounced off the walls inside me. If I recall correctly, a little saliva formed at the corner of my mouth.
As we sat together on her bed, with the mid-August summer sun already heating up the early morning outside the window…
Wait! “I can’t believe I shit on her balcony a few hours ago!” I screamed, frustratingly, internally. “What if she opens the curtains to let in that glorious sun?”
That’s when the sweat came in bucketfuls. She must have assumed I was simply getting hot because of her proximity.
By this time, although I was suffering from a hangover the size of a school bus, my head was, thankfully, relatively clear and nimble.
“Kathy, do you have any water? I could really use a drink.” I should have asked for a few shots of tequila.
Accommodating as she always was, she got up and crossed the foot of the bed, scantily clad in short shorts and a tank-top, braless, and then left her room to head downstairs to the kitchen. My eyes were bulging as she did. So, too, was my…
Immediately, I bolted to the curtains. Looking around, over my shoulder, in all directions, seeming to think there might be a hidden security camera in her room for some reason, I hesitated. To go out into broad daylight was undeniably daunting and perhaps foolish.
“Can her neighbors see me?” I wondered. “Will she come back while I am outside on her balcony, staring at a pile of human poop?”
“Hmmm, I wonder if she will blame me?” I foolishly daydreamed, stalling.
Cautiously, I created a slight separation between the two curtains, peeking out to see the damage I had done. Egad! The pile reminded me of something I’d seen at a horse-riding camp I’d been to as a kid. A camel would have been impressed. To say that it was large is an understatement, yet that wasn’t the worst of it.
Mid-summer in Virginia Beach can be a scorcher, boys and girls. Left on a sidewalk, an egg would not only be fried completely but also be singed, crisp around the edges, its yolk flaky and dried up. Folks in Virginia need not actually buy a George Foreman grill to barbecue in August; they can just throw a raw T-bone on the porch outside and let the sun do the rest. You get the picture, right?
Without being too detailed, dear readers, the fecal matter left on the balcony had leavened, like some Pillsbury Poppin’ Fresh dough in the oven. I could actually hear that annoying Pillsbury Doughboy giggle somewhere. And as is expected, the pile was covered with flies. Enough said.
In a matter of moments, Kathy would be back with my glass of water. I had to act quickly. Not even Tom Cruise has that little time to think when faced with similar pressure-filled decisions in the Mission Impossible series.
Wanting to instead do a Matrix-like, slow motion cartwheel out onto the balcony to grab the pile from mid-air, launching it out over her fenced-in backyard as if it were a grenade ready to explode, and then somersault back into her bedroom, I darted out, shooed the flies away with a brush of the hand, and grasped the semi-firm mass in my hand. I didn’t think of using tissue paper. There was no time.
Sans cartwheels and somersaults, I was at least able to heave it from her premises, though there was a bit of a circular wet stain left on the wood planking. Randy Johnson, a former MLB hurler, would have been proud of how fast I released it, how far I threw it.
Only nanoseconds had passed, but when I came back in through the curtains, which were still drawn closed, I saw Kathy had returned with said water, and she’d made herself cozy on her bed already.
Shocked, I stammered, “Wow, it is a h-h-h-hot one today. I must get to the beach this morning! Oh, hey, can I use your john?” Immediately, I bolted into the bathroom.
There, using scalding water and half her bottle of Softsoap, I scoured my hand three times, wishing that the world would invent anti-bacterial soap one day!
I’d like to say I returned to her bed confidently, cool and calm. I’d like to say that once I came out of the bathroom, she summoned me to her throne, dubbing me her knight, inviting me to experience the glorious right of passage I’d long longed for.
Nothing of the sort transpired.
Embarrassed and worried she knew something was up, I, instead, hastily bid her a good day and made my way downstairs—this time actually using the stairs, offering to let myself out, leaving her lying in her bed, alone. Within a few weeks, I returned back to college, head hung somewhat low, if you get what I mean. Never again did I see Kathy. And never have I again crapped on someone’s balcony.