TMI Thursday: Commando Operations

Ever since I've had my gall bladder removed, I've suffered from something that I refer to as "post rectal drip". See, sometimes, if I've had one of those shits where things have been good and loose, a couple hours later I'll develop that "not so fresh feeling" at the back door. I usually go, clean up, and then everything is okay for another couple of hours. The big problem is, when I can't get away, then the insides of my ass cheeks tend to chafe, which is an all new definition of the phrase "pain in the ass." Now, this also happens sometimes if I'm suffering from a good bout of ass sweat, but the ass sweat chafing pales in comparison to the post-rectal drip chafing.

So, about a year and a half ago, I decided that I was going to get healthy. I was going to shed some weight, increase my stamina (heh heh heh...), and overall have a more healthy body. The best way, I figured, was to take up jogging. Now, I love jogging/running. I really do. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but buried beneath the layers of blubber is a runner at heart. However, as it had been many moon since I had last endeavored to jog, I figured I should work into this. I'd start slow and hopefully be able to sustain some form of stamina that would let me jog with some regularity.

To that end, I started walking. During my lunch hour, I would walk a course by the lab building that was about two and a half miles. I could get it done in around 50 minutes, if I didn't drag my ass. As all good ideas of this ilk begin, I started this regimen in January.

Long about the end of April, I was getting pretty good at this. I had lost at least two belt sizes and I was slowly getting to the point where I felt comfortable with attempting to jog. However, I wasn't dressed properly, so I began bringing in shorts and a t-shirt that I could change into prior to exercising then change back out of in order to perform my usual daily work in the lab, hopefully sans the funk of a sweaty man hanging about me.

The other thing is that, toward the end of April, it was getting warm 'round these here parts. Now, the scene is set. One day, I was out doing my lunchtime walk when, around the one mile mark, I sense a little leakage in the outback. At this point, I was at the apogee of my daily route--that is, the furthest from the lab possible in my little walk. Sucking it up like a man, I tried to quicken my pace so that I could get back to the lab and change as soon as humanly possible. Unfortunately, this had a dual affect. One, it caused my ass cheeks to rub together moreso than they were before, thus heightening the chafing. Two, it caused me to sweat more, and I could feel the tortuous trickle between my cheeks. Essentially, it was a perfect storm of ass chafing.

Finally, after my grueling pace took me to the point where I just wanted to fall down on my face and weep, I returned to the lab. As proof that God does, in fact, love me, my labmates were at lunch at the time, and so I was able to slip into the office, grab my stuff, and not have to let them smell what must certainly have been a case of Swamp Ass to the Extreme. I gathered up my clothes and slipped down to the restroom to clean up and to change.

Once I got there and dropped trou, I discovered that my boxer-briefs had gone to the point of no return. What once had been turquoise was now rendered an unholy mahogany, featuring an aroma fresh from the very bowels of hell, such that my nose hairs singed, my eyes watered, and my throat seized closed. Despite the lack of fresh air, I managed to clean myself up. Now, I had a change of pants. I had a change of shirt. I did not have a change of underwear. And I certainly was not going to pull those back up around my nethers after having freshly cleaned them. What was I to do? The only course of action was to strip them off.

And so I did.

I was out there, Jerry, and I wasn't loving every minute of it!

Now, I realize that a number of you don't have scrotums. Let me just say that, for those of you without, the seams of blue jeans and the soft, velvety delicates of a man's anatomy are in no way compatible. The moment that I zipped, the joint where the legs of my pants and my crotch come together seized ahold of my wrinkly, crinkly bag of skin with the tenaciousness of a midwestern housewife on a Vera Bradley handbag. With my lower lip aquiver and unshed tears standing in my eyes, I now looked upon my soiled and defeated companion who had given his life so that my sack would not suffer the indignity of being cloven in twain by my pants. They say you never truly appreciate what you had until you lose it, and such it was with my underpants. Softly, I hummed taps in their memory.

But, what to do? I exited the stall, stiff-legged, and motored over to the wastebasket. Unfortunately, it was one of those wall units designed for the paper towels you use after you wash your hands. This was not a suitable final resting place for my knickers. So, I quickly washed my hands, rolled the fallen soldier up, and made my way back to the lab.

I thought briefly about stashing the underwear in my backpack, but I was afraid that the lingering air of Swamp Ass would give me away. I couldn't just drop them into a waste paper basket in either of the labs, as we tend to not throw much stuff away. So, I did the only thing I could possibly think to do: I slipped them into a plastic bag and hid them in one of the 55-gallon solid hazardous waste containers in the lab. I deftly moved a couple of bags of used filtering agents over the top of the bag containing my soiled smallclothes, put the lid on and sealed it.

I then tried to go about my normal daily routine. However, after about an hour, maybe two, of wandering around the lab and office with no underwear, I became painfully aware of the fact that my pants were trying their best to eat my balls, Chewbacca style. Finally, I could take no more and left early for the day. After a frantic ride home, I dashed upstairs, shed my pants, slipped on a fresh pair of boxer-briefs, and reveled in the wonderment of having my nuts cradled lovingly in the warm, accepting folds of gentle cotton. "I'll never underappreciate you again, underwear," I cooed down to them.

And I never have since. *pats self lovingly*


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!