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I pooped in my pants quite a lot as a kid, since my mischievous older brother was always trying to bribe, dare, or otherwise persuade his crazy little sister to go to the bathroom in her pants. Once she found out how good it felt, she wasn’t that hard to convince. But I never did it or even mentioned it after the time I was about 14. I was too afraid that other kids at school might find out.
When I was in my 20s, before the Internet, kinksters had to meet each other by going to adult bookstores and picking up local singles magazines which were almost always printed with smeared print on smelly paper. People would post voicemail numbers and PO boxes and you would contact them that way. My ex-partner Jerry was into all that stuff. When we were first getting to know each other I thought it was awful, and I told him I really hated that part of his life. He always said, “Then why are you still dating me?” It turns out that that was a damn good question.
Jerry was the night manager of a hotel restaurant/bar. Believe it or not it was very middle class, actually a Radisson, but after the business travelers and families all went to bed, late at night just before closing time, all the local kinksters and perverts who bought the singles magazines would come and hang out there. There were gay guys from the theater group down the street and there were black leather types who stopped in for a few drinks before going to one of the “dungeon parties” that were hosted once a month at another local club – which, on most nights, was a very posh “adult club” where lawyers and psychiatrists and so on swapped their trophy wives. Sometimes they would also come in for drinks at Jerry’s place.
Jerry knew about my pooping incidents in childhood and how much I liked it, but it didn’t turn him on at all. He did, however, urge me to “express myself” sexually. After a while my curiosity got the better of me and I started to experiment somewhat with the “alternative sexual lifestyles” that all those folks from the club were into. After a while I was no longer the well-mannered Latin girl from the suburbs that I had been raised to be. But even though I got to know a lot of kinky people, I was always afraid to mention the pooping fetish.
Jerry and I parted pretty amicably when I was 36. He got offered the job of a lifetime, managing a fancy five-star restaurant. The problem was that it was in Chicago. The first time that cold wind from Lake Michigan blew my dress right up over my head, I knew that this was no place for a brown-skinned chica from L.A., so that was the end of us.
After being with one person for nine years, my social circle was pretty much the same as his, except that he was now in Chicago while I was still in L.A. with all our old friends. For the first few years after we parted I still went to the Radisson and hung out with the same crowd. I didn’t want to get into a major relationship “on the rebound” or anything dumb like that, so I just dated a lot of Jerry’s kinky pals and acquired lots of “friends with benefits.” I was definitely no longer the well behaved little Catholic girl, but it was actually kind of a fun lifestyle.
But my real desire was to start exploring regions in my soul that I had never explored before, like this fetish. One night when I was 39 I was in my room. After Jerry and I parted I had rented a smaller apartment because I was living alone and didn’t need much space. I was just sitting there watching TV one night. I knew that nobody was going to come knocking on my door. I really had to go poop, and I kept thinking about my naughty childhood delights and how I had promised myself that I would bravely explore all parts of my sexuality, so instead of getting up from the couch and going to the bathroom, I just did it in my pants, and it felt so fantastic that I was hooked.
Women are all about relationship and even though it was fun to do it all alone, I knew I had to share this experience with somebody. I had already probed the minds of all our kinkster friends at the Radisson and was pretty sure none of them were into that sort of thing. I had dated one guy who got a big stiff one when I squirmed around in his car and whined that I had to pee so bad I was just about to do it in my pants. That was a stunt I pulled fairly often, but mostly I couldn’t tell what kind of an effect I was having on a guy because most people try to avoid violating social taboos and admitting that they are aroused by that sort of thing. It was pretty delightful when I saw how excited my “friend with benefits” was getting, so I peed in my pants and we had had great sex. But I could just tell by instinct that he wouldn’t be into scat.
It was in the late 1990s now and I was nearly 40, and the whole thing with Internet dating was just getting started. It was still very much in the “sweetheart” phase before everyone realized how weird it could be. I knew that there were a few social network sites for kinky people, which everyone said were replacing those smelly old magazines which would now become a thing of the past. So I decided I would put a profile on alt.com and try to find someone with whom to share this fetish.
My big problem was that when it came to computers, I could turn one on, play solitaire, and do my boss’s spreadsheet, but that was about all. One of Jerry’s old pals, named Vince, was about ten years younger than the rest of the Radisson crowd and really into all the Internet stuff, very computer savvy, so I asked him to help me put together an alt.com profile, and he was enthusiastic about helping me. (If some hot soccer mom came to you and asked you to help her create a kinky profile for a sex website, I bet you’d be enthusiastic about helping her too.) I didn’t tell him about my specific fetish but said I just wanted to explore more of my inner sexual nature. He was really courteous and didn’t ask awkward questions, just said he would help me, whatever.
I had already found sites like Alori and the early Wetset, and I was getting a good idea of what fetish guys liked, so I went to Mervyn’s and bought several pairs of the most enormous white nylon full-briefs that I could wear and still look halfway good.
I wanted some photos of myself to post on my profile page, and I asked Vince if he would help me, since he knew about digital photographs and how to load them onto the Internet. I went over to his house. When I took my dress off to get my pictures taken, he laughed until he nearly choked when he saw my big old bra and enormous white undies. He thought I was too shy and modest to pose in the nude or with a g-string. I encouraged him to keep thinking that way, as I didn’t want to talk about my real fetish and the sort of men I was trying to attract.
The next day he came over to my house. We uploaded the photos and he showed me how to post text for my profile. I kept asking him to show me how to change the wording, pretending that I couldn’t decide what I wanted to say, so that I would know how to use all the editing functions after he was gone. You see, I thought I would be very clever and write a whole new profile on my own, one that was designed for fetishists. You are going to think I was a very silly and very horny middle-aged gal, but I wrote all kinds of innuendos that I thought would go over most people’s heads but would be immediately recognizable to a true fetishist. I wrote things like, “The guy who gets into my panties will feel the THUNDER of my love DOWN UNDER,” and “Come find me, babe, and discover that it’s more than just my heart that’s FULL.”
I mounted that silly piece of prose next to the photos of my forty-year-old butt in big white underwear, and even though I felt like a geek I remember thinking that there were a lot of women on alt.com who looked a lot worse than I did!
Finally, I filled in their fetish checklist. I checked everything remotely related to “the fetish.” I checked coprophilia, water sports, diapers, and age play. I also checked anything even vaguely related to lingerie, since I knew from Wetset and the old Alori site that lots of guys who have this fetish also have some kind of underwear fetish.
Then I clicked on it and it became real!
Of course I should have known that Vince was more clever than I, and that he would quickly find my full profile in its “new edition.” He figured out what it was all about immediately and sent me a humorous e-mail about it. Scat wasn’t his type of thing but he wished me luck.
Though Jerry knew about my fetish, we had never talked about it because he was so uninterested, and this was the first time anyone had ever looked really deep inside of my “fetish soul.” I was so emotionally overwhelmed by the feeling of vulnerability, finally being “known,” that I went over to Vince’s house, spilled my guts about all my fetish feelings ever since childhood, and got drunk enough to end up with his dick inside me.
That was a Friday night. Saturday I went to visit my brother in San Diego, returning on Sunday. I decided to check my computer on Monday morning just before going to work. It was the first time I had checked since Friday afternoon.
Let me tell you guys.... You are not alone! My inbox for alt.com was almost as loaded as my underwear!
I began to study my admirers. All I had to do now was find a likely fellow...............
If you want to know more about how I got to be “me,” I could write another chapter. Let me know.
When I was in my 20s, before the Internet, kinksters had to meet each other by going to adult bookstores and picking up local singles magazines which were almost always printed with smeared print on smelly paper. People would post voicemail numbers and PO boxes and you would contact them that way. My ex-partner Jerry was into all that stuff. When we were first getting to know each other I thought it was awful, and I told him I really hated that part of his life. He always said, “Then why are you still dating me?” It turns out that that was a damn good question.
Jerry was the night manager of a hotel restaurant/bar. Believe it or not it was very middle class, actually a Radisson, but after the business travelers and families all went to bed, late at night just before closing time, all the local kinksters and perverts who bought the singles magazines would come and hang out there. There were gay guys from the theater group down the street and there were black leather types who stopped in for a few drinks before going to one of the “dungeon parties” that were hosted once a month at another local club – which, on most nights, was a very posh “adult club” where lawyers and psychiatrists and so on swapped their trophy wives. Sometimes they would also come in for drinks at Jerry’s place.
Jerry knew about my pooping incidents in childhood and how much I liked it, but it didn’t turn him on at all. He did, however, urge me to “express myself” sexually. After a while my curiosity got the better of me and I started to experiment somewhat with the “alternative sexual lifestyles” that all those folks from the club were into. After a while I was no longer the well-mannered Latin girl from the suburbs that I had been raised to be. But even though I got to know a lot of kinky people, I was always afraid to mention the pooping fetish.
Jerry and I parted pretty amicably when I was 36. He got offered the job of a lifetime, managing a fancy five-star restaurant. The problem was that it was in Chicago. The first time that cold wind from Lake Michigan blew my dress right up over my head, I knew that this was no place for a brown-skinned chica from L.A., so that was the end of us.
After being with one person for nine years, my social circle was pretty much the same as his, except that he was now in Chicago while I was still in L.A. with all our old friends. For the first few years after we parted I still went to the Radisson and hung out with the same crowd. I didn’t want to get into a major relationship “on the rebound” or anything dumb like that, so I just dated a lot of Jerry’s kinky pals and acquired lots of “friends with benefits.” I was definitely no longer the well behaved little Catholic girl, but it was actually kind of a fun lifestyle.
But my real desire was to start exploring regions in my soul that I had never explored before, like this fetish. One night when I was 39 I was in my room. After Jerry and I parted I had rented a smaller apartment because I was living alone and didn’t need much space. I was just sitting there watching TV one night. I knew that nobody was going to come knocking on my door. I really had to go poop, and I kept thinking about my naughty childhood delights and how I had promised myself that I would bravely explore all parts of my sexuality, so instead of getting up from the couch and going to the bathroom, I just did it in my pants, and it felt so fantastic that I was hooked.
Women are all about relationship and even though it was fun to do it all alone, I knew I had to share this experience with somebody. I had already probed the minds of all our kinkster friends at the Radisson and was pretty sure none of them were into that sort of thing. I had dated one guy who got a big stiff one when I squirmed around in his car and whined that I had to pee so bad I was just about to do it in my pants. That was a stunt I pulled fairly often, but mostly I couldn’t tell what kind of an effect I was having on a guy because most people try to avoid violating social taboos and admitting that they are aroused by that sort of thing. It was pretty delightful when I saw how excited my “friend with benefits” was getting, so I peed in my pants and we had had great sex. But I could just tell by instinct that he wouldn’t be into scat.
It was in the late 1990s now and I was nearly 40, and the whole thing with Internet dating was just getting started. It was still very much in the “sweetheart” phase before everyone realized how weird it could be. I knew that there were a few social network sites for kinky people, which everyone said were replacing those smelly old magazines which would now become a thing of the past. So I decided I would put a profile on alt.com and try to find someone with whom to share this fetish.
My big problem was that when it came to computers, I could turn one on, play solitaire, and do my boss’s spreadsheet, but that was about all. One of Jerry’s old pals, named Vince, was about ten years younger than the rest of the Radisson crowd and really into all the Internet stuff, very computer savvy, so I asked him to help me put together an alt.com profile, and he was enthusiastic about helping me. (If some hot soccer mom came to you and asked you to help her create a kinky profile for a sex website, I bet you’d be enthusiastic about helping her too.) I didn’t tell him about my specific fetish but said I just wanted to explore more of my inner sexual nature. He was really courteous and didn’t ask awkward questions, just said he would help me, whatever.
I had already found sites like Alori and the early Wetset, and I was getting a good idea of what fetish guys liked, so I went to Mervyn’s and bought several pairs of the most enormous white nylon full-briefs that I could wear and still look halfway good.
I wanted some photos of myself to post on my profile page, and I asked Vince if he would help me, since he knew about digital photographs and how to load them onto the Internet. I went over to his house. When I took my dress off to get my pictures taken, he laughed until he nearly choked when he saw my big old bra and enormous white undies. He thought I was too shy and modest to pose in the nude or with a g-string. I encouraged him to keep thinking that way, as I didn’t want to talk about my real fetish and the sort of men I was trying to attract.
The next day he came over to my house. We uploaded the photos and he showed me how to post text for my profile. I kept asking him to show me how to change the wording, pretending that I couldn’t decide what I wanted to say, so that I would know how to use all the editing functions after he was gone. You see, I thought I would be very clever and write a whole new profile on my own, one that was designed for fetishists. You are going to think I was a very silly and very horny middle-aged gal, but I wrote all kinds of innuendos that I thought would go over most people’s heads but would be immediately recognizable to a true fetishist. I wrote things like, “The guy who gets into my panties will feel the THUNDER of my love DOWN UNDER,” and “Come find me, babe, and discover that it’s more than just my heart that’s FULL.”
I mounted that silly piece of prose next to the photos of my forty-year-old butt in big white underwear, and even though I felt like a geek I remember thinking that there were a lot of women on alt.com who looked a lot worse than I did!
Finally, I filled in their fetish checklist. I checked everything remotely related to “the fetish.” I checked coprophilia, water sports, diapers, and age play. I also checked anything even vaguely related to lingerie, since I knew from Wetset and the old Alori site that lots of guys who have this fetish also have some kind of underwear fetish.
Then I clicked on it and it became real!
Of course I should have known that Vince was more clever than I, and that he would quickly find my full profile in its “new edition.” He figured out what it was all about immediately and sent me a humorous e-mail about it. Scat wasn’t his type of thing but he wished me luck.
Though Jerry knew about my fetish, we had never talked about it because he was so uninterested, and this was the first time anyone had ever looked really deep inside of my “fetish soul.” I was so emotionally overwhelmed by the feeling of vulnerability, finally being “known,” that I went over to Vince’s house, spilled my guts about all my fetish feelings ever since childhood, and got drunk enough to end up with his dick inside me.
That was a Friday night. Saturday I went to visit my brother in San Diego, returning on Sunday. I decided to check my computer on Monday morning just before going to work. It was the first time I had checked since Friday afternoon.
Let me tell you guys.... You are not alone! My inbox for alt.com was almost as loaded as my underwear!
I began to study my admirers. All I had to do now was find a likely fellow...............
If you want to know more about how I got to be “me,” I could write another chapter. Let me know.
. You would've loved to get a whiff of my caca chones from this weekend. And yes I would've been hot for your calzones cagados Maria lol. No aguanta nada lol.
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