How I Met Your Mud by Mudcub
It started like the worst ulcer I ever had. My stomach hurt, I couldn't keep anything down, and I had constant diarrhea. Yeah, I know, "too much information". But trust me... it gets worse. I finally went to the doctor and listened to what he had to say.
It wasn't an ulcer. I always thought that ulcers were caused by stress... and I had been under a lot of stress at work lately. But the doctor explained that it wasn't that simple. MNost ulcers, he explained, were caused by a bacterium that can be cured with various medications. What I had was different.
"...auto-immune disease..." the doctor said. But I wasn't listening. An auto-immune disease! That was the big "A and I" part of AIDS. I freaked out, thinking that I was going to die. It certainly felt like it. The doctor thought I had a form of Chron's Disease, but one he hadn't seen before.
He started me on a series of drugs. But none of them seemed to help. Some of them caused side-effects that were worse than my stomach ache: dizziness, nausea, and sleeplessness. It wasn't until he had me come it for an endoscopic procedure that we figured out what was going on.
If you've neve had a protological examination before - you are lucky. The prep before the surgery is the worst. I was put on a liquid-only diet... living off lemonade and jello for two whole days. Then, I was given a gallon of the most foul-tasting liquid I had to drink. The stuff was like salt water mixed with gatorade. It took me almost two hours to drink the whole mixture. By then I was just ready for the whole thing to be over.
But it wasn't - it was just starting. I've never shit so much in my life. I was on the toilet for a few hours, just blasting out everything in my colon. There wee also a few pills I had to take, and then my boyfrien drove me to the hospital. They gave me a sedative before the procedure that knocked me out. To tell you the truth, I don't remember anything until I was in the car on the way home.
As unpleasant as the coloscopy was, I was amazed that my stomachache was gone! Well of course, I thought. There was nothing inside of me. But when I got home, I was hungry as a bear. The minute I got some food in me, the pain returned.
I don't know if I was relived or pissed off when the doctor's results came back and they found nothing. No cancer, which was another fear of mine. No blood, no polyps. It simply seemed that my body was allegic to itself. My own intenstinal mucus was making me sick. The minute I started to digest food, my body had a reaction and it was trying to digest ITSELF. I was back to square one.
We tried some more drug treatments, with the same bad effects. Nothing was working. But then the doctor gave me an enema. That was humilating... laying on my side in the doctor's office, having a rubber tube shoved up my asshole. He filled me with some mixture, and made me hold it for as long as I could. Then, I ran to the bathroom, hoping I didn't spill a drop!
But you know what? ALl the next day, I felt great. And into the next day. I felt like my life was returning to normal. When the stomach cramps started again, I gave myself another enema at home. And then another. It was disgusting and annoying to have to fill myself up with water every day, but it was allowing me to go to work again.
This lasted for about a month. My boyfriend helped me out by giving me enemas - it was amazing how he stuck by me... even when I was sick. But I found that the enemas were lasting less and less. In desperation, I bought a "colon tube" that was over two feet long. I found I could snake that thing all the way up through my lower intestine and fill mysef with amazing amounts of fluid. That helped for about another month, and then things got worse, probably because all those enemas were washing away any "good" bacteria I had in my colon.
Finally, the doctor had an experimental procedure he wanted to try. He was almost embarrased to tell me about it, but at that point, I was ready to try anything. He said that some studies had shown promise at REVERSE introduction of foreign bacteria into the colon. What that meant is that he was going to give me another enema - but this one was going to consist of another man's shit.
It sounded disgusting, but he showed me some studies. The theory was that while I was allergic to my own stomach lining, if I could flood my intestines with some "borrowed" bacteria, it would break down the food I was trying to digest. I agreed to the experiment right away.
I don't remember the procedure very much. To me, it seemed like just another enema. The doctor never showed me whatever was in the bag, Except that when I expelled it into the toilet, instead of warm water flooding out, I crapped a huge amount of brown foul-smelling diarrhea. I stank awfully! I felt really humiliated, and wondered if it was all worth it.
It was worth it. That whole week, I had never felt so good. I found that I could eat anything. Even spicy mexican food, while I had given up months ago! The doctor repeated the treatment every week, and while I wasn't "cured", I was definitely feeling better than ever.
I had medical insurance, but this disease was costing me plenty. I had maxed out my yearly surgery cap, and had to start paying out-of-pocket. The simple shit-filling enema was costing me about five hundred dollars a week. I wondered where the doc was getting the foreign shit from! It was pricey stuff. Maybe they were flying it in.
It was my boyfriend who cam up with the idea. If someone else's shit was fixing my problem, why didn't HE donate his shit? I mean, crap is crap. It was the weirdest evening when we went into the bathroom together. My boyfriend took a crap, and we put it in the enema bag along with a half gallon of warm water. It was awful trying to stir everything up, and it stunk up the bathroom, but I saved myself five hundred dollars that week.
Our homemade procedure worked just fine. So we repeated it the second week. But the end of the month, I called my doctor and said that except for a monthly check-up, I was stopping the alternative therapy with him. He was disappointed - he thought that the treatment wasn't working. But he had no idea...
We soon discovered that if one dump made me feel good, then two days worth worked even better. It got to the point that my boyfriend shopped shitting in the toilet, and instead crapped every day into a bucket we kept in our garage. Man, the whole garage reeked! Even with the bucket covered, the smell would get out. But it was a small price to pay to avoid all those doctor's bills.
Long story short, our home regimen went on for a few months. At first, I was mortified that my boyfriend had to do this for me. He didn't like shitting over a nasty stinking metal bucket in the cold garage every morning. But he loved me, so we both put up with it. We found better ways to liquify the contents, and got the weekly thick enema down to a routine.
But my boyfriend's shit was losing its effect. At my monthly check-up, my doctor was puzzled by the lab results. While I had a strange new bacteria flourishing in my lower intestine, my body was starting to reject that too. It was producing antibodies that would attack the mucus produced by my own body AND that artificially introduced by my boyfriend.
So, we started to throw parties.
My boyfriend had always been good at entertaining. He played ice hockey, and once a month, he would invite the whole team over to our house. He cooked a HUGE amount of food: lasagna, meatballs, and lots and lots of baked beans. We told our guests that the toilet was broken, and they could use it, but not to flush any toilet paper down the crapper. Instead, there was a wastebasket in the bathroom for that purpose.
Down in the basement, I had disconnected the plumbing, and all of the sewage flowed into a huge tub that was quickly filled by the end of the night. The hockey team ate a lot, but also drank a lot of beer. Only a few guys took a dump, but that was enough. When everyone went home, my boyfriend and I went down into the basement and brave the stench. We mixed the piss-and-shit mixture into a froth and poured it inside me once again. That batch lasted for more than a few enemas.
Soon, we were throwing huge weekend-long parties for all our friends. Luckily, we have a big house, so several guests we able to sleep overnight. It was awful to use our friends this way - they had no idea what we were up to in the basement, but none of them went down there. They had no idea.
I started to invite over a bunch of leathermen that I knew, and the weekend parties turned into orgies. A lot of guys slept with each other all weekend, many bringing over S&M equipment and various toys. But unfortunately, some also brought over illegal drugs and lots and lots of alcohol. Tons of strangers we enver met were staying in our house: Masters and slaves, puppy boys and leathermen. It got out of control, and it was taking us most of the week to clean up the house to get ready for the next party.
I think I was walking near my house, when I got the idea. There was a construction site a few houses down where they were building a new office complex. There was a row of port-a-potties along one end of the unfinished lot. I trespassed into the site and went into one stall, and looked down. The hole was filled with tons of shit! There was no more need for us to invitie people into our home. Just a block away, and there was an endless supply of shit waiting for me!
I told my boyfriend my plan, but this as too much even for him. He refused to help out. But I had no shame. At night when the unfinished building was closed and all the construction workers had gone home, I took a large bucket to the site. I scooped up all the "blue stuff" that was in one of the johns, and dumped the contents out into the second stall. I read on the internet that the blue stuff contained formaldehyde and other chemicals that I wasn't about to put into my body. I stole the roll of toliet paper and replaced it with a special kind made for RVs that dissolves instantly. Then, I was ready.
You'd be amazed at the amount of shit that a team of constuction workers can produce. I have no idea what those guys ate, but they produced HUGE turds that filled the entire bottom of the tank. I was worried that the guys would catch on and stop using that modified port-a-potty, but it looked like they used it as much as the other ones. Without the blue stuff, the place stunk really bad. But nobody seemed to notice. And if they did, they evidently didn't mind.
I checked on my special toilet the every night, scooping it up when needed. I was starting to become a conisseur of shit. I could tell right away which batch was "ripe" just by the smell. I bought a plastic cooler, and would carry several gallons home with me. It got to the point where I was filling myself up with the colon tube every night... gallons of the stuff. It seemed to take more and more to make the stomach pain go away, and I was worried that I would be discovered and arrested. Or worse.
At my monthly check-up, my doctor was amazed at my progress. Most people with this disease deteriorated rapidly, and many have died from malnutrition. But I seemed to be getting healthier and healthier. The only problem was that although my lower intestine and the last part of my small intestine was looking good, the disease was still eating away at my stomach and upper GI tract. Evidently, I wasn't getting the foreign shit up high enough during my nightly enemas.
My mind fought against the answer. But the pain in my stomach won out. I knew there was only one answer: I was going to have to eat shit.
I think that was the about the time my attitude changed. My illness had taken a toll on my relationship. After I started raiding the construction site for shit, my boyfriend had stopped helping out. We were fighting more and more. I was spending a lot of time in the stinking shit-filled basement, hanging out next to the giant vat full of human shit. My boyfriend was tired of the smell in the house, and he and I hadn't had sex in months. I think he was scared to fuck me, since he knew the vile stuff I was pouring up my anus.
We broke up, and he moved out. I was devastated emotionally, My heath was failing, and I wasn't looking too good. Worse, my self-respect was completely shot. My house stunk, and my basement looked like a cesspool, filled with several plastic and metal bathtubs filled with the shit I collected from the construction site - several batches fermenting until I thought it was "just about right".
I started sleeping in the basement. I brought down an old matress and laid it next to the metal grate in the concrete floor. I had stopped bathing, and I stunk as bad as the tubs did. My enema procedures were taking longer and longer, and it took several hours to fill myself up with the contents of the tubs... shitting it out into a tub, stirring up the results, and then filling myself up again. I was worn out, and was ready to collapse emotionally and physically.
One night, I knelt next to one of the tubs, crying. I thought about my boyfriend who left me, and the disgusting monster than I had turned into. I knew that I would have this disease until the day I died... the pain growing worse and worse until the end. I was feeling very sorry for myself. Then, I saw a small turd laying on top of the huge pile of feces in the tub. It looked about the right size. Without thinking too hard, I reached a filthy hand into the tub and grabbed it. It was soft, and squished into my hand. Before I could have second thoughts, I popped it into my mouth and swallowed. Then another. Then another.
At first, I swallowed them whole. I think I puked that first time. I know I didn't keep much of it down. But I'd scoop up handful of the shit I threw up and I'd put it back into my mouth. I think I passed out on the shit-smeared concrete floor of the basement, still sobbing a little bit. My face was smeared with handfuls of shit from strangers I never met.
When I woke up the next morning, I was a new man. Or maybe not a "man". Something less than human. And somehow - more than human. Not only was the stomachache completely gone, I was incredibly hungry, more hungry than I had been in years. I went upstairs and ate everything in the house. I took a shower and washed the clothes that I had been wearing for the last few days that were soaked and filthy with shit. For the first time in weeks, I cleaned myself up and went outside.
Everything looked brighter. The air smelled better - definitely much better than it did inside my shit-filled house. I know that sounds like a cliche, but I was happy to be alive. Over the next few days, I got into a rhythm. I told my boss that I was ok to go back to work, and I came home at night to finish off the rest of what was in the bathtubs downstairs. I cleaned up the basement and filled my refrigerator with gallons of brown sludge. I thought of it as my "power drink". I found that as long as I only ate as much food as I ate shit, my stomach was healthy.
There's a weird psycological effect with anything you do on a regular routine. It's conditioning, like Pavlov's dog. My body quickly realized that the shit was making me feel better. So, I started to connect the smell and texture and taste of shit with feeling good. It got to the point where I really enjoyed the stink of a glassfull of liquid shit. I loved the scent of it, and the feel of the glop as it flowed all over my tongue and down my throat. I knew that within a few minutes, all pain would go away. I SAVORED the experience and started to crave more and more.
My doctor was amazed at my recovery. He wanted to write up something for a medical journal, but I never told him my secret. I stopped treatment later than month, and I have enver seen him again. I don't even have colds now. I started working out at the local gym where all the gay guys hang out, and my body looks fantastic, all muscled and trim. My ex-boyfriend would be stunned by my transformation.
it turns out that there are tons of places to find shit. There's this website, as well as other places to hook up one-on-one. I quickly found out that it wasn't just the amount of crap that I was eating that was keeping me healthy, but it was also the variety. I started to hang out at the bathhouses in town. It's weird that even guys who aren't into shit would let me rim them, and sometimes I could convince them to squeeze out a turd or two for me to eat.
I would stop up local toilets, and come back later to find an unflushed turd or two. Originally, I would bring those back to my house, but soon learned to eat them there while they were warm - kneeling on the dirty bathroom tile right in front of the public toilet, scooping up the fresh shit and chewing it up right there. Then, I would fix the toilet so it would work again. I soon came to love "farming" and had several bathrooms on the nearby college campus that were really productive for me.
However, I decided that this was too dangerous. After all, I didn't know any of those strangers. They could have had hepatitis or parasites or worse. I decided to a new plan - one that I think is a lot healthier for me in the long run. Over a period of months, I gathered a small group of BDSM friends I knew. All of them know my problem, and have offered to help me out.
Some of them come over once a week for a feeding session. Others just drop their shit off at my house in tupperware containers so I can eat it later. It's wonderful what your friends will do for you when they know that you're in need. I even get some turds sent to me in the mail by some people that live out of town. With my resources, I have ready access to a lot of healthy shit that's keeping me alive. But it never seems to be enough, and I still need to find new varieties of bacteria to ingest so my body doesn't get accustomed on any one type.
So... now you know my secret. And you can figure out when I asked you to come over tonight. I know you're not into this... and I'm sorry to ask you for suh a huge a favor. But I know that you're healthy, your boyfriend told me that you've recently been tested. I've got a rimchair in the bedroom all set up. I don't mean to impose, but there's something you can do to help me out. Oh, you will! Thanks! This means a lot to me. Trust me... I'll make it worth your time and effort. I hope this can be a regular thing between us.