I work in a restaurant since I was 22. I don't like the job too much, it's stressful and talking almost every single day with hundreds and hundreds of different people is more alienating than it seems.
There's only one precise reason I haven't quit yet outside of a good pay, and it's the pleasure I feel cleaning the bathroom stalls.
We have a special curry-based dish which is absolutely outstanding but brings anyone who decides to eat it to inevitably eject very odorous excrements almost every single time. The "I cannot wait to sit on the throne to expel this" type. Most of the time, they cannot resist the urge.
We sanityze the services every half an hour circa, and all my colleagues love me because during my shift I always volunteer to do it even if it's not part of my duty in that particular moment.
They take it as a kindness gesture, but they have no idea that it's actually an excuse to unleash the self-diagnosed paraphilia I have for the penetrating yet cozy smell the human body is capable to release.
I've read somewhere that in those incredible occasions we inhale miasma originated from some creature's defecation, your nose is actually breathing miniscule, imperceptible particles of, well, shit.
Being aware that through my respiratory system I am in fact ingesting human feces for some reason turns me on.
I don't feel the same thing for the mainstream, vulgar scent of urination, nor for the extreme, suffocating stench of not digested, retched food.
My appreciation derives exclusively from that which escapes the ass, the most ridiculous yet fascinating human appendice.
As I said, having worked for years in the same restaurant, in some rare, beautiful occasions I have become capable of recognizing the culprit of certain olfaction masterpieces, and of course knowing the origin, the source of such works of art can add or detract pleasure from my "masturbatory sessions", as I call them.
One evening the author was this gorgeous woman: she didn't show her age at all but she was around 50 years old, elegant even if a little supercilious, in a striking but not kitsch dress.
Well, the baby she laid in the stall lacked a certain "fullness", and from the remains which survived the flush I guessed that it probably was born ill, since the color tended more on the yellow/green side of the spectrum instead than the classic brown.
The smell, though.
I could spend hours explaining to you the overwhelming joy opening the door of the female bathroom that night.
It was like I could swim inside it, merging indefinitely to its molecules, transcending myself the divine.
I stayed there seven minutes to savor it, justifying myself to the collegues with trival motivations. It doesn't matter.
I have captured that woman's essence in a small glass vial I always bring with me in case this kind of discovery happens. While catching it, I remember I couldn't wait to go back home and finally reach the climax.
It is not simple masturbation mind you, my technique is closer to tantric sex, or even a seance.
Anyway, I exit the bog completely euphoric, and my glance crosses path with the neo-mother's one. Her embarassment was palpable, and for sure smiling to her in a proud manner didn't help getting any tips. I swear there was no malice in that act, it was a sincere compliment mixed with an honest surprise.
I admit I appreciate more a woman's evacuation to the one of a man's. Or, as I like to call them, anal ejaculations.
With time I have become an expert: I can easily deduce based on color, form, compactness and quantity the sex and age of the maker of what I find. I reduced my possibility of mistake to a max of 5 years or so, I'm not joking.
It is not coprophagia.
I see chewing and ingurgitating what a man expels as a vile, and also redundant practice. No, my affection is solely limited to the sense of smell, which we are used to underestimate but it's capable of powerful mnemonic experiences.
I still remember with teary eyes that time I realized my friend Bernard, who went to France for a few years for job related reasons, was back in my restaurant where he is a usual customer.
An inveterate chainsmoker and red wine enthusiast, his feces are basically a digital print: one swollen, leonine deuce, sorrounded by a crown of intestinal crumbs caused by an almost decayed liver.
I exited the stall happy like a kid seeing his father coming back from home, and I embraced him. He's very fat, and I can tell that he has trouble cleaning himself up. He still reeked of that mesmerizing odor.
There's only one precise reason I haven't quit yet outside of a good pay, and it's the pleasure I feel cleaning the bathroom stalls.
We have a special curry-based dish which is absolutely outstanding but brings anyone who decides to eat it to inevitably eject very odorous excrements almost every single time. The "I cannot wait to sit on the throne to expel this" type. Most of the time, they cannot resist the urge.
We sanityze the services every half an hour circa, and all my colleagues love me because during my shift I always volunteer to do it even if it's not part of my duty in that particular moment.
They take it as a kindness gesture, but they have no idea that it's actually an excuse to unleash the self-diagnosed paraphilia I have for the penetrating yet cozy smell the human body is capable to release.
I've read somewhere that in those incredible occasions we inhale miasma originated from some creature's defecation, your nose is actually breathing miniscule, imperceptible particles of, well, shit.
Being aware that through my respiratory system I am in fact ingesting human feces for some reason turns me on.
I don't feel the same thing for the mainstream, vulgar scent of urination, nor for the extreme, suffocating stench of not digested, retched food.
My appreciation derives exclusively from that which escapes the ass, the most ridiculous yet fascinating human appendice.
As I said, having worked for years in the same restaurant, in some rare, beautiful occasions I have become capable of recognizing the culprit of certain olfaction masterpieces, and of course knowing the origin, the source of such works of art can add or detract pleasure from my "masturbatory sessions", as I call them.
One evening the author was this gorgeous woman: she didn't show her age at all but she was around 50 years old, elegant even if a little supercilious, in a striking but not kitsch dress.
Well, the baby she laid in the stall lacked a certain "fullness", and from the remains which survived the flush I guessed that it probably was born ill, since the color tended more on the yellow/green side of the spectrum instead than the classic brown.
The smell, though.
I could spend hours explaining to you the overwhelming joy opening the door of the female bathroom that night.
It was like I could swim inside it, merging indefinitely to its molecules, transcending myself the divine.
I stayed there seven minutes to savor it, justifying myself to the collegues with trival motivations. It doesn't matter.
I have captured that woman's essence in a small glass vial I always bring with me in case this kind of discovery happens. While catching it, I remember I couldn't wait to go back home and finally reach the climax.
It is not simple masturbation mind you, my technique is closer to tantric sex, or even a seance.
Anyway, I exit the bog completely euphoric, and my glance crosses path with the neo-mother's one. Her embarassment was palpable, and for sure smiling to her in a proud manner didn't help getting any tips. I swear there was no malice in that act, it was a sincere compliment mixed with an honest surprise.
I admit I appreciate more a woman's evacuation to the one of a man's. Or, as I like to call them, anal ejaculations.
With time I have become an expert: I can easily deduce based on color, form, compactness and quantity the sex and age of the maker of what I find. I reduced my possibility of mistake to a max of 5 years or so, I'm not joking.
It is not coprophagia.
I see chewing and ingurgitating what a man expels as a vile, and also redundant practice. No, my affection is solely limited to the sense of smell, which we are used to underestimate but it's capable of powerful mnemonic experiences.
I still remember with teary eyes that time I realized my friend Bernard, who went to France for a few years for job related reasons, was back in my restaurant where he is a usual customer.
An inveterate chainsmoker and red wine enthusiast, his feces are basically a digital print: one swollen, leonine deuce, sorrounded by a crown of intestinal crumbs caused by an almost decayed liver.
I exited the stall happy like a kid seeing his father coming back from home, and I embraced him. He's very fat, and I can tell that he has trouble cleaning himself up. He still reeked of that mesmerizing odor.
