TBT: The Painfully Embarrassing Thing That Happened To Me On A Date

The worst thing that ever happened to me, EVER.

What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you? Well, not to make it a competition, but I’m sure what happened to me was worse. Just read on and then whenever, like, your grandma dies, or your bank account overdrafts, you can think to yourself at least I’m not Dayna. Trust me. Your favorite high waisted shorts could stop buttoning, your girlfriend could break up with you tomorrow, Starbucks could sell out of chai lattes forever, and The L Word could cancel its reboot (LEZ FORBID!) and your life still wouldn’t be as bad as mine. Take solace in my tale of woe.

I had been seeing Vanessa* for about a month. She was cold and distant and emotionally withholding so naturally I was obsessed in love with her. We were spending a lot of time together but I never had the guts to ask “what are we?” I had really intense nerves every time we hung out, partially because she was cool, intimidating and even kinkier than me, and partially because I knew she didn’t really like me. I’m pretty sure she never even bothered to learn my last name– and I knew she was eventually going to squash me like a tiny bug (I’d def be an extra AF butterfly, or a fat worm if I was feeling ugly)– but I let it happen. Because she was 5’10”, had an ass like a peach emoji, cascading brown hair, and lit tattoos.

Our “dates” had moved from trendy Brooklyn restaurants to divey bars to her Bed Stuy bedroom. I didn’t live in the sprawling gay metropolis that is NYC so I regularly Uber-ed all the way from the suburbs of Long Island to her apartment in rural Brooklyn. I already had crippling anxiety before seeing her and I didn’t want to add parallel parking to the equation.

On this particular Saturday, I put on my new Lovehoney lingerie, packed a bright purple strap-on in my knock-off Givenchy bag (#TBT to when I topped), and dressed in my favorite black jeans and slutty shirt. I ordered my Uber. It arrived. I manically applied lip gloss in the backseat, willing the driver not to talk to me. It was an unremarkable ride…until we got off at Vanessa’s exit. My stomach started to…rumble. It’s okay, I’m just anxious, I told myself, my stomach always gets weird when I’m nervous. Then it rumbled again. Still, not too bad.

Then it started to…churn. I took some deep breaths and tried to relax. Sweat started to make its way down my forehead. Then I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. Okay, no big deal, I have to fart. Everybody farts! It’s fine. I attempted to calm myself. I can totally fart on the street before I walk in. But holding it in wasn’t working. The pain grew more intense. The pressure mounted. I had to fart in the Uber. I mean, my farts never really smell and I always tip 20%, so, like, whatever. Still, this was a huge undertaking as I’m definitely not a fart in public kind of girl. In fact, it is a deep fear of mine and I can be often found popping Gas X in the club. But Gas X wasn’t getting me out of this. It was time to fart in the Uber.

I took a deep breath. And I farted…or so I thought. Something felt…strange. Warm. Horrible. I contemplated killing myself right then and there but didn’t have any sharp objects to drag across my throat. I thought maybe I could recover from this unfortunate event. Maybe even pretend like it didn’t happen. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. But then it started to smell.The sweat was pouring down and I had the chills.  The driver cleared his throat. I shamefully looked at the ground. F*ck Brooklyn traffic! We were crawling there. He opened the window and the freezing January air whooshed into the car. It still smelled. I thought about jumping out and lying down in the road until a car ran me over and took me out of my misery– but then I remembered that I would still have shit in my pants and didn’t want to be the girl whose dead, mangled, body was found with shit in her pants. That’s totally news the Daily Mail would report. I want to be famous, but not like that.

So I had to just sit there. And pray. I prayed to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in. Please God, I don’t know how you can, but please just make this problem disappear. I will start going to church. I’ll get a husband! I mean, after I have sex with Vanessa one last time. I shut my eyes tight and did the sign of the cross. I threw in a Hail Mary for good measure. I was fully prepared to become a bible thumping Christian if only God would prove himself to be real by magically erasing the fact that I had just fully shit my pants in the back of an Uber on the way to a sex appointment with a hot femme f*ckgirl. I had to make a decision. I could ask to change the location, and have the Uber drive me all the way back to Long Island (it was over an hour drive.) But I couldn’t! He already totally knew I totally shit myself! I could just call another car the second I pulled up to Vanessa’s apartment, but what if she sees me?! And then I’d have to ride all the way back to Long Island with my, er, condition. I was far too anxious to run into a bodega and be like can I use your bathroom? I just shit myself and I still want to go hook up. And, honestly, even through this extreme trauma, I was still dying to see Vanessa. I was positively clit-matized. Not even actual shit in my jeans could keep me from seeing her. I decided that I would go to the bathroom the second I walked in her apartment, deal with it, then start believing in God.

After what seemed like an eternity, we finally pulled up to her block. I considered apologizing to the driver but instead I high-tailed it out of there like I was on fire. I walked up 6 flights. 6 flights.

I was drip sweating by the time I got to her front door, and knew that the most sane thing to do would be to turn around. I weighed my possibilities again, and leaned towards booking it. That’s when Vanessa yelled, “come in!” After I hesitated, she poked her head out the door. “Come on in, babe.” (Endearing then, but now I’m pretty sure she just forgot my name sometimes.)

I shuffled inside, wondering if it would traumatize her if I casually hung myself from her shower curtain. “I just have to run to the bathroom,” I stuttered.

Then she said the only words that could possibly make this situation worse. “No prob. Just, the toilet isn’t really flushing.”

F*ck. “OK!!!” I shouted a little too enthusiastically. I didn’t know how I was going to make it out of this alive. I accepted that I would probably never have sex again, and become one of those viral embarrassing stories on Facebook. I waddled to the bathroom. I looked at the toilet handle and tried to make it flush through telekinesis. On top of all of this, the goddamn door wouldn’t fully shut. It was do or die. I pulled my pants down and examined the evidence. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting. Maybe God was real after all. I bunched up my underwear (RIP, they were cute) and wrapped them in an entire roll of toilet paper. Then into the garbage. Thank God she had baby wipes. I cleaned myself up. Multiple times. The toilet, by some miracle, flushed. I looked in the mirror. I took a deep breath. I re-emerged into the apartment. She was busy opening a bottle of red, completely unaware of the turmoil that I had just battled my way through.

As I was going down on her later that night, all I could think about were my panties wrapped up in her garbage. I spiraled that it was only a matter of time before she’d stop moaning, sit up, look me dead in the eye, and be like I know you shit your pants on the way here. But no such thing happened. We had incredible sex, and saw each other for months afterward. After that fateful night, I went to church the next morning to light a candle, but never followed through on the husband promise. The candle burned in honor of the time I shit my pants and still got laid.