Our dinner, having started out as a nervous exchange of simplistic inanities, unusual since we’ve known each other for over six years now, turned into, by the time we shared a slice of cheesecake, one of the most enjoyable evenings I’ve experienced as an adult.

At first, we stumbled through chit-chat about the dubious weather. At some point, we moved on to the apparent quality of the restaurant. We mentioned the somewhat mixed reviews we’d read online compared to its appearance and the aromas we enjoyed as we were escorted to our table. We even approached that ever-sucking black hole of conversation: work (quickly deemed a taboo topic, thank God). We finally circled our way around to a biography we’d both enjoyed, A Woman of No Importance (which has nothing to do with this story, other than as good literature and a starting point).

Happily, this led to discussions of other books and films, music, and even art, though I actually know nothing of that last, and we smiled at each other and the conversation flowed and the food was delicious. I laughed at her (or with her, since she laughed too) when she tried to unobtrusively sing sotto voce in the crowded restaurant, and she laughed at me stumbling over what I had thought would be semi-intelligent comments, but obviously weren’t, critiquing art she loved.

Our first impressions of the eatery were not off the mark. Every table was covered with a white tablecloth, which set off nicely against the somewhat overall rustic look and feel of the place, along with a very pretty candle amid a floral centerpiece. The floor was clean and free of random food bits, unlike so many restaurants, and the windows had shades drawn against the streetlights and passers-by outside. Instrumental music was at a perfect unobtrusive volume. The other diners, many casually well-dressed, all appeared to be enjoying themselves as we passed couples and groups laughing and talking among themselves, though none overly raucously.

We downed citrus-flavored margaritas as we waited for our table and alternated staring at the floor and rehashing those online reviews. As the night went on, we enjoyed a glass of rosé with our salads, a glass of red with our entrees, and a Reisling with the aforementioned cheesecake. I did try to be a responsible girl and included some plain ol’ water among my beverage selections, but the only thing this accomplished was to make me need to pee. As we laughed some more, I realized that I really needed to go and I could not wait.

“Your amazing conversation has distracted me from some urgent ladies’ room business,” I explained as I stood up, still half-giggling. I wobbled as I stood and, in my hurry to get to the restroom, I sort of turned at the same time and lost my balance a bit. Fortunately for me, not so much for him, our waiter was just approaching our table again and I stumbled right into him, almost taking us both to the floor. It was all Betty could do to not let out a guffaw at my half-drunken ineptitude. With profuse apologies to our waiter, I quickly hustled to the restroom.

With every step, my urinary distress became less manageable. I was practically running, holding my thighs together, by the time I reached the ladies’ room door. Still, out of habit, I chose the stall farthest from the door because I always felt like it provided more privacy, with another stall on only one side and other bathroom users generally choosing the first available stall, while I did my business. With shaking hands, I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, siirt escort unzipped, lowered my jeans and panties, and threw myself onto the toilet seat just as I released.

My stream drilled into the toilet water below me for what had to be a full minute. Finally, my stream tapered off and my relief complete, I wiped, pulled up my pants, and returned to my friend at the table, whereupon Betty informed me she had to go now, too, so off she toddled.

We lingered over drinks after dessert, finding our conversations increasingly humorous in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol we consumed. Tequila shots were now our weapon of choice. At some point, I looked around and found the restaurant was much less crowded than it had been earlier, and with my mind off the conversation for a second, I realized I had to pee again. It was late. I assumed the restaurant would be closing soon and we’d be leaving soon, so I thought I’d better take advantage while I could.

I re-created my previous departure from our table, minus the collision with the waiter, and stumbled off to the restroom yet again. I shuffled my tight jeans down to my knees and, feeling rather relieved and more than a little tired, I actually leaned back against the toilet tank (another bit of upscale compared to other places that had only exposed piping behind their toilet seats). Fully relaxed, I let my pee flow and didn’t care how long it streamed out of me.

At some point, I realized I’d stopped pissing and as I sat up straight to get some paper and wipe, I felt another bodily urge and took my time releasing that too. I don’t remember hearing the restroom door open (or close), but just as I finished pooping, someone knocked on my stall door.

“Angie? It’s Betty,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“Uh, yeah? What’s up?” I wiped my dirty, sticky bottom.

“Open the door. Let me in.”

“In? In the stall?”

“Oh God, yes! C’mon, open up!”

“Is everything OK? What’s going on?”

“Just, really, c’mon, open it. I’m serious.”

I was so confused about what was going on. I could barely sit up straight on the commode, my brain was foggy and my head was spinning, and here was Betty wanting to come into the stall with me. Was this real? Who does this? I’ve gone to the bathroom together with other women before, but we don’t occupy the same stall, right?

There was nothing special about these stalls. I mean, they were your typical gray bathroom stalls, open above and below, so anyone could readily smell the rank odor of what I was doing there. My defecation had turned out to be no dainty thing and it had a stink to match.

“Betty, you know what I’m doing in here, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do. Anyone within five feet of the bathroom door would know. I’m glad our table is not the one just outside the bathroom hallway.”

My alcohol-laden brain couldn’t decipher what she was hinting at and couldn’t make the effort to figure it out.

“But you want in?”

“Yes! Angie, open the damned door!”

Still not quite understanding but not wanting to anger her further, I leaned forward and slid the latch to the side, making that familiar clacking noise as it hit the end. Without another word, Betty pushed the door open, slipped into the stall, and pushed the door closed again, clacking the latch back into the locked position.

Betty leaned back against the door and looked into my brown eyes as I locked onto her blue ones. After a few seconds, she slowly reached up silifke escort and ran her fingers through my red hair. I was mesmerized and didn’t think twice as she slowly slid her back down the door into a crouch directly in front of me. Her eyes were a little below mine now. She broke eye contact and slowly traversed her hand from my hair, across my chest, down my body, and with her elbow now resting near my knee, she dangled her hand into the shadowy region between my legs. Without a second thought, I pushed my jeans and panties down to my ankles. I’m pretty sure I spread my legs a couple of inches to allow her better access.

“Betty,” I whispered, “What’s going on?”

“I think you know what’s going on. And I think you’ll like it. You want it, don’t you?”

This would not be the first time I’d had a sexual encounter with another woman. I’ve known I was bi since high school. But it would be the first time I would have a sexual encounter with another woman in the ladies’ room at a restaurant as the place was getting ready to close.

“You’re right. I do want it.”

Betty extended her fingers and rubbed the back of them against the bare skin of my shaved pubic area. Slowly, she worked her way toward my pussy and ran the back of her hand down my slit and back up. She leaned forward a little and put one hand on each knee and gently pulled them farther apart. The more my legs spread, the more the meager light in the stall could shine in between them. We could almost see the soiled toilet water now.

“Slide your ass back toward the tank,” Betty ordered with a light push on my thighs.

I did.

“Yeah, that’s it, sit up straight so I have a clear view. No, keep your legs spread wide. Just like that.”

I have to admit, I wasn’t quite clear about what was happening just then. I was solidly drunk, but I knew if she wanted to feel me up or finger my pussy, my previous leaning-back position would have been more accessible. And she said she wanted a “clear view.” Sitting up like this kind of hid my pussy under my body a little.

But as my drunken brain tried to process these riddles, Betty spoke up again.

“Watch this. Now don’t freak out.”

Betty looked into my eyes one more time then down between my legs. Her right hand slid off my left thigh and into the space between my legs, but instead of reaching for my pussy, she kept lowering her hand toward the water–the stinky, nasty, brown and yellow water in my toilet bowl.

“Whoa! What are you doing?” I asked, starting to freak out a little.

“Relax, it’s okay. I’m just playing a little. You like to play, don’t you?”

I think the question was rhetorical, but regardless, I didn’t say anything more as her fingers flicked and splashed in the pissy, shitty water.

“It’s pretty warm still,” Betty informed me. “Check it out.”

“Uh, do you mean put my hand in there?”

“Yeah, why not? It won’t hurt you. And there’s a sink right out there. We’ll wash up before we go.”

She spoke like it was the most normal thing in the world. Just put my hand into the filthy toilet water. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t quite normal, but she was right about one thing: what was it going to hurt? I’ve touched my pee before and I’ve had my shit on my fingers occasionally after wiping. It’s just dirty. That’s what soap was for. It’s not like I’d be getting it on my clothes…or in my mouth.

I glanced at her and began lowering my hand toward the water, and I didn’t stop until my silivre escort fingers were an inch deep. The water was still warm.

Betty flicked her fingers again and splashed piss water up onto my wrist. I guess I was getting desensitized to the fact that I was playing in water that still had my turds floating in it–or else I was just too drunk to care–because I didn’t freak out. I just made a fake “oh yeah?” face with a stern frown and raised eyebrows, and I flicked the warm water back at her. She grinned at me and splashed me again with the piss water. This went on for a minute or so, splashing the filthy water at each other until we were wet halfway up to our elbows. There was some on my thighs too as they were still spread out to the edges of the seat. We were both smiling at each other by now.

All of the splashing around in the bowl really stirred up the pieces of shit that were floating around. I’m pretty sure I did actually touch some of it at some point, but it didn’t really register–oh, and the soggy toilet paper too, which was now fairly well shredded.

Without saying a word, Betty grabbed a piece of my poop that was bobbing in the water. She brought it up out of the bowl and held it up between us. Pissy toilet water dripped off her hand, between my legs, and back into the bowl. I stared intently, wondering what was coming next. I really had no idea.

“Have you ever touched your poop?” she asked me, softly.

“No. Not really. Not on purpose,” I answered, softly.

“It can be a lot of fun, and very sensuous,” she said, and she squeezed the poop between her thumb and first two fingers. It squished easily and rolled out around her fingers. One piece dropped off, rolled down her hand, and plopped back into the water. She began moving her fingers in a “show me the money” kind of way, and the shit lubricated her thumb and fingers as they swirled together. Another bit fell off.

“Wanna try it?”

“How did it come to this?” I thought. One minute we’re talking about art and literature and the next we’re playing in shit. Literal shit. I wondered what would motivate someone to experiment with their piss and shit. I’m certain I had never even thought about it before tonight. It’s not like I wanted to do it at some point but chickened out. It had never even crossed my mind. But now? Now I’m actually considering it. Betty made it look so…sensual. God help me, I did wanna try it.

“Yes.”

I reached my right hand into the toilet and found a piece of my shit. Ten or so minutes ago, this shit was in my body. Now it’s in my hand. I held it up like my friend had done, and I squeezed it. I smushed it with my thumb and forefinger. The next thing I knew, I had made a fist, and the shit was pushing out between my fingers. It was amazing.

Jarringly, the restroom door whooshed open and we heard a female voice: “Excuse me, if anyone is in here, we’ll be closing in 15 minutes. Thank you.” And the door slowly wheezed shut again.

As if awakening from a trance, I looked at my fisted hand with all the gooey shit oozing out around my fingers. I had a hard time pulling up my pants with only my left hand to do so. Betty gave me some assistance, also with her left hand. We finished it with a bit of a struggle, flushed, and opened the stall door. We both walked over to the sinks and used plenty of soap and hot water to clean our hands.

We left the ladies’ room together and returned to our table. Our bills were waiting for us. We both put down credit cards and waited for our waiter to take our payments. As we waited, Betty ordered an Uber. Five minutes. We sipped water in silence. The waiter took our cards, and we waited for our receipts. After he returned, we signed our receipts, stood, and walked to and through the exit.

I slipped my hand into hers as we walked toward our ride.