For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain psychological precondition is indispensable – intoxication – and a certain behavioural precondition is essential – obsession.
A few nights ago, uncharacteristically, I was alone. That condition was deliberate. Throughout the day, though busy sucking cock, licking and tonguing yummy butthole, and getting fucked, like usual, I was schizophrenically simultaneously submitting to the ineluctable crescendo of urges to befoul myself with my pee and my shit.
From the earliest morning, this enthralment of filthy desire took on a different fulfilment than usual. I usually drink all my pee and eat all my shit. That day, I arose feeling deliciously compelled to pee in my pants. I often purposefully pee and shit my bed, but that day had a plan of its own, and I followed willingly along. That aspect of my personality that thrives on and revels in filth took command. The other aspects of my personality, arguably the more sensible ones, surrendered to the prevailing mandate.
My pants, more like pyjama bottoms, loose and baggy, but suitable as well for wearing out and about, were perfect. I never wear panties unless I am specifically dressing up for an occasion. These baggy cotton pyjama bottoms permitted the pee to flow freely down one pant leg or the other, depending on which side of the centre seam of my pants my tiny sissyclit happened to be pointing. I have to sit to pee, because my clittie is too small to aim towards the toilet. I sit, and much of the warm pee just flows over my tight balls. Precisely because I never pee standing up, I thought it would be fun. I went out to my patio deck, a concrete slab, spread my legs, standing, and peed in my pants. The pee flowed over my balls, down one leg, and onto my foot. The feeling was so, so good.
I always drink lots of fluids, all day, mostly water, San Pellegrino, and tea, unsweetened, with a little raw milk. The volume of my consumption of fluids necessitates the elimination of an equal volume of pee. That day, because it felt so good to pee my pants, I drank more, and peed more. I alternated which side of that centre seam my clittie was on, alternating the leg the pee went down. All day, between pees, my pants were wet with pee. The smell got better and better, more and more ripe.
And then there was the shit. I shit less often than I peed, of course, but more often, it seemed, than usual. I also shit standing up, out on my patio. The shit just filled the deep, deep crack between my butt cheeks. I am a lifelong faggot, long, as well, on feminising hormones. I have been fucked so much for so many years, my gaping, usually cum-filled fagcunt is buried deep within my well-rounded, feminine ass. That ass, inches deep, can accommodate lots of warm shit, pressed comfortably between its plump cheeks.
I would shit, standing up, then casually scoop out the shit with my hand, from which I would eat it. I did not wipe myself. I never do. I just scooped out what shit I could easily, leaving the rest. The smell of the lingering shit together with the smell of the pee combined to create a fragrance that was intoxicating. Often, throughout the day, overwhelmed, I would wet my hands in the pee of my pee-soaked pants, then shove all of the fingers and the thumb of my hand deep inside my sissiepussie fagcunt. I would then bring my hand to my nose, inhaling deeply, sucking on my fingers, before wiping my hands on my t-shirt.
I did not clean up between blowjobs and fucks. The many regulars who come to me know of my fetishes. I drink their pee, too, and eat their shit, whenever desire and time allow.
All day, after countless pees, and numerous shits, the level of my pee and shit bliss was such that I was cast into a state of ecstasy. Outside, I continued to pee. My shit play, though, was moved inside in front of my bathroom mirror. Instead of simply swallowing my shit, I kept it in my mouth, and played with it with my tongue. I swallowed my shit saliva, but I kept the shit in my mouth, working it, revelling in it.
This went on into the middle of the night, when I shit onto a slab of thick glass which I keep for the purpose of receiving and consuming shit in front of a mirror. That pile of shit was beautiful. It smelled sublime. I was beyond ecstasy by then. I was in a state of euphoria. I held the sheet of glass to my face, and buried my nose, lips, and chin in it. Looking into the mirror, I could see my shitty face through the glass. I kept it there. I breathed in the shit. I licked it with my tongue. Then I lapped it up, one tongue-full at a time, savouring it in my mouth, then swallowing it.
With my face full of shit, my shirt wiped with shit, my pants soaking with pee and shitty in the crotch, I went outside for a walk, a walk of about two miles I often take later in the morning, and not in this condition. Of course, I did not anticipate encountering too many people, neighbours and others, but there would be drivers-by. I continued to pee intermittently, while walking and while standing still. Much to my glee, I felt yet another shit coming on. I stuck my hand in my ass, in and out, in and out, as deeply as I could. It was coming, but not there just yet. I continued to walk.
About fifteen minutes from home, on my way back, that last load of shit finally made its appearance. I paused, right there on the footpath, to catch it in my hand. It filled my hand. It was too much to stuff into my mouth, but I tried. I opened my throat, and managed to get most of it in. I could barely close my mouth. To accommodate it better, I swallowed some, then some more. I wanted it to be comfortable in my mouth for the rest of the walk home. I wiped my hand on my shirt, and continued to walk.
There was shit all over my face from my nose down. I must have appeared a mess. I loved it. Everything worth keeping in one’s life is worthy of obsession. There are only obsession and mediocrity, and I cannot, do not, allow mediocrity. Nearly twenty-four hours had been devoted to pee and to shit. Cock and cum were not the priority. That is rare, but welcome when it comes.
By the time I reached home, I had eaten the rest of the shit. On the slim chance that I might bump into one of my immediate neighbours, adding a shitty face to whatever offence my regular stream of male guests might have aroused, I wiped with my hand what I could, then wiped the rest with my t-shirt. Inside, I ran a hot bath, threw in my soiled clothes, swishing them around to relieve them of their primary foulness, the pee and shit, then wrung them out, tossed them in the sink, and lowered my wonderfully filthy body into the filthy water. The warmth of the water relaxed me. Before I let go entirely of that episode of schizophrenic excess, I got on my knees, and, one last time, peed into the bathwater. Then, submerged up to my neck, tired, sleepy, happy, so very, very happy, I shit into that bathwater, too, one last time. Lying in that warm mix of pee and shit, the last turds floating on the surface, I felt that I had died and gone to heaven.
Life does not give itself to one who tries to keep all of its advantages at once. As both a fully committed, full-time cockwhore, cumslut, sissy faggot, taking all cocks and all cum, neg and poz, without restraint – and an uncompromising devotee, connoisseur, practitioner of the art and culture of filth appreciation, adoration, veneration, especially shit – my choices, my sacrifices, have been made, my obsessions made clear.
