Poo Rollers (pellets) Adding To The Skidmarks In Our Pants

A poo roller is the name given to a small piece of excrement that has been left behind in ones undergarments.

To be classed as a 'poo roller' the piece of excrement should be at least the size of a raisin, anything smaller and it is mealy a stubborn poo stripe or a textured skid mark. It should also be no larger than a grape as this then falls in to the category of a normal poo and would probably weigh too much to remain in ones undergarment.

For Example: At school when you had a swimming lesson (for those fortunate enough to have that facility) you would all get changed together and leave your undergarments hanging over the peg in the changing rooms. It was then common practice for children to inspect the undergarments of other children in the search of poo stripes or skid marks.

Whilst this sneaky inspection was being carried out, sometimes as the elastic on the undergarment was lowered for inspection a small piece of excrement would roll freely (sometimes high into the air depending on the undergarments elastic) and resulting in either hitting the inspector straight in the face or speeding along the ground towards other petrified onlookers.

So be warned and watch out for that 'poo roller'!

When I was at school, lessons were mainly in silence and it did not do to be seen talking to your mates whilst they were going on. Quite frankly some lessons were boring but you had to bear with it. I know I wasn’t the only boy when we were in our teens, who would find quiet ways of amusing ourselves.

I would often wait until I felt the need to poo coming on. I would then release the end of my tu*rd until it was was touching the white cotton cloth of my briefs- either white cotton Y fronts or white cotton string briefs.I would then ride it moving up and down on the seat of the chair as it scribbled on the white cotton seat of my pants.

But then at the end of the lesson I would attempt to draw it back up. And often failed. A poo roller would break off and lodge in the seat of my briefs where I would leave it to get squashed onto the cloth. The pellet would be about the size of an acorn and felt good. Normally when we got changed for games, it would remain stuck to the seat of my pants which I must admit I would hide inside my trousers. Having subsequently read so much about others boyhood interests no doubt my pants were expected too, although at the time I never thought anyone would be interested enough.

One day we were doing gym. I had not realized it but instead of leaving the nugget stuck to the seat of my pants, it must have lodged between my cheeks. All was fine until we were doing the jumping up and down exercises. Suddenly I felt it dislodge and drop out of my PT shorts between my feet. I glanced around. Nobody had seen. I went to kick it to the side under the wall bars. But I missed. And my nugget rolled across the polished floor into the middle of the gym.

Then we were told to sit down. Shortly afterwards when we were running around and to my horror, I noticed the back of one of my classmate’s white cotton gym shorts. He had sat on my poo roller and it had squashed to the back of them for all to see. Of course, others noticed and he was teased unmercilessly although his defence that it couldn’t have been his on the outside of his shorts seemed strong enough. He tried to claim he had sat on a bit of mud!

My friend’s younger brother also regularly produced poo rollers and his mother went mad when she found them about the house. Actually he was very lazy about taking a poo when he needed to, and it seemed his loose pants under his trousers played regular host to a bit which had poked out and then broken off. When it had dried it would then fall down his leg where his mother would find it. She was very tolerant of skidmarks which both my friend and his dad produced most of the time. But the poo rollers got her.

Has anyone read the book “The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman” by Bruce Robinson. Thomas is growing up with a dysfunctional family in Kent in the Fifties. And one of his greatest pleasures is to put off going as long as he can. The author has such a wonderful way of describing the feeling: “When his entrail stirred, his eyes glazed as a pulse of elation grapsed his bowel, like the hand of a ferocious angel. At moments like this his shame was ecstasy. On the best of days whole afternoons would drift by with him pole-axed. For as long as it could be held in transit, on remand, so as to speak, suffering it neither to be prisoner, nor yet free, then its enchanting authority would maintain.

There were outlaws of course, sudden rogues that motored into the gusset with inevitable consequences. Once control was lost, and a new circumstance had to be coped with. It was called the Saturday Bag- a bag which was set aside from the rest of the family laundry. It hung on a hook and featured only Thomas’s underwear.

Only an author who had experienced this pleasure could have written that!
When he was 14, anything in Thomas’s knickers but graffiti was scarce. Risk of contractions were limited to classes he loathed: literature and algebra, a duo of stultifying sh*its in competition for tedium and both on a Friday.

It was algebra on a Friday afternoon and “ he was already carrying a Shakespearian potato and the perils of another were larming.”By now his pupils were severely dilated and any notion of control was fantasy. Suddenly it half barged out, hot and uncompromising; nobody wanted it, least of all Thomas, and the worst of all worlds was reality. He was staring into the eyes of his algebra master with something so enormous in his pants under his grey flannel trousers it felt like a knee.

He is told off for inattention and then told to stand up. Thomas was facing a crisis. “He went up like an old man with grit in his joints, noticeably at a tilt. Standing for interrogation added a new dimension, he could feel the weight of it pointing at the boys sitting behind him. At all costs he had to hang on.

The master demanded that he bring his book out to the front. “Thomas didn’t answer. This was the first time he’d been totally out of control in the classroom. Standing there with this awful cargo pushing out the seat of his grey flannels put him in mind to panic.
Thomas farted with shock, and that was it. It was over, the bastar*d was out. And he gave stench like water in a jar of dead crysanths.

The account goes on. Thomas is sent to see the headmaster for a caning. On his way there he realizes that if he is caned on the seat of his trousers with a visitor in them, the embarrassment would be beyond his control. He dashes into a toilet and just as the bell rings for the end of lessons he discovers he has gone into the girls by mistake. He hides in a cubicle, standing on the toilet, his trousers and pants round his ankles, carrying something “agricultural” in its extent, until break is over.

He decided he must go home. So he goes to the cloakroom to get his cap and coat. It is all quiet there, so he lowers his trousers, and using a bicycle clip, removes the offending log and places it into another boys cap before neatly folding it over and placing it in his pocket. Thomas is free. He gets on his bicycle and rides home letting his saddle deal with any residue using the seat of his white cotton pants.

It is a novel well worth reading in any case.

Can anyone else relate to any of these experiences?

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Sep 14, 2012