Scat!
I'm a regular reader, so I know about the guy who shat in your bed. Thus, I know you may have considered the finer points of this situation at some point. If you have any insight, do share.
I was dating an otherwise great (and wonderfully naughty) girl for a few weeks. After one night of mildly drunk sex, I awoke early for work and spied the wipe-strategically located in the crack of the still very visible imprint of her thighs and buttocks, where earlier she had lain while I gave her very thorough head.
We're not talking the brushing-the-crayon across the paper, mild, forgivable brush, but rather a stepping-on-the-crayon-with-your-heel-and-sliding, thick, layered, 300-point Arial bold capitol "I."
Horrified, as I fled to the sanctuary of the shower, I noticed further, less-defined stripes criss-crossing the new lavender flannel sheets I had put on only two nights previous.
Damn! And, though it's not so much an issue for me for some reason, faint menses splotches were also evident, apparently for effect.
As I hurried back into the bedroom to grab my clothes and run out the door, she had risen, dressed and covered up her artwork with my blankets. I didn't mention it as I dressed and rushed out the door. (I did not have a particularly great morning that day at the library.)
We had already booked a weekend getaway for the next day, so there was no way I could escape. While I tried to keep it friendly and light, I may have seemed a bit "distant." I even put out (though on an ironic coda, she asked me to try anal for "our" first time, immediately killing whatever mojo I had managed to conjure).
We have since drifted apart. We will certainly never fuck again.
My issue: She's in all other ways a great person. Except for the ass-wiping of my bed (an off night?), I'd love to keep in touch. I just can't get over it, even though the stains came out (it took some nasty work). I mean, everybody's ass is nasty at times, but...well...ughh.
Were she actually a true friend, I'd be able to call her on it, and, as a friend should, make certain she was aware of the importance of keeping it assaliscious. But were we to continue to socialize, I simply couldn't not mention it somehow. In the meantime, I'm taking a week to respond to the "let's have coffee next week" email.
Time to just let go? Never speak again? What course of action will make the world better?
-Mark
You know, if I had left sludgy skidmarks all over my date's clean sheets, I'd definitely be embarrassed. Mortified, even. And sure, I might be too freaked out to discuss said anal leakage the very first thing that morning, but you can be absolutely certain that the afternoon would find me purchasing the priciest set of sheets I could afford. I would then wrap said sheets in fragrant paper and messenger them-along with a tuberose bouquet, a dozen scented candles and a bushel of potpourri-over to the stainee's workplace. Tucked in amongst all the sweet-smelling gifts would be a carefully crafted note of apology, expressing my extreme remorse and horror.
Then I would make absolutely certain that I never saw that person again. Ever. Even if disappearing from his life entailed quitting my job, moving to an entirely new city (on a different continent if possible), assuming a different identity and getting plastic surgery to guarantee that if-on the off-chance I did run into the man who had most likely had inadvertently gobbled my poop (ack!) whilst going down on me-he would never, in a gazillion years, recognize me.
I firmly believe that a healthy sense of shame is warranted in cases such as these. Apparently, as neither your pooper nor mine has ever issued an apology (let alone replacement linens), not everyone shares this sentiment.
Which brings me to a more pertinent question than the one you posed: Why would you even want to continue being friends with this person? I understand that accidents (even the smelly, sheet-staining variety) happen. Most can be forgiven. But if she'd come over, dropped the urn containing your mother's ashes, smashing it into a billion pieces and scattering mom's remains into your shag carpet, and then never even apologized for her clutziness, you'd banish her, wouldn't you? How is this more forgivable?
Why is it that you and I-people blessed with exemplary sphincter control-are red-cheeked and shame-faced over someone else's lapse in hygiene? We're acting as(s) though we'd spewed the doody. Why are you writing to ask me advice; don't you think she should be the one writing, asking for stain-removal tips and information on obtaining a new identity?
Keeping this woman in your life is asking for trouble. What if it happens on the sofa next time? Are you prepared to reupholster?