The joys of scat-play

Scat is…interesting.




What is even more interesting is the fact that a year ago when I started my Dominatricing ‘apprenticeship’ I swore black and blue that I would never do scat. “I can’t stomach shit,” I said blithely, “anything but shit”. Several girls looked at me knowingly. I piously sipped from my Starbucks cup, shaking my head. “Never. I can’t even shit with someone in the adjoining room let alone let loose while someone watches.”



Either the money seemed too good to be true for the idle joy of taking a shit for someone else’s pleasure, or curiosity got the better of me. I’m always the one in my group of friends licking nine volt batteries and consuming large amounts of cake batter made with hash butter, so I suspect it was the latter, even though at the end of a shift when I’m collecting several pineapple-coloured dollar notes that were earned with yesterday’s breakfast, lunch and dinner excreted on demand, I do feel slightly smug. Is smug the word? I’m positive it is.



Let me get one thing perfectly straight. I actually enjoy my job. This includes this particular fetish. I sort of view it like this- if I earn over $100 in a single day, I’m coming out on top of whatever I’d be earning in retail. But if push came to shove, I would rather do this job for 15 bucks an hour than retail for 15 bucks at hour. In the fetish sex industry you seemed to get fucked a lot less than you do in retail. Metaphorically sucking the cock of every douchebag that waltzes into the store wearing some ill-fitting suit expecting to be fawned over is far worse than actually sucking the cock of an individual who has just showered using soap, and put a condom over the end of his knob. Anyone who says otherwise is delusional. Cock is hardly ever bad. Retail is consistently terrible. There is a lack of self-worth that belongs to anyone who has to pander to the demands of an obsequious middle-management failure that drinks shit filter coffee and uses red dots and shiny gold stars to document the progress of his weekly budgets. Was that a little specific? Is my bitterness showing? Is JB Hi-Fi going to sue me? Is JB Hi-Fi going to admit they drove a sensitive soul such as me, into shitting for money? Needless to say, sex work is far more becoming that drudgery in an office. For one, I can wear heels, and my boss doesn’t have short man syndrome.



I was supposed to be talking about shit, wasn’t I? Well technically I still am, I’m just spouting bullshit as opposed to joyous declarations of the love of TURDS. WHO DOESN’T LOVE AN AWESOME BROWN SHOWER NOW AND AGAIN? YOU DON’T? OR YOU WANT TO LEARN THE LOVE? READ ON, MY FRIENDS.



It is far harder to master the art of scat-play than ANYONE IS WILLING TO ADMIT. You require not only a strong stomach but a fairly substantial diet change, and for someone like me that lives off drinking shit beer, eating imported candy products and whatever Dominos will deliver between 5 and 11pm, this is a BIG CHANGE. Anyone who has ever watched any scat porn will know that there is SO MUCH SHIT inside some of these girls, which reminds me of every asshole retail manager I ever had (except Rene, hi Rene if you’re reading, you’re rad), but it flows and flows and flows and it’s amazing. They cover whole beds! They fill entire diapers in ten seconds! People choke and bathe in the stuff. HOW CAN SO MUCH SHIT COME FROM ONE CUTE TIGHT LITTLE ASSHOLE? Does anal bleaching really do that? Maybe. My ass isn’t bleached, being a white girl who fails at growing body hair, so I do a cute little turd that sometimes curls like a little ‘S’ in the toilet bowl and that’s it. So to get bigger turds? You need to eat FIBRE. FIBRE FIBRE FIBRE. Unfortunately fibre gives me the worst gas ever and it’s not even the gas I can fart out and dutch-oven my boyfriend with, its just rumbly stomach evil that happens to reabsorb itself into my intestinal lining or something. I belch sometimes. I suck at farting and definitely can’t do it on demand. Every now and then I let out this pathetic little squeaky fart and my brother looks up at me from his position on the floor of my lounge room to sigh and say, “was that it?” After he finishes patronising me by farting such filth into the air even the cat wakes up, glares and stalks out, I go back to reading about nothing on Wikipedia and he goes back to making garbage angels on my lounge room floor out of beer cans and pizza boxes.



But it’s not just the act of the turds. Clients can be very demanding! They want a particular texture, a colour, no smell, extra smell. And considering they’re paying a small fortune you sort of have to pander to their preferences a little bit. And by a little bit, I mean as much as you can, because being a cunt to a client is great if they’re paying you to be a cunt but if they want a nice sweet girl who just spanks their ass a bit or shits on their chest, in the case of this fetish, YOU DAMNED WELL DO IT or you find out some other girl has stolen all your clients. Nevertheless, it’s fairly easy if your stomach is WELL BEHAVED. Mine is not. I am lactose intolerant. This means I either projectile vomit (and oh yes, there’s a fetish for that too) curdled milk products about twenty minutes after I consume them, or I shit out an impacted turd the size of brick garden paver that tears me a new asshole a week afterwards.



Neither is preferable, funnily enough.



You can take chlorophyll tablets to stop the smell considerably. Also eating a diet very low in additives and containing no meat or dairy will lead you to have fairly inoffensive turds. Keep in mind it’s still a turd, you can’t take a shit in a bowl and show people and expect them to look at you like you’ve just given them a bowl of diamonds. Look at cows. They eat grass, they shit, and their shit, while less vile than cat shit (or puppy shit, as we found out at work the other day when another girl brought in her puppy and he decided to lay some cable in the dressing rooms) is still SHIT. So be realistic. Ever heard the term “you can’t polish a turd”? Well guess what? You mightn’t be able to polish the damned thing, and neither can you roll it in glitter and try to pass it off as a gay-pride vegetarian spring roll. It’s shit. It’s always going to be shit.



Eating lots of beans will make your turds pretty much Teflon coated. This is a term my brother coined about a decade ago and has stuck with us ever since. These are the turds that, in my limited experience, most scat clients prefer. It’s the perfect little 20cm long turd that looks neat, smells minimally but can be broken up if they get the sudden urge to rub their faces in it (or if I get the same urge, and they can’t get away from me fast enough). If you do this turd in a toilet, you try to wipe and nothing is there, and you look in the bowl and there is nothing there either. You are then left to sit there and contemplate whether or not you really did take a shit or if you were just hallucinating the entire time, and if you’re a bit under the influence as I can be on weekends sometimes it really does fuck with your mind.



Shitting on demand is also something some clients believe we can do. Believe me, we are not those cute little reindeer toys where if you stick coins in one end and pull their tail a jellybean turd appears. You stick coins in either of my ends and I will give you an injury to the frontal lobe of your brain with an ice-pick. So people need to book in advance to get a good quality turdlet on their chest- that’s a bit of a given, really. That’s all well and good. But that’s not where the difficulty lies. There is so many variables after the client has made a booking that you really do wonder where in high school you went so far off the beaten track that you realised taking a shit in your favourite undies while a guy beats off to it was really a better option than studying medicine at Monash. It was probably while I was boxmunching in the carport of my girlfriends brother. It’s a slippery slope. Well, it is, if you’re munching it correctly.



Noooo. The difficulty lies in the logistics.



Logistics, you say? Beside the obvious pun you get when you steal the first three letters of that word, what the fuck could be so hard about taking a shit for some guy in a dungeon at 12pm on a Wednesday afternoon? LITTLE DO YOU KNOW. WELL, YOU ARE GOING TO KNOW SHORTLY, BECAUSE I AM KIND ENOUGH TO TELL YOU.



Sometimes they want you to shit in underwear. Squatting, crouching, standing, hanging upside down like a monkey, who fucking knows, but they paid you to do this so shut up and do it. Would you rather be sorting socks at k-mart? No. Of course not. That’s the most demeaning and horrible job in the world. So get on with it, petal. Sometimes they want the texture of it. Some of them like watching your butthole gape as you push your little Teflon-coated turd out, but are revolted as soon as you starts coming out so you need to scamper forward like some sort of prairie dog (ever wondered where the term ‘prairie-dogging it’ came from?) so you can shit on a designated towel, maybe on their chest or stomach, or by some amazing sphincter muscles and some prayer to a fetishist deity you can somehow get it back up your butt for next time.



There is also the stark reality of it. Porn is fun. Porn is good. You watch porn and you see some chick that is smeared in her own shit, but somewhere in the back of your head you go, ‘oh, its chocolate syrup’ (protip: it usually isn’t) and you can’t smell it or feel the texture. So a guy comes in all heave-ho (haha heave the ho! …SORRY, don’t throw your prostitutes around, we really hate it) and asks for a shit planted neatly on his chest.



It usually goes great until the smell hits them; they blow all over their underwear at the first touch as the mere idea of reliving their favourite porno moment, and reality sets in. Five seconds ago you have a hot girl on top of you wearing no underwear and you had your dick all nice and hard in your hand and life was awesome. Now the room smells like rancid curry, the chick is stepping off you and you’ve got a steaming little turd sausage nestled amongst your greying chest hairs. And your wallet is three hundred bucks lighter. FUCK YOUR LIFE.



There is also the issue of sheer biology. If someone requests a brown shower on short order, sometimes an enema is the only thing to get that happening. Most healthy digestive systems run the same, there is no shit stored in your rectum and there is usually minimal in your colon at any one time if your system is working correctly. So a micro-enema is going to sting your asshole thanks to the active ingredients BEING VICIOUSLY POTENT SALT (the enema apparently acts as a hyper-osmolar agent that draws water from your large intestine into the contents of your colon. Chances are, the ingredients are so irritating to your asshole that you want to shit five seconds after shoving it up there and all you get is a nice dose of foaming enema agent on the dude’s chest. Oh, and by the way, it’ll sting your skin too. You know why? Because I’m of the belief it’s made out of ant-rid or something. DON’T USE MICRO ENEMAS. I would rather stick an 8in butt-plug up the ass of a guy with an impacted colon and spend two hours getting the smell of shit out of my hair in the clean-up afterwards than ever expect a client to use one of those micro-enemas. This goes against what every other Mistress I know does, but I bet very few of them have used those godforsaken things, and they are there in existence to prove that life can indeed be cruel. I sucked a wasp up a straw from a bottle of Fanta once and it stung my uvula, and I would rather do that again than use those fucking micro-enemas.



A proper enema is the next option if someone is really jonesing for the contents of your large bowel. This is when several bags of water are slowly drained into your butt and you hold it for as long as possible and then shit it out. If I don’t already need to shit before I do this, I usually shit brown coloured water and maybe three little turdlets that look suspiciously like piercing jewellery I’ve swallowed recently. Once I shit out not one but two 5c pieces. Another time I shit out a small four-top piece of red lego. Yeah, I just said the word turdlets. More to the point, I’m a 23 year old adult and I just admitted to not only swallowing Lego BUT SHITTING IT BACK OUT. But honestly, if that’s going to be the thing that tips you over the edge and makes you hate me, I really didn’t want you as a friend anyway. TRUE FRIENDS LET FRIENDS SHIT ON THE CHESTS OF STRANGERS.



After mastering this art of scat play, I immediately went out to celebrate. “I finally shit on someone’s chest!” I announced at Taco Bill on a Thursday night. “It’s time to celebrate! I’ve made it as a professional fetishist! My dad is gonna be so proud!” Two fishbowls (read: 30 shots) full of cheap, nasty tequila and half frozen lemon cordial, three huge bowls of dodgy nachos and a chilli taco later, I was hunched over the toilet bowl , simultaneously shitting liquid and rocketing stomach acid not only out of my mouth and nose, but up through my tear ducts (it’s all connected). Crying stomach acid is not the best way to start a Friday morning.



Needless to say, after coaxing my sphincter into allowing itself to open while hovered over a dude furiously jerking himself off while telling me to “shit, bad girl, take that big dirty shit on daddy’s chest”, I can now shit without fear of recrimination or ridicule in public toilets. I used to wait until no one else was home to let fly so this is a real development. I suspect it’s because if anyone glares at me after using a toilet for what it is actually designed for in public, I smile at them while mentally shitting into their handbag. Only mentally? Before anyone starts thinking of all the horrible revenge things I’ve ever done involving, you can rest assured I’ve only ever participated in one act of turd-terrorism, wherein I convinced a friend to shit in a mutual acquaintances Milo tin as a response to having our shoes filled with water and frozen in the chest freezer in his shed after a big night at his house. Why? Think about it. How often do you check your tin of milo after a big party? Most people only drink Milo when they’re cold and lonely on a Friday night twice a year while watching Love Actually. Which makes it easy to bury in there and forget allllll about it. Note: I don’t drink Milo anymore.



Other notable acts of revenge on people who I suspect to be deserving of some of the most vicious turd-terrorism include gluing their rubbish bin lid down on bin night before it was emptied, and fucking their sister.



Regardless to say, there was no poo involved with either of those, except the “You did what? Oh no, SHIT, you fucking moll,” when they realise what has happened. But that doesn’t count.



You’re welcome. Happy turd-burgularing.



XOXO, Emme.