Lithe, brown bodies

I think the body is a funny thing. All bodies make poop, which is funny, whether it's flung into another's mouth or simply smeared on mini-blinds. Yes, it makes me laugh whether it's deposited in a bank drive thru cannister or stashed away, covered in spunk, by your co-worker, a closet fecophile.

How does this office fecophile get his poop? He reaches into the toilet tank at his accounting firm and disables the flushing mechanism. After work, he returns with a his briefcase, fine-mesh net, and a box of Ziploc bags. He collects his booty, fixes the toilet, and goes home to the cheesecloth basket hanging on a string over his bed.

The next day he moves to the next floor, a new crop of bodies clad in expensive fabric, but still generating the stuff of his dreams. Oh, how he dreams in texture and scent. He dreams of childhood, of being told "No," and longing for the day that society overcomes this last taboo.