My wife did something to me last night and I'm horrified

I’m not even sure how to talk about this. Frankly, I almost feel a bit embarrassed spilling my guts out in such a public sphere to millions of strangers who have no means of understanding the intricacies of my wife and I’s ten year relationship.

See, I think the first thing you have to understand is that her and I got married fresh out of college. We were close friends before that, study buddies before that, and passing acquaintances even before. I’m the kind of guy who remembers that stuff; like the first time she smiled at me with those perky little dimples. I remember when she told me about how she never smiles, because she hates how her face looks when she does. I, of course, could not have disagreed more. To me, there was nothing more luminous than her face. She could’ve parted an overcast Seattle morning with a wink.

All of this to say that last night was… I honestly don’t even know. Fucking bizarre is one way of putting it. Another would be… the most horrifying thing I’ve ever experienced?

I don’t know if it’s her fault, truly. I don’t want to point fingers. I don’t know what happened but everything seemed normal that evening. Everything seemed normal when I brushed my teeth, flossed, did my whole skincare routine ever since she got me that cleanser/moisturizer kit for Valentine’s.

Hell, everything seemed normal when I got into bed with my copy of Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. She was right there with me too, paging through some illustrated reference book she’d picked up from the local branch library for the lab report she was writing. Grad school for a botanist was a bitch and a half.

“Any insights, or still more boring diagrams of flower anatomy?” I asked her, with a chuckle.

“It’s actually pretty fascinating,” she replied. “Helpful for description, mostly. I don’t know if you’d get much out of it.”

She was right, I probably wouldn’t. When I first met her all the way back in undergrad, I couldn’t comprehend staring at jungle samples all day. No, I was a THEATER major. All I cared about was getting on stage and getting the girls’ attention. In the end, it was my wife’s introverted, observational tendencies that got MY attention. She got me hooked on trying to figure out what was ticking inside that big studious head of hers. Turns out–nothing I could remotely understand. It was all endosperm and xerophytes and I tuned out the vocab lessons pretty quick. Try as I might, I never could get interested in the world of hyper-advanced, ultra-scientific gardening.

Lately, she was working with the university on some pretty weird stuff, though. They managed to get their hands on a highly rare plant that was previously thought to be extinct–straight from the unexplored regions of the Amazon rainforest. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was, but she told me that the flower was unique in that it exhibited bizarre fungal qualities. She got a little more technical with her terminology but that seemed to be the gist of it.

I looked over at her while she read the oversized volume and felt a sense of pride. I’d scored a real brainiac. I couldn’t have been luckier. I smiled to myself, turned off my night light, and turned over to sleep, rolling on my stomach to expose my back to the ceiling like I always did. My wife said good night and she followed shortly after.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the sensation of pressure on my back, a real strong pressure. At first, I thought my wife just wanted to get some in a half-conscious daze, so I mumbled something about not being in the mood, and needing to wake up early for work.

She didn’t seem to hear me, though, or if she did she ignored me. Worse, she didn’t get off.

I cracked one eye open and what I saw… well. I just don’t know if it’s something I should take to my grave or not.

Perched on my back in a squatted position, my wife was staring at me with a blank, placid smile.

“Babe…?” I murmured.

Then, I felt something warm and damp hit my back.

I realized in that moment that my wife was taking a shit on me.

I screamed and launched myself out of bed, like a bat out of hell, torpedoing myself to our connected bathroom. My wife fell off of me onto the floor with a grunt, but I didn’t care, I needed to get her shit off my back NOW, and then I needed to dispose of it before it got into the rest of the sheets.

Hopping into the shower, I scrubbed like crazy to get it off. I think I must’ve been in there for at least half an hour just hyperventilating and cleansing over and over. It was just poop, but it felt uniquely staining. I couldn’t get the image of my squatted wife out of my head. I didn’t even look at her when I got out of the shower into a towel–I just rushed out of our room as fast as possible to sleep on the couch.

In the morning, my eyes were bleary. I hadn’t slept a wink.

My wife came into our living room and made her way to the kitchen to whip up a quick breakfast. She smiled at me. “Good morning, babe. Why’d you sleep on the couch?”

I blinked a few times. Had it all been a dream?

“Still groggy, huh?” She chuckled. “I’ll make us some eggs.”

Slowly, I slithered off the couch and stared at her. “Do… you not remember what happened last night?”

She looked at me while chopping up some onions for the omelette, confused. “What?”

“You…” I trailed off. Her face seemed absolutely clueless–she had no idea what I was talking about. “Give me a second.”

I marched into the bedroom, expecting to be met with the pungent smell of poop or at least a stained bedsheet and duvet, but instead there was no trace of any fecal fuckery at all.

I was at a loss for words. There was simply no way I’d dreamt the whole thing up. I refused to believe that. I remembered the shower. I remembered screaming my way out of bed. It was all too vivid to be fantastical.

What the fuck was going on?

I’m at work right now, typing all of this up. I know it sounds completely ridiculous. Believe me, I am aware of how talking about your wife shitting on you sounds like something you’d hear on a fetish website’s advertisement for a three-way unicorn hunt but me and my wife just aren’t those kinds of people. There’s no way this is a scatological kink. And in absence of that theory, I’m… I’m just not sure.

I really am hoping for answers. And I need them before I go back home, ideally. So please, help a guy out.