My Steamy Story: An imagined ASMR PSA content from an ang...

My Story Time:

Okay, bestie, let me spill the tea on the most unhinged, low-key iconic moment of my damn week. So there I am, in the public gym bathroom, cap on, leggings scrunched down around my thighs, perched on this cold toilet seat like it’s my goddamn throne. My back is stick-straight, hands folded on my bare knees, and I am seething. I’m Lexi, by the way, and this is my intestinal gym.

I lean into the camera on my tripod, doing my best ASMR-PSA-from-hell whisper. “HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM,” I rage-moan, the sound vibrating in my chest. I’m explaining to my, like, three viewers how this fury is my pre-workout. “Anger is fuel, period,” I whisper, my voice tight. “This toilet is just my secondary gym. Discipline is everything.” I picture my targets from my spy missions, the chessboard queens I’ve slayed, and I channel it all right here. I’m finna turn this poop into a power move.

Then I feel it—a deep, rumbling shift. I close my eyes and think about spiking a volleyball into the sand, about the confidence of my bikini body. I push, and oh my god, the release is epic. A loud, powerful plop hits the water, followed by a fierce, echoing fart. No cap, it sounds like a goddamn cannon. This is my clapback. This is my kill shot.

My phone lights up on the sink. It’s a text from my boyfriend, who’s totally watching my live stream. The screen reads, “You’re a queen, my love.” And OMG, that just pisses me off even more, but in the best way. That “my queen” shit is like throwing gasoline on my fire. I let out another guttural groan and push harder, my whole body tensing. This isn’t just a bowel movement; it’s a goddamn declaration of war. And I am winning. Sheesh.