I'm not trans but on Sundays after church I put on a dress and go to Cracker Barrel and wait for a mom to take her girl (8 - 10 years old is perfect) to the ladies room. Mind you I had been eating expired Hot Pockets and vodka the night before, so my ass is about to explode. I get in the next stall to the little girl, lower my panties and unleash hell. The force of the diarrhea hitting the bowl can be heard in the restaurant, the ricocheting of meatball turds in my shit sauce bouncing off the porcelain while I grunt and giggle with pleasure. But the smell, my God the smell is what does it, a virtual Pandora's box of odors as my farts crack and squeak out of my cheeks. When it's over the girl is always shaking and crying in the next stall, too traumatized to use the toilet. I let out a girlish "tee hee, can I get a courtesy flush?" and pull my panties back on (without wiping) and leave without flushing my girl-stew, my shit soaked cock rock hard in my white frilly flock and I take my time washing my hands as the shit dribbles down my legs and watch in the mirror as mom escorts her traumatized daughter out of the restroom, gagging. If they say anything I scream "TRANSPHOBE! TRANSPHOBE! TRANSPHOBE!" and chase them into the parking lot.