Go to Art class

After being so seriously distracted in Biology class, you know one thing: the actual effects of this world’s rules are going to take some getting used to. You decide to keep a mental log of the teachers’ peeing and pooping behavior for the rest of the school day to get an idea of what’s normal. It’ll probably distract you away from the lessons themselves, but you figure it can’t get worse than it’s already been.

After Biology, there’s Art class. The teacher, Ms. James, tells the students to draw from life, with herself as the model. She’s wearing a shirt, a long-sleeved sweater on top, casual shoes… and that’s it. You’ve never drawn a nude before, but you realize that your teacher’s current outfit, or lack thereof, would not actually be considered “nude” here. She brings a tall stool to the front of the art room, sits on its edge facing the students, spreads her left knee aside and rests her hand casually on her knee. In this naturalistic pose, she’s now openly exposing her fuzzy, though well-trimmed peach to an entire group of students; you feel a little put off by what, in your world, would be an exhibitionist pose, yet none of the other students show any kind of reaction.

“Remember, if I don’t manage to check everyone’s work at the end of the class,” she starts, “for those of you I didn’t get to, I’ll be handing out individual feedback on your work at the beginning of next class. All right, let’s get started with a basic sketch. Remember to focus on the moment,” she adds. “You may add as much or as little detail as you feel confident. Try to follow your own impression, what you feel.”

The students begin. Most start by outlining a quick pencil sketch of Ms. James’ basic anatomy—torso, head and limbs. The quicker students are already drawing the outline of her figure, maybe even demarcating her cleft of Venus and other general body parts. One or two start gently grazing the canvas to capture her fuzzy pubes. You just concentrate on Ms. James’ top half and do your best to pretend you don’t care about seeing her private parts.

Not five minutes later, you see a light amber jet suddenly shoot out from between her labia, loudly crashing onto the classroom floor onto an expanding puddle beneath. Despite having seen already more or less the same thing a few times today, you can’t help but still feel weirded out by the sight of someone you know having a dispassionate piss all over the floor. You halfheartedly scratch at the canvas with your pencil as the teacher unconsciously continues to piss like a racehorse, which a few of the students attempt to capture in their pictures, like they would draw the way the sun shines on her hair or some other innocuous detail. Some of them lay down the basic arc formed by the liquid, while others focus on the impressionistic splotch of urine as it lands.

After about a minute, as Ms. James continues her endless micturition while you do your best to clinically focus on her anatomy, a sudden fart reverberates through the room. The noise, which catches you off guard, gives you just enough warning before you see a richly colored turd sliding out from between your art teacher’s buttcheeks. You throw a quick glance at the other students, who haven’t noticed anything unusual, although one or two are fast enough to draw a simplified version of the cylindrical lump hanging off the edge of the stool before it snaps and falls, hitting the ground with a wet slap at the same time as a smaller piece of poop starts to emerge. Meanwhile, her arc of pee intermittently grows and shrinks as she unwittingly applies varying amounts of pressure on her bladder, though never much diminishing her powerful flow. There’s something vaguely “ironic”, for lack of a better word, about seeing your teacher pulling off a placid da-Vincian smirk while evacuating like a farm animal.

It takes another full minute for Ms. James’ flow to fully dwindle and her excrement to stop piling up beneath her, resulting in an impressive heap of crap in front of her stool and a wide puddle a certain distance away. Of the few women you’ve seen go so far, Ms. James seems to have the largest capacity, even larger than Millie’s accumulated turd from Biology class. Even the slower students, who hadn’t quite managed to capture the teacher’s visually dynamic whizzing and dumping, are inspired to add to their portrait a basic sketch of the massive pile and puddle on the floor. They seem to be quite good at it, too; they must have a lot of practice.

You are about to finish sketching the details of your teacher’s sweater when she announces it’s time to stop, getting up from her seat. She then goes around the room, giving critiques on students’ sketches.

“That’s great, Kara! I like the attention to detail here,” she says, pointing at a fairly realistic portrayal of her genitals. Kara beams proudly in response. “This is pretty great, Dylan,” she says, turning to another student. “I like your impressionistic approach, though you may have gone a little overboard with the urine there,” she continues, indicating the obscene amount of urine in his drawing.

The comments she makes as she goes around the room don’t appear to elicit any strange response from her students, but you can't help feeling weirded out by the way she criticizes their sketches of her pee stream, or of her dump, or her muff. She finally lands her expert eye on your own drawing.

“Hmm… Interesting. So what made you decide to focus on my top half today?”

“Oh. Um…” you hesitate, flustering.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with your decision; it’s just different. There are lots of critics who’d rather artists overcame their excessive, clichéd focus on women’s vaginas, bottoms, pee and poo. Maybe that’s something you could research as a class project.”

You are relieved to hear you don’t come off as too out of the norm. As Ms. James finishes critiquing the last student, you hear the bell signaling the end of the lesson. As you exit with the other students, you slow noticeably, feeling dread at the first signs that you yourself may need to pee soon.