Once-upon-a-time in those hazy student days, one of our flatmates managed to combine pulling with enhanced inebriation (strangely concordant phenomena back then). But back at her place, amour be damned, he desperately needed a cheeky poo, so made his excuses and staggered to the bathroom, sat down, opened the bomb bay doors, and promptly passed out, in the process tumbling off the loo.
Anyway, there he was on the bathroom floor the next morning, trousers down, arse outwards and still mid-motion. One of her other flatmates walked in on this, erm, spectacle and screamed 'there's a man on the bathroom floor doing a poo.'
You have no idea how much he came to regret sharing this story.