Friday, May 25, 2012

when can you fart in a new person's bed?

FARTING IS SO GODDAMNED SCARY. for normal adult women with healthy self-esteem and a positive outlook on life, spending the night with a dashing paramour is an exciting milestone that not only solidifies that YES THIS PERSON LIKES ME FOR REAL, but it also provides the opportunity to engage in some morning sex, if that's your kind of thing, and relax in the afterglow snuggled into the armpit of a dude who went to the trouble of hiding his nineteen pairs of identical gym shoes in the hall closet before you got there. for an over-thinking crazy person, the sleepover means a lot of internal hand-wringing and trying to mentally calculate whether or not i’m going to have to take a dump in the next twelve hours. did i feed the cat? do i have any prilosec in my bag? where is my phone charger? do i have enough cash to get a cab home if his girlfriend comes over unexpectedly? can i fucking fight?! then a lot of fidgeting and drifting in and out of sleep while wondering whether or not he can tell how much i’m snoring. after lying totally still for what feels like an eternity, finally the sun drags itself up and maybe i can convince this dude to buy me some waffles and an iced tea before i get the bus and go home to lapse into a coma because i spent the entire night mostly awake trying not to audibly breathe or wonder too hard whose weave that is all over the bathroom.

now everyone knows i'm not shy about a little shitarrhea, but farting is different. farts are noisy and unpredictable; it's like having an angry baby trapped in your butthole. i laid there listening to dude's steady breathing hoping that if i just clenched tight enough that smelly gas would reabsorb into my body and maybe kill off some of my vital organs or whatever. ANYTHING other than risk waking this asshole up with a toxic blast of moist intestinal air.

the little fart that could, a love story:

chapter 1 first i laid on my back, feeling the gut monster writhe its way through my small intestine down into the large and back again, willing it to just go away for a few hours and GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK, for god's sake. i just met this guy! stop trying to ruin my life, delicious burrito i obviously should not have eaten! i was terrified to breathe too forcefully lest it unleash its unbridled fury and embarrass me half to fucking death. it's instances such as this one that keep me convinced that i have been cursed for some bad deeds done in a former life. or is this kind of thing happening to everybody?!

chapter 2 maybe i can fart without waking him up? i could try to sneak it out, but what if it was a tuba fart? sometimes my farts sound like a short gust of wind, but other times it's like the entire brass section of the CSO is playing arnold's opus 123 in my pants. how could i be sure it would be quiet? how could i be sure it wouldn't smell like old eggs or raw sewage? what a terrible houseguest, sharting up some crisp white sheets that don't belong to me. i rolled onto my side and envisioned a little pocket of air dissipating into the ether, hoping that my body would take the hint and cooperate with some new age visualization techniques. um, yeah right. that yoga shit was NOT WORKING.

chapter 3 after what length of dating time is bed farting okay? i've known this dude for five fucking minutes; potentially shitting his fucking sheets seemed a little premature. and a lot out of the question. i adjusted my eyes to the darkness and decided that maybe i could go to the bathroom and fart in there and come back to bed without his knowing? unless, of course, i woke him up on the way out because i am a clumsy ape. after nearly falling out of the bed i burned my nipples on the radiator because i'm blind as a bat and my glasses disappeared to wherever glasses go when all you care about is getting all four of your bra hooks undone.

chapter 4 i peed while trying to quietly splash cold water on my tits, and at the end of the pee i sat and waited. and waited. and waited some more. my fart had finally gone about its business attacking my liver or whatever and, flushed with joy, i washed my hands and slid my blind ass along the wall until i found the bed and climbed back in it. homeboy hadn't moved an inch. YES, I AM SUCCESSFUL. GOOD THINGS ARE HAPPENING FOR ME. feeling the tide turn on my outlook on life, i yanked the blanket away from him and settled down to pretend to be comfortably asleep. the minute i adjusted into the position least likely to result in a cacophony of snoring the gas i thought i'd gotten the better of came rocketing from its hiding place and began to knock impatiently at my back door.

chapter 5 i got up again, this time taking care to shield myself from the sizzling radiator, and tried to find my shirt in the pile of clothes next to the bed. it was dark and I COULDN'T SEE A THING, so i was thumbing through articles of clothing going "not mine, not mine, not mine" when he moved and i froze. my worst nightmare, other than using my asshole as an alarm clock, is for a dude to think i ever want to dig through his shit. so, having located my impractical frilly date night underwear, i stood up and went to the bathroom before he sat up and accused me of trying to steal his wallet or something.

chapter 6 my new strategy was to pace. pace the bathroom and work the gas out. pace the bathroom and fart as hard as i could so that i might be able to close my eyes for five goddamned minutes before i had to wake up and pretend that i sleep nicely rather than snoring and drooling w. after a minute of this i sighed and gave up when there was no movement. "what is wrong with you?" i pleaded with my belly. "WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?" my burnt nipples were painfully raw and i tried to remember where i'd left my bag and the fancy chapstick tucked into the front pocket that i could use as a makeshift burn cream. i had no idea where i'd left it, so i tried to use the cold side of the pillow to soothe them. to no avail. them shits was crispy.

chapter 7 when the dawn came shining through his curtainless window i breathed a sigh of relief. it was only a matter of time before he'd want to get up and get his day started, and i could scramble into my dirty clothes and go outside where i would finally be free to what? what did you just say? you have morning wood that needs tending to? OH. um, okayyyyy. i quickly made a mental deal with my asshole. "listen bitch, if you can hang on to that fart for twenty minutes i promise i won't drink as much eggnog as i did last year and i will QUIT EATING HOLLANDAISE. deal?!" with a little wink she reluctantly agreed, and i steered him gently away from my back entrance.

chapter 8 at the bus stop there were a handful of other lonely losers too lame to have plans on thanksgiving day. one dude was shouting into his cell phone about getting drunk at a bar to watch the packer game while everyone else just hovered and tried not to make eye contact with anyone else. my dumb friend jeff texted me something dumb and i texted back "how many dates before a girl can fart in front of you without you acting like a goddamned crybaby about it?" the bus came and i weathered the pitying look the driver gave my day-old clothes. "HAPPY THANKSGIVING," i said loudly, because fuck her. a few minutes later my phone buzzed. "i don't have sex with girls who fart." then, a few seconds later, when i guess it dawned on him that i might be asking for personal reasons: "god, you disgusting jerk. i hope you at least let him put it in your butt.” i had not. i mean imagine what that would've sounded and/or smelled like.

an hour later i let myself into my apartment and withered beneath the gaze of my judgemental cat helen keller as she inspected my shoes and day bag. i changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed where i finally, LOUDLY, broke wind. and then i gave thanks.