D.F.T
Gotta hold it in, gotta hold it in!
The thought races through my head as the man sitting shyly on the edge of my bed begins to speak.
“Hey, that was fun. You know, I normally don’t do things like this.” I nod absently at him, still rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor, looking for his t-shirt.
“Yeah, well… first time for everything, I guess,” I reply. Gotta hold it in, just a little bit longer…
“Well, maybe I’ll call you some time?”
I hand him his shoes (one under the bed, the other inexplicably resting on top of the dresser).
“Sure, why not.” I smile tightly. Would you get OUT of here already…Can’t hold it in!“Okay. Well. See ya’ around.” I nod again, gently herding Jim (Or possibly Alex) out the door. As I slam the deadbolt behind him, I lean against the door with a sigh of relief.
“BRRROOOOOTTTT.”
Thank God. I totally had to cut one.
* * *
I’ve come to the conclusion that there needs to be a “Designated Farting Time” for those of us in the post-coital condition. I don’t know what happens to the body during a night of hardcore monkey sex, but christ, does it make me fart.
I excel at kicking guys out of my place so adroitly (and quickly) that they’re still asking “Was it good for you?” before they realize they’re standing cold and naked on my front porch. But sometimes—just sometimes—I’ll let the fellow stay the night. This inevitably leads to awkwardness.
I’m not big on the whole “make love to me, talk about your feelings and hold me in your arms while I drift off to sleep in a sea of your love” thing. But even a casual cuddle is impossible when you’re desperately clenching your buttocks for all they’re worth, trying to keep a potentially room-clearingly noxious gas bubble in its place.
There’s generally a little tooting space following a fuck, when one of you hits the can for condom disposal or the “my-doctor-said-I-wouldn’t-get-urinary-tract-infection-if-I-pee”. But that moment can backfire on you, especially in a very small studio apartment (such as my own), or in a place with rather open/faulty acoustics (such as my own). You think you have time to slowly let one off in small, strategic bursts—next thing you know, Brrrrrrrrrrpppppp. Frrrrrrrrooooot. A machine gun just went off in the apartment.
I say we it’s time to abandon the embarrassment. We’re modern adults, educated and open. We ask about sexual history in a mature and knowledgeable fashion. We insist upon condoms and birth control. We are intelligent and sensitive lovers, locating clitori and manipulating prostates with ease. So why can’t we admit that after a round of championship sport-fucking, we really have to fart? Do I really need to feel cramped all night just to placate every guy on the planet who thinks chicks fart delicate, sweet-scented clouds of tulip petals and incense?
Thus, my call for The Designated Farting Time: an agreed-upon moment for both parties to turn away from each other, pretend they’re all alone (albeit naked, damp, and possibly sticky) and just let one loose.
No comments about volume, intensity or aroma of bodily effusions allowed. You’re gonna cut one, I’m gonna cut one, and then we go back to schtupping, spooning, or (if you’re me), pretending we’re asleep until the other person gets the hell out. Instead of feeling embarrassed, we take it as a compliment. “Wow, I totally re-arranged the plumbing there!” or “Damn, I gut-banged the hell out of that!”
So this is my call to arms! Write your congressman, lobbying for whoopee cushions in sex education classes. Start a “Million Fart March.” Come out of the shadows, forget your shame, stop clenching that ass and start tapping it!
It’s all about the freedom, kids. The freedom, The fucking and the farting.
God, that’s gonna look great on the posters.