I like to think of Jake and I as pretty damn comfortable with each other. We’re long past the period of filling empty silences. We tell each other when we have bad breath. And we don’t bother shutting the door when going pee.
But there’s one little thing we haven’t experienced together and it makes me question our level of comfort. Or, rather, my level of comfort with him.
I haven’t farted in front of Jake.
I haven’t farted in front of any of my boyfriends, in fact. I think this is why it’s bothering me. I guess I feel like if I fart in front of Jake then it will truly make this relationship different than those other “life lessons” as I like to refer to them.
But I can’t bring myself to do it. He, on the other hand, has no qualms with the act.
If our relationship were a baseball game, he “got comfortable” around the bottom of the first inning. He’s so uninhibited with his bodily noises that he even works on the presentation of them.
He’ll lift his leg like a dog taking a piss to introduce a fart. Or give his best ballerina leap and land it with a loud eruption. Or punctuate statements with farts: “Well, this is what I think about that …!” That’s probably his least creative effort.
He asks when I’m gonna do it and I just tell him I want to but I can’t. Imagine that conversation for a minute, if you will. “Just give me a little time, OK. I promise I’ll fart; I’m just not ready.”
Aside from family members, I’ve only farted in front of one guy. And if he has a blog, I’m sure he’s shared this story on it.
It was my senior year of high school. I met a cute boy, got drunk and woke up the next morning in his parent’s bed with him—fully clothed mind you. I had a PG-13 reputation that I was determined to hold onto until graduation. But it’s the way we woke up that makes this story.
It must’ve been a really comfortable bed, maybe 800 thread count sheets or something, because I was in a deep slumber. Right as I was about to open my eyes, I let out the kind of fart that makes students crawl under their desks. It sounded like a Harley Davidson changing gears up in there.
I remember opening my eyes to an unfamiliar bedroom and taking very little time to recall why I was staring at a cherry wood dresser veiled with a white doily. “FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!” My heart was beating almost as loud as that fart. My body stiffened up and for a good 60 seconds I lay there wondering what to do next. All I could think was, “You can make one of two things: a funny joke or a mad dash.” My insecure little 17-year-old self opted for the mad dash.
After that, he called but I never answered. I imagined myself saying hello and hearing a whoopy cushion on the other end, followed by roaring laughter.
I seriously think that’s why I can’t fart in front of a guy to this day. I’ve been traumatized. By my own ass.