The Dreaded First Date Fart

I don’t think women give credit to men for the amount of work they put into first dates. Think about your boyfriend/husband now, then think back to your first date.  Did he burp? Did he mindlessly zone out as you talked endlessly about your job and how Carol in Accounting is such a bitch? Did he play on his iPhone instead of discussing important matters, like should we paint the bathroom chartreuse or beige? No! He didn’t do any of those things, but he does now, so what happened?  

 

I’ll tell you what happened! What happened was he was displaying the absolute best version of himself on your first date, in hopes of capturing your heart, and by that I mean, he was trying to get laid! Would you fuck a guy that burped after each swig of beer? Would you give the guy that droned on about how Tom Brady was a system quarterback a blow job? Better yet, would you ride a guy hard following an epic fart of magnificent quality with both an elevated volume and eye-watering stench? Absolutely not!  

 

So there I was, sitting in the car of a beautiful woman following a great date.  We laughed, we got deep, we laughed at our own shallowness (I mean, seriously, could Sarah McLaughlin be more self indulgent with those puppy commercials).  We had so much in common,  she was a minimalist that disliked clutter, just as I was a minimalist that disliked clutter.  She liked to write, I like to write. She was funny, I am under the impression I am funny. She had big boobs, I like big boobs, and based on the absence of an adams apple, I had to assume she had a vagina, and I happen to like vaginas very much.  and I was about to verify with absolute certainty that she did, in fact, have a vagina.  

 

So there we are, telling stories and laughing at each other’s jokes.  We had already made out with some high school petting above the clothes, all I had to do was keep making her laugh and show interest in whatever the hell she was talking about and I was sure to be balls deep by nights end.  

 

Then, it happened! I had the bubble guts. In hindsight, wearing tight jeans and a belt was probably a bad idea, especially considering our dinner of Stella Artois and cheesy pizza, but I digress.   All I can focus on are the bubbles building up inside my tightly-wrapped-in-denim ass. I shift my weight but it does nothing to alleviate the pressure building up inside. I sit so I can clinch my butt cheeks. I am uncomfortable and starting to panic. Sweat is forming on my brow and I try to form a plan that doesn’t exist. 

 

Eventually I found a good position whereby I could engage with this buxom vixen. I relaxed a little, the sweat on my forehead dried, my heart rate slowed to a steady rate, I managed to escape the misery an impending blowout of my ass. Okay, I'm good now, so Operation Get Her Naked is back underway!  

 

The conversation went on and all was pleasant, until she made a joke.  It was a funny joke.  So good, in fact, that I did what everyone does when something is funny....I laughed. With the force needed to project my feelings of being humored also came the force necessary to force an entire night of beer and pizza induced gas out of my tightly denim wrapped ass (I know, I made the reference earlier, but I gotta tell you, my ass looked gooooood).  It wasn’t a long and drawn out fart that would garner the commendations and accolades from my fellow man, but rather, a short, quick burst, kinda like 76' Impala backfiring. BAM! The demonic dairy and beer fueled demons had been released into the world through the gateway of my ass, my tightly-wrapped-in-denim ass (seriously, you'd be impressed). 

  

I glanced at her as soon as I felt the bubble of shit force its way out like a football team coming out of the tunnel, nothing but madness and violence!  Wait! She's still talking! She never skipped a beat! Apparently, my fart was masked by my laugh and she hadn't even noticed. Surprising considering the forceful nature in which I nearly shit myself felt like I might be bleeding, but I'll take it.  I escaped the first stage of the accidental fart, just had to get past the second stage – the smell.   

 

Sonofabitch it smells! It doesn’t just smell, it fucking reeks! I mean, a night of beer and cheesy pizza makes a stench that, if perfected and contained and placed inside a missile, would cause an entire nation to crumble to its knees and beg Allah, God, Yaweh or whoever for forgiveness of whatever horrible sin they committed that resulted in this inhumane biological warfare.  Atheists would just cuss a lot.  

 

I panicked! The fuck do I do? She’s in the middle of a story! Shit! Maybe she wont smell it! Bullshit, the people in the car on the other end of the parking lot can smell it, and I'm pretty sure there's a green glow around the car visible from space.  Maybe she’ll act like she cant smell it! The fuck? This is the type of stench you cant NOT acknowledge. In fact, I would go so far as to put this stink in the pantheon of stinks, right next to a decaying corpse lying in raw sewage behind an Indian restaurant.  What do I do? I could open the door and run, but how would I explain that? I could roll down the windows, but its 23 degrees outside.  Who does that?  Uhh, fuck….I know, KISS HER! My good looks, charm, and passion will surely distract her from the death slowly emanating through her sporty little two door coupe.   

 

 I leaned in and kissed her! Not passionately, but rather, awkwardly! I was kissing her and still smelling my own ass! How can you concentrate when the stench is so horrible that it actually changed the temperature of the air around you? So I leaned back and stared at her with a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face. She could see the panic in my eyes and, God bless her, grew concerned and asked, “Whats wrong?” I just stare at her and waited for the nerve gas to hit her.  All of a sudden, her head flies back as if smacked with a baseball bat and I know that she's been doused. Trying not to breathe, she manages to say, “YOU FARTED!”  

 

At this point there's no denying it.  I couldn’t blame the dog, or a nearby refinery, or a dead carcass under the car. I had to own it.  In hindsight, I suppose I could have blamed her, but that would deter my quest for naked-time even more.  That would only play out in one of two ways. 1. She would know it wasn’t her and be offended that I tried to blame her, or 2. I convince her it was her and she is so embarrassed that she halts the date, speeds home and cries herself to sleep.  Either way, I'm not getting laid.   

 

All I can do is burst into laughter! I immediately throw the door open and start laughing hysterically.  I cant stop laughing. The coolest part? SHE started laughing too! Fuck yeah! I tore ass in her car and filled her personal vehicle with the raunchiest smell in the world and she's fucking laughing! We laughed for the rest of the date! We'd try to talk and we'd just start laughing. We tried to kiss and we'd just start laughing. We said goodbye and we'd just start laughing. I drove home alone and I was still laughing. I get into my bed and I'd just start laughing.  

 

No, I didn’t get laid that night, but the truth is, the moment she started laughing at my indiscretion, she went from someone I wanted to fuck to someone I wanted to respect and get to know better.  Any chick cool enough to laugh at a first date fart that caused her eyes to bleed is worth a second, third, and possibly fourth date.  Respect!  

 

LESSON FOR THE LADIES: Guys are guys.  We are disgusting. We make noises with our bodies.  You already know this so ease up on the expectations of perfection and laugh at the things that make us the sex that we are.   

 

LESSON FOR THE GUYS: Take a shit before the date, stay away from dairy, and avoid tight fitting jeans (unless your ass looks really fucking good in them).