[ed. note: this post marks the first contribution (of many!) from our sex columnist extraordinaire, Tracy Pope. Enjoy, indulge, and maybe don’t pass these entries along to your grandmother]
Rosie* has boyfriends. Always. For as long as I’ve known her, falling in love, getting married and having babies was at the top of a very long list of priorities. She’s a good girl. There’s not a mean bone in that woman’s body. She has a genuine kindness and an air of innocence about her that makes people adore her. She’s teeny tiny, has big brown eyes and hair that belongs in a Pantene commercial, not in real life.
One of my favorite parts about her is her ability to shock you. Sure, she’s insanely organized and a little uptight but she’s also flighty and spontaneous. When our girls get together to have cocktails, Rosie will blush and balk at some of the stories being traded at the table but in her next breath, reveal that she’s had not one, but two threesomes in her life.
James* had been Rosie’s boyfriend for going on six weeks now and she really liked him. He was everything she wanted in a man: handsome, smart, kind, funny and successful. He was damn near perfect and Rosie didn’t want to do anything to show James that she was less than.
It was date number twenty-four and Rosie knew this because she tracked their dates on her calendar. Rosie would call that ‘attention to detail,’ not ‘weird’ like the rest of us. Date number twenty-four consisted of window-shopping, viewing some dumb chick flick that James pretended to pay attention to and a late lunch at Rosie’s favorite neighborhood cafe. By the time they got back to her apartment, they were both beat – Rosie from trying to be the most perfect girlfriend in existence and James from losing at least a hundred brain cells from that horrendous Katherine Heigl movie Rosie dragged him to – so they decided to take a nap.
James fell asleep quickly with Rosie wrapped around him like a koala bear and was soon softly snoring. Five minutes in, Rosie was concentrating on making sure her head wasn’t adding too much pressure to his chest. Fifteen minutes in, she was wondering whether or not she could tolerate the pins and needles in her leg so as not to disturb James’ afternoon slumber by shifting. Twenty minutes in, she was pretty sure her leg was going to have to be amputated. Twenty-five minutes into naptime, Rosie finally was able to (sort of) relax and began to drift off to sleep. She was right in the sweet spot between consciousness and unconsciousness when it happened.
Rosie froze, completely paralyzed in fear. That. Did. Not. Just. Happen. She did not just blast a massive fart all over the man of her dreams. She held completely still, not breathing, listening intently to any sign that James had heard and/or smelled her demon fart.
He was breathing slow and steady. Good. Still snoring. Better. And he hadn’t moved at all. Safe. They had both survived Rosie’s first revealed imperfection and James (thank God!!) hadn’t even been conscious to witness it.
Another twenty minutes later, Rosie was profusely sweating, still frozen in fear, and coiled around James, dead left leg and all. She began to contemplate if the fart had somehow penetrated James’ subconscious and even though he hadn’t reacted in any detectable way – he just KNEW she farted – and would promptly break up with her as soon as he awakened. Right before she was about to straight up lose her mind, James began to stir.
“Mmmmmm…good nap, Rose?”
“Oh, yeah. Uh huh. Slept like a baby.”
James, heady from the nap, rolled over and started kissing her. He quickly removed her clothes and then shed his own. She was lying on her back naked as James came down to all fours, hovering above her, taking in the sight of her naked body. He leaned down to kiss her again and Rosie went to wrap her legs around his body to pull him closer but her left leg lay there lifeless. Dead weight. Her right leg was running over his toned ass and thighs but her left leg just would not budge. Dammit. Her handsome boyfriend wanted to have sex and she wasn’t going to ruin that moment because of a fart that echoed in her ears or her stupid leg that just wouldn’t fucking move!!
So, Rosie mustered up all her strength, tightened her abs and once she felt a flicker of life in her limb she threw all of her weight into wrapping that leg around her perfect man and his perfect ass. And then it happened. Again.
It was soft but it was audible.
This time, instead of freezing in fear, Rosie’s instinct was to move right through it. Keep going. If she never skipped a beat to acknowledge it, the fart never happened. Lots of noises happened before and during sex. It could have been anything. Not at all the release of gaseous air onto her prince charming for a second time in one day. In less than two hours.
James kept the show moving right along with her. Positions happened. He came.
She faked it, of course, considering she was having an out of body experience and was still back on the bed laying naked gathering her strength to lift her leg and fart on her boyfriend. Again.
One emotionally blacked out sexual experience later, Rosie lay in James’ arms curled around his body and having a full-blown panic attack but masking it as exhaustion and elated afterglow.
He had sex with her. Surely he would have paused and commented about the fart if he had heard it. Everything was fine. He hadn’t heard anything. Rosie sent up a silent prayer and counted her lucky stars that James slept like the dead and had the hearing abilities of an eighty-year-old man. Whew. Crisis averted.
“Remember when you farted on me at naptime and then again while we were both naked?”
MORAL OF THE STORY: Everyone farts. Just do your best not to do it on someone else.
By Tracy Pope
*Names have been changed for obvious reasons.