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My ex-boyfriend routinely farted on my head. From the moment I told him that I thought farts were funny, he took the joke as far as it could go. Romance to me is getting cup caked while trying to go to sleep and my definition of a Dutch Oven is remarkably different to most peoples.
When he started letting out massive farts after sex, I decided it was time to say something.
“I find you endlessly amusing, don’t get me wrong. But I have to ask a question.”
“OK. Hang on one second.” PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTHGTFP. “Continue.”
I cleared my throat from my new location up against the wall, which I had been blown on to.
“Do I unlock something within you?”
“Of course you do, sweetheart.”
“I mean, is there a reason after sex that you do invisible poo’s while in my presence?”

Farting in front of another person is the one last really socially embarrassing faux pas. We seem to be able to cope with the myriad of other natural human quirks that bring attention to the fact that someone is, actually, a human. However, let out a fart and defy the world to continue spinning. It is the easiest way to get attention. All eyes will be on you if you alert their ears to the infamous sound. If all press is good press, I can’t understand why Britney and Lindsay aren’t just farting when trying to make it to the front cover of US Weekly magazine under the headline, “Opps, I Did It Again.”

True intimacy means that farting in bed can eventually be normal, acceptable and even funny. So long as it is not done during the aftershocks of an orgasm. But there is a massive amount of relative time between meeting someone and the moment the above occurs. The problem is, however, that our colons are not on this trip down Romance Boulevard and our brain seems to always demand that we eat Mexican food for any given meal. So, in the interim, a fart is inevitable.
There is the first one, which we usually disguise by thinking up some lame excuse. PFFFFFTHGTFP.
“I think your bed is broken. It squeaks.”
There is the second one, which we usually just try to ignore. PFFFFFTHGTFP.
“So, do you want to go get lunch?”
By the third time, you really just have to take ownership. PFFFFFTHGTFP.
“I think my ass is broken.”
And hope that they still find us attractive. Or, at the very least, absolutely fucking hilarious.

My apartment is so small that a long-limbed Supermodel could sit on the toilet and stir a pot of pasta in the kitchen at the same time. Any breath inhaled at any location in the house is heard by everyone. So if the breath happens to sound muffled and exhaled from a shorter height, there really is no secret as to what is going on. It means that you either have to become a brilliant liar, really intimate or stop bringing boys home.
Of course, the latter two options have never sounded all that attractive to me.
Once upon a not long enough time a go, I was moments away from asking a boy to leave, which meant that it was moments after orgasm.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he announced before I had time to make my own announcement and read him the local bus schedule.
I stayed seated on the bed, trying to make myself look useful. An exhausting task considering I no longer had a use.
Suddenly, I heard It.
PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTHGTFP. PLOOOOOOOP. PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTHGTFP. BLAGHOPOOPPFFFFFFFTPLOOOP.
I don’t think I have ever laughed so much and can safely say that the hardness of my abs is in direct relation to this moment. It was then that I decided to either stop bringing boys home or only live in castles where the bathroom was in a totally separate wing to the sex room. Sorry. Bed room.

With my endless experiences of being farted on or pooped in front of, one would think that I would know how to handle myself when I am the one who needs to expel a natural human quirk. When I am alone, I try to make the sound go to a song beat or demand a parade in honor of the sheer brilliance the sound one little girl is capable of making. But when someone else is present and can reach into my bathroom from the lounge room, I become anxious and curse myself for ever eating Mexican food in my life.
“Where are you going?” a boy asked recently.
“To Starbucks. Do you want anything?”
“Oh, I’ll come with you.”
“NO!” I yelled. Which may have muffled a tiny little sound. “No. No. No. Stay here. I’ll get you coffee. Stay in bed. Stay warm.”
He must have thought I was brilliant, romantic even.
I blew myself to Starbucks.
“That was quick,” he announced upon my return. “Did you drive yourself there?”
“No,” I admitted. The joke had taken me as far as I needed to go.