Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.
Not My Proudest Moment: The First Date Fart
They say you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Which, if true, really sucks when your first impression is literally a shitty one. A few years back, I met a girl at a bar, bought her a few drinks, and mustered up enough liquid courage to ask for her number AND ask her on a date. To my drunken surprise, she agreed to both. To my hung over surprise the next morning, the number she gave me turned out to be real and better yet, she responded to my texts.
A week or so of texting, flirting and awful jokes (hers not mine. My jokes are brilliant), and our first date was upon us. I dressed up in my best ripped jeans and slightly wrinkled shirt and sped off to buy some beer and condoms (I am a gentlemen, after all). Strangely enough, she had me pick her up at her friend’s house. Which signaled to me that either she was afraid I might be an ax murdering psycho but needed a second opinion, or that her friend did. Either way, I was charming enough to her stupid friend and got her out of the house and into the car. And the beginning of the first date fart seeds were planted.
Normally, when a man asks a women out on a date, it is assumed that he will pick the night’s festivities with little to no input from the woman (because after all, she is a girl and everyone knows that girls make stupid decisions, right?). And I assumed that this would be the case here, as well. Except that the lady in question was former military with combat experience, and as such, was extremely upfront and outspoken about what she wanted to do, eat and drink.
“Great,” I thought. “Less shit for me to worry about.”
Or so I thought.
Now, when on a first date, or in any situation where appearances and impressions mean a great deal, you have to tactfully weave yourself around the obstacles of your personality. If you are racist, for example, you don’t start the night blurting out the N-word and flipping off the Mexican cooks at the restaurant. You have to ease into your horrific personality with light-hearted humor jabs about Asians and the poor driving or how quip about how white man’s syphilis decimated the Native American population. You know, to test the waters with your first date mate and to see if she is of like mind.
Now, that is an extreme example, but I think you catch my drift. You have to try to highlight the better parts of your person, in an effort to impress the other participant in the date, essentially. Which means that if you know spicy food gives you gas, then you should probably avoid spicy foods like a Jewish person avoids Germany. And if you know that spicy food gives you gas, and your date requests you take her to Mexican food for your dinner, you should swallow your pride, turn around, and admit to you, and her, that this relationship will never, ever, work and drop her back off at her friend’s house. Except, of course, I didn’t take my own advice, and we went to eat the Hispanic devil food, and disaster started to rear it’s ugly head. Or at least gurgle it’s ugly stomach.
After pounding down an approximate four pound burrito that was covered in hot sauce, and washing it down with a tequila shot and a beer, my date left the dinner table impressed and ready for more. So I, like a gentlemen, walked us to my car, opened the car door and escorted her into the vehicle. I figured that this lent me the perfect opportunity to blow some ass while walking back to my side of the car. Except my body failed me at that moment in time and the fart that I held in through dinner, was now no where to be found.
“I’m doomed, ” I thought.
The night progressed to a bar where we proceeded to drink more than we should have and I proceeded to clench my ass cheeks together for longer than I should have. Last call came and went and I was now working on a personal best record for oppressing my natural bodily functions. But the night was close to done, and soon, once I dropped her off at her suspicious friend’s house, I could finally relieve myself of the 10 pound toxic bubble that was festering in my gut. Unfortunately for me, however, the night was just getting started.
“So I want to see your place now, ” she said, as we entered the vehicle once again. “My friend is asleep by now so I need to crash at your place anyway. But don’t expect sex. I am not that kind of girl.”
30 minutes later we had sex.
And during sex, I could do nothing but mentally tell myself to not fart while thrusting. It was so overwhelming this thought, that I almost forgot that I was in the middle of having sex with a woman on the first date. I mean seriously, I consider it an achievement worthy of putting on my work resume whenever I can trick a girl into boinking me, but typically, it takes longer than a first date, and considerably more booze. But here I was, boffing the hell out of this girl after a burrito and some beers, and instead of mentally high-fiving myself for such a stellar performance, I was riddled with guilt that my asshole might start whistling at any moment and destroy everything that ever was built by humanity.
Nonetheless, I finished my duty without any leakage of doody, and went to sleep immediately after, as did she. The next morning my stomach was bloated beyond belief and I decided to make the executive decision to wake her up and shovel her off my bed and into my car for an early morning walk of shame up her friend’s driveway. By this point, I was pretty much doubled over in pain and had tunnel vision. I ran through red lights, swerved in and out of lanes like a mad man and was generally concerned for my rotted intestines at this point. The poor girl must have thought she had done something wrong to be whisked away so quickly and recklessly like that, but I didn’t give a shit…which was literally the problem at the time, too.
I pulled up to her friend’s house, unlocked the door from the driver’s side (God bless power locks) and hastily gave her a kiss before thanking her for a lovely (pain filled) evening.
Confused and possibly a little hurt, she gathered her things and got out of the car. Looking like she wanted to ask what went wrong so quickly, but knowing that I wouldn’t answer, she reluctantly closed the car door behind her.
It happened. It finally happened. A 13 hour built up fart. Clothes have been put on lay away at TJ Maxx for less time than I held onto that man-queef. With each passing rumble that dropped out of my ass, I couldn’t help the growing grin on my face. It slowly spread across my face like when scene in Dr. Seuss’s book where The Grinch devised his evil plan to steal Christmas. It was satisfying, evil and I couldn’t be happier for myself. The only thing that echoed the sound, was the stench that followed.
Thunder and lightning.
It was awful. Dogs were howling at the moon, during the day. Children wept and my car’s interior wrinkled and stretched. It was the fart to end all farts. And I didn’t care. I could no longer hold it in and the beauty of it was that I got away with it. No one would be the wiser to the atomic bomb that I just dropped.
For about seven seconds.
And that is when I heard the passenger door swing open followed by a female voice saying, “I forgot my purse.” She had returned to the car in the midst of the crescendo of the fart. I literally jumped to my left, crashing into my own car door, shrieked like a little girl who just had a spider jump on her and looked on in horror as my gassy, shit-trombone musical was now playing for an audience. With an interactive, immersive element to it as well, I might add. I watch as her face played out the entire range of human emotions in about two seconds as her brain began to process what the sounds and smells were that were now flooding her nostrils and ears. And I watched in dismay as she realized I had done everything short of shit my pants. And I realized, in this moment, that I would need to muster up the funniest comeback I could possibly think of, in order to salvage a second date. Something so amazing that she would have no choice but to overlook this episode and accept an invitation to another dating activity. So I rolled with my instincts and blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.
“Wow…was that you?”
The sound of the car door slamming and the sight of her running towards her friend’s front door were the last things I remember.
There was no second date.