Under The Wagon

As I get home the other day, a thought crosses my mind...Is it:

a)Wow, I had a great time with that guy last night
b)Wow, that was some sweet, sweet lovin'
c)Wow, I need to fart

If you picked "c", give yourself a cookie. I've come to the conclusion that there really needs to be a "Designated Farting Time" for those of us in the post-coital condition. I don't know what happens to the body during a night of boofing, but let's face it...Them air bubbles surely do build up!

Now I excel at kicking guys out of my place so adroitly (and quickly) that they're still asking "Was it good for you?" before they even realize they're standing cold and naked on my front porch. But sometimes, just sometimes, I let the fellow stay the night. And that can lead to an awkward situation.

Is there anything better then spooning tenderly after some nookie, laying sweetly in your lover's arms before drifting off to sleep? Not when you're desperately clenching your buttocks for all they're worth, trying to keep a potentially noxious gas bubble in it's place. Praying for your partner to finally pass out and leave you free to attempt the ever-so-slow release of what will hopefully be a silent emission.

And while there's generally a little tooting space following a fuck, while one of you hits the can for condom disposal or a "my-doctor-said-I-wouldn't-get-urinary-tract-infection-if-I" pee, it's not a sure thing. That moment can backfire on you, especially in a very small studio apartment (such as my own), or in a place with rather open/faulty acoustics (such as my own). You think you have time to just let one rip, and next thing you know...brrrrrrrrrrpppppp. Or frrrrrrrrooooot. Either way, it sounds like a machine gun just went off in the apartment.

So I say we abandon the embarrassment! We live in modern times, we're supposed to be all educated and open. We ask about sexual history in a mature and adult fashion, we insist upon condoms and birth control. We are intelligent and sensitive lovers, we give great blow jobs and find clitorises (clitori? What the hell is the plural for the happy spot?).

So why can't we admit that after a round of championship sport-fucking, we really have to fart?

And thus, my call for The Designated Farting Time.

It's an agreed upon time for both parties to turn away from each other, pretend that "Nope, there's nobody naked in my bed, just me here, getting ready to fart like a big dog." A really big dog.

No comments about the other's volume, intensity or aroma of bodily effusions will be allowed. You're gonna fart, I'm gonna fart, and then we'll go back to schtupping, or spooning, or (if you're me), pretending we're asleep until the other person finally gets the hell out. Instead of feeling embarrassed, we'll take it as a compliment. "Wow, I guess I must have really banged the bejeezus out of her/him...Listen to those puppies fly. I totally re-arranged that plumbing! Hell, yeah."

If you're in an established relationship you might be scoffing at these concerns. "Ho, Ho," you say "My beloved and I have a completely open relationship, and even the most foul expulsions from my schmoopie pie's bottom are as the sweetest incense, an offering worthy of the gods themselves."

Yeah, well fuck you. Some of us are sad and lonely people, who don't need to feel any more shame after our sad and lonely one-night stands. So this is a call to arms. Write your congressman, lobbying for whoopee cushions in sex education classes. Start a "Million Fart March." Be slutty, be gassy, be proud.

It's time to take back the right! The right to fuck someone senseless, and then fart. Really loudly.