My technique for farting while in the presence of my girlfriend requires concentration. It’s usually necessary while watching shows together on the couch. I lift my hips off the couch slightly and, as best as I can, release slowly, hoping for no evidence, audible or olfactory.
She then feels the tension in my body and asks, “are you farting?”
I didn’t say it was successful, I just said it was my technique.
My girlfriend and I have been together for close to three years. I’d say that two years is a reasonable relationship length to let some defenses down. Well, whether it is or not, it was. You know when a successful thief gets cocky and more brazen and starts leaving behind clues for the detective who nails him? Well, that’s how I got with my farts. Having slipped several by her, I got sloppy. I can’t point to one that started the deluge but there has been a paradigm shift on the part of my girlfriend with regards to fart tolerance. What was once a beat of shocked silence followed by laughter has progressed to, “nice one.”
When we started dating I pointed out when we had been dating for a month, then two months, then three. I had years of bad luck in relationships, so, each month was a surprise to me and I kept doing it, marking the time like toddler ages. “Hey, guess what today is? Twenty-three months!” Having progressed past the fail safe of deal breaker territory, we could shrug our shoulders about the unflattering with a hashtag, either texted or spoken aloud.
Once I used her bathroom for a somewhat long time. Upon exiting, my girlfriend said, “did I just hear you say ‘thank you’?” It had been a stagnant day or two and I don’t know which is more embarrassing, that I didn’t remember saying it or the fact that, even though I didn’t remember saying it, I had no doubt that I had said it.
I had no excuse. “Hashtag twenty-six months,” I said.
The preservation of mystique is unique for each couple, I guess. Am I flattering myself to think that all couples eventually drop their defenses? I’ve seen other couples joke about it. I’ve been in a car with a friend and his wife when he unleashed a bomb that would get him on a no-fly list.
But there’s something intimate about it. Yes, I’m serious. Look, I’m not asking her to pull my finger — I’m just not putting the same amount of effort into the subterfuge. She knows me. She knows when something’s wrong and no one else can tell. She can hear when I’m stressed by my breathing (usually in traffic). And when we’re sitting on my couch and she can feel me tense up slightly (and it is slight, I’m pretty good) she knows.
I like being known.
Frankly, she’s gotten a little trigger happy. “Are you farting?” No, just shifting in my seat. “Were you farting that time?” No, just reaching for my phone. “What about just now?” Yeah, that time, yes.
This is obviously one-sided. Fortunately for my girlfriend, she never farts. She’s a girl.
Hashtag thirty-four months.