"BYE, GUYS! I'M ABOUT TO GO GET NAAAILED," I yelled across the room, taking swigs from my overpriced Australian wine bottle. I'm like the real-life version of Captain Jack Sparrow, except I'm a woman, and I drink wine instead of rum.
It was just a typical weekend in the life of Sheena: I got impossibly drunk at my office happy hour, then decided to hit up my trusty ol' f*ck buddy for a night of wondrous love-making.
He's a great f*ck buddy. He's also not a horrible person, either, but I digress. We do this thing where we have sex once, and then realize the sex we're having is mind-blowingly amazing, so we spend the next 24 hours or so f*cking and occasionally take breaks in between orgasms to do other things, like eat. Maybe catch a snooze.
So I met him at a bar in my hood, where we drank in preparation for our f*ck fest. I'd like to disclaim that I didn't have anything crazy to eat for dinner (er, I didn't even have dinner) with the sole mission of avoiding any unwanted bodily functions altogether.
But oh, did they happen.
We went home after one too many vodka tonics, and off we went. Our passionate sex sesh lasted into the wee hours of the morning. Juices were flowing. Things were happening. He was on top, but I felt a fiery passion in me take over and I wanted to be on top.
As we switched positions and I landed on his dick, I farted.
It was so loud. Like, echo-through-the-hallway loud. It was one of those mega farts, the kind that had clearly been held in for hours and hours. This thing was no joke.
Fortunately, it wasn't a silent killer. It was loud, proud and unsmelly. What it lacked in pungency, it made up for in sound.
He began to laugh. Naked and vulnerable as ever, I wanted to die. The least I could have done was hop off his dick, scurry under the covers and stay there forever. Instead, I just stayed on top of him. I think I was in shock. As much as my brain was screaming "GET THE F*CK OFF OF HIM," my limbs froze up and wouldn't budge. My head and my body were completely out of sync.
And then, after one hell of a long bout of laughter, he spoke. "Yup. That's what happens when you have sex. Air gets in...places..."
Then, it was my turn to talk. Words spilled out of me faster than I could think them, and it wasn't until after I said them that I realized they were so utterly stupid.
"I SWEAR IT WASN'T ME!" I shouted, covering my mouth with my hands. He cocked his head to the side -- mind you, he was still on his back, and he was very much still inside of me -- and I tried to break free from our staring contest. But even if I could have, it wouldn't matter. The damage was already done.
Of course it was me. Who else would it be? It obviously wasn't him. It wasn't a ghost living under my bed. WTF, Sheena.
It was 11 in the morning. The sun was out, filtering in through my windows and falling on his green eyes and golden-brown hair. He looked especially good, and it didn't make me feel any better about being gross.
But thankfully, the fart wasn't a boner killer. We had sex twice more after that. Bless him.
The issue here is bigger than the fleeting fart. It's an issue about the perception of women and my perception of myself. Women are supposed to be picture-perfect porcelain dolls. We aren't allowed to burp. We aren't allowed to sh*t. And we ABSOLUTELY are NOT allowed to fart, especially not in the presence of a dude. I felt soooo unsexy. It kills the vibe, yo.
And this isn't someone I've been with for decades where at this point, anything goes. No. This is a guy I enjoy having sex with and whose opinion of me I care about. I want him to see me as this flawless sex goddess, not just another mere mortal who does human things.
See, I was raised to not do human things in front of a man. I come from a family of women: There's my mom, my sister and me. Growing up, I watched them embody all the things a "proper" woman "should" embody.
The lack of male influence kind of took its toll, and it turned us all into girly-girls, the kind who sneer at the woman who slurps her soup at the dinner table too loudly or who burps in public and laughs about it rather than saying "Excuse me."
My big sister once told me the moment you start farting in front of the guy you've been seeing is the moment romance dies. I WON'T STAND FOR THAT, PEOPLE. I want to live in a world where romance stays alive.
But why is it OK for only guys to sit around and fart in all their glory? Why can't girls do this? Why was it OK for my f*ck buddy to cut our cuddling session short that same morning so he could go take a 15-minute-long dump in my bathroom, then come back and say, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you?"
Why did I laugh, playfully smack him on the head and continue to cuddle with him, completely unaffected by his grossness?
I've never pooped at his apartment. Not once. And I've been to his place a million times. Of those million times, I've had the desire to poop about 999,999 times, but I didn't for the sake of sitting pretty. If I were to ever have pooped in his presence, would he look at me all cute and lovingly, the same way I did to him? Eh, maybe. But probably not.
I am aware I have only made matters worse by immortalizing the memory of the fart. But it's something that should be talked about. I need to know I'm not the only girl in the world this has ever happened to, and I'll be damned if I am.
My fellow ladies, if you have ever farted in front of a guy, I'm here to tell you that it's OK. The ugliest farts can happen to even the prettiest people. No one is immune to letting out a little air every now and then.
I know my f*ck buddy and I are going to continue to have wonderful sex, and that he will overlook the fart heard 'round the world. That's just the kind of guy he is.
As for me? I'm going to do my best to hold in the farts until after he's left my apartment. I feel like I've reached my fart quota for the year. If I fart in front of him again, it's over.
I'm still mortified; I have trouble letting things go, so it'd only make sense I'd hold on to the keepsake of a fart this big.
That's just the kind of girl I am.