The night started out pretty normally. I enjoyed a cocktail (read: lots of vodka with a splash of soda) while getting ready (read: in the shower), put on some makeup and a cute outfit and headed out for the evening. I was meeting up with a friend, her newly serious boyfriend and his friends for a night on the town. Cute friends. Very cute friends.

I’m not going to say I was expecting to find someone to make out with, but I did wear matching bra and undies just in case. I even shaved my legs.

When I got to the bar, everyone was already seated, so I squeezed in next to one of the boys and settled in for a night of pitchers. Lots of pitchers. Two hours and about 100 games of Quarters later, I felt a hand on my thigh. I looked up and saw Boy smiling at me. I mentally high fived myself for going with the uber low-cut shirt then rested my hand on top of his.

“I WANT FOOOOD,” my friend’s boyfriend slurred announced. Everyone agreed so we got the tab, threw down some money and filed out of the bar. While we stood on the street corner debating where to go (“I’m sick of pizza, what about Jimmy John’s?” “FREAKY FAST, FREAKY GOOD!!”), Boy rubbed my back and played with my hair. I didn’t really need any food (I’d much rather have a little “dessert”), but I figured it might be good for me to get some greasy deliciousness in my belly. If I was going home with this kid, I’d rather not barf in his bed

Finally, we agreed on a destination: the burger house up the street. Sliders, fries, milkshakes – every drunk kid’s dream. My Boy and I parted ways en route so I could get the deets on him from my friend…. and so I could order a giant plate of chili cheese fries with her and not feel self conscious eating them in front of him.

And eat them I did. Every last bite.

Soon my basket was empty and it was time to go. Boy asked me if I wanted to go home with him and, obviously, I said yes. Chili cheese fries and some dessert? Who can say no to that?

Looking back, maybe I should have.

When we got back to his house my stomach started to rumble. The fries were coming back…with a vengeance. I excused myself to go to the bathroom where I had a little gas situation and felt a whole lot better. I returned to the bedroom, turned on the sexiness and enjoyed some of the best dessert I’d had in a long time. Even better, Boy told me after that he was a total cuddle whore and loved to spoon.

I was in heaven. I turned on my side and fell asleep in his lovely, toned arms.

And then, like that, my stomach woke me up.

The pain was intense. Not like “I’m gonna crap my pants” bad, but more like “There is a lot of air in here” bad. I had to think fast. I could get up and go to the bathroom, thus waking up this boy who was snoring so peacefully, or I could just hold in the gas and hope the pain went away. Not wanting to disturb this boy who had worked so hard (three times!) to make me happy, I opted for door #2: I clenched my butt cheeks together and held it all in.

That worked for about 5 minutes until the pain got so intense I had no choice but to release.

And I farted right into the boy’s crotch.

It was sorta silent, but huge nonetheless; a nice, powerful shot of hot air right on his peen.
And then another.

He stopped snoring.
I stopped breathing.
But my butt didn’t.

Another fart came barreling out of my ass and, with that, the boy pulled his arm out from under me and rolled to the other side of the bed.

I was mortified. I couldn’t fall back to sleep, so I spent the rest of the night lying there holding in my farts. I’d already hot boxed his gentitalia, I didn’t want to Dutch Oven the poor kid, too. When the sun came up, I packed up my things and left the house. I never heard from him again.

While shopping at the mall with friends last weekend, my breakfast of Kashi Go Lean Crunch! came back to haunt me. And by “me,” I mean “everyone within a 10 foot radius.” Yeah, it’s true – I had a horrible case of the farts. So bad that I couldn’t even stand myself. I tried to hold it in – really, really hard – but they just kept coming and it was impossible for me to walk around a giant mall with my ass cheeks clenched together.

So I did what any normal woman would do: I walked away from my friends and left some smelly bombs in store corners and mall walkways. Poor shoppers didn’t know what was coming.

The entire ordeal was mortifying (especially when the guy bringing my shoes walked through an exceptionally offensive gas cloud and got a very sour look on his face) and could have been completely avoided had someone informed me about these special panties. Now, I am not one for granny panties (especially of the Hefty variety), but a pair of panties that could mask my gas?

Where do I sign up?

I’m not sure how they work, but as long as they don’t create a virtual dutch oven in my pants thus releasing the foul odor of a day’s worth of farts and knocking me out the moment I take them off, I don’t really care.  The mere thought of enjoying a fiberous breakfast and then flatulating all day without anyone knowing (I’m a master of the SBD) is enough to lure me in.

Pooping.

Peeing.

It’s all gross, which is why we do it in the privacy of our own homes. But, when is it OK to stink up your boyfriend’s bathroom or let him in when you’re peeing? Is it ever okay to poop or fart in front of your man? Let’s discuss.

I have been in a relationship for roughly eight months now and, while my boyfriend sees no problem with shoving me in a dutch oven, I personally haven’t been able to pass wind in front of him…yet. He was always very open with his bodily fluids in front of me – and I love him for it (“it” being that he feels comfortable with me, not the smell of his farts suffocating me under the covers). However, men definitely hold a double standard with females regarding the pooping/farting business.

While we haven’t crossed into the “me farting in front of my man” part of our relationship yet, we have gotten into the, “he pops into the bathroom when he knows I’m pooping,” situation. I normally yell and shriek for him to get out and he laughs and gives me my privacy. I don’t care if he comes in while I’m peeing – I have always been comfortable doing around him – but #2 is a whole different story.

There is a part of me that thinks you can get too comfortable with a significant other; I want him to find me sexy and a foul smelling bathroom situation may prevent that.

A girlfriend of mine has been dating her boyfriend for over four years and she still has never pooped or farted in front of him. 4 years! Some say that keeps the romance alive, others say its creating boundaries for your relationship. (Editor’s Note: I think it causes serious stomach cramping, but that’s just me.)

Some guys have no problem with the farting; they simply think its funny or could care less. Some guys are always freaking out when they hear girls talk about the bodily functions. “Girls don’t poop!” they scream. But we do, so why are we forced to hold it in when our boys are around?

What do you think ladies? Have you ever stunk up his bathroom or ripped a big one in front of your boyfriend? How did he react?