The Morning After: Chili Fries and a Dutch Oven


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.

Body of Lies: Keep The Clothes On, Dudes
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