Where I speak "your" dirty lil' mind!

Winds of Change

In Life on October 7, 2009 at 8:03 am

There are certain poignant moments in every relationship that mark milestones through the journey which follows when two souls unite.

Unlike, say… the first date, kiss, fight or orgasm however, we don’t hear of these moments because, well… we just don’t talk about them. The one we’ll discuss today is never spoken of at a girl’s slumber party, or even a boy’s night out.

You won’t find mention of it in your local library, even if you scoured the entire ‘Romantic Literature’ section, simply because, despite its magnitude, not one writer has yet found a way to put pen-to-paper and scribe a dialogue on the subject… in a mature, cohesive manner.

Of those who have tried, there are three distinct groups: the miserable souls who still lay fallen by the wayside (clutching their sides in hysterical laughter at the memory of when it first happened); those who reach a certain age and just give up, deeming the subject too ‘immature’; and finally, those who’re no longer around—having been butchered for their honesty by their partners.

Which is exactly why, at a point of time in my life I’d call ‘getting-on-middle-age-but-just-short-of-geezer’- and reasonably safe with my (ex) girlfriend residing in another city –  I step forward to pull that sword from the friggin’ stone!

Here goes…

PHRR-RAAPP!

And the day dawned like Thor’s hammer coming down on a China gong as my eyes snapped wide open and darted around automatically looking for the closest dog to blame. But as a cloud of something else vanquished the last foggy remnants of sleep from my mind, I realised, ‘Hey, that wasn’t me!’

The dogs weren’t even in the room, but that meant, (unless the house was haunted by the flatulent ghost of its last tenant), that it was… Her!

She, the still-blissfully-asleep angel (or so I’d thought), who lay cocooned on the other side of the bed.

‘That didn’t happen.’ I heard a muffled voice peep though the pillow.

‘You pooted, Baby!’ I exclaimed.

‘No I didn’t! And we will never speak of this again!’ Her crimson face turned towards me while trying to maintain a semblance of sternness.

‘Come here my little Flutterbum!’ I cajoled as I reached out to take her into my arms while she kicked out in the general direction of my nuts.

What did you call me?’ she half-shouted, half-laughed when I had finally managed to restrain all four thrashing limbs. ‘I’m serious! This never happened. And unless you plan on sleeping with a grid-iron jock strap from now on, that’s the way we remember it. Got it?’

‘What never happened? Go back to sleep, Love.’

…I smiled, only too happy to drop the conversation. For me, it wasn’t about the teasing or the comeuppance, you see. Frankly, I can’t even remember the first time I gave up on trying to keep them silent

– through a complex choreography involving renal contractions and awkward pelvic leanings –

and just let one rip in her presence. I guess it’s just a reflection of the differences between the sexes when it comes to our attitudes towards anal fluttery.

Men, by and large, after crossing over from singledom into ‘committed’ territory, tend to view the first time they farted within hearing (or smelling) distance of their partners pretty much like the first scratch on the new car. You’re glad it happened, and while you don’t look forward to it happening again anytime soon, it does get less traumatic (and a little easier to deal with) from now on.

Most women, on the other hand, would rather have you believe in the concept of the immaculate female digestive system:

Where stuff goes in but nothing comes out. And some men revel in that myth too…

A good friend, let’s call him Arjun, still refuses even to acknowledge that women shit! I kid you not!

“Waitaminit! Hang on, so where’s all the life-altering relationship stuff you started out hinting about?”, you ask?

‘You faux-intellectual fraud!’ you slurrr.

No, really. Think about it. My carefully-prepared and well-researched dissertation titled Male and Female Perspectives On, and the Short and Long-Term Effects of Flatulence on Human Relations, really does have a cohesive conclusion.

Now pay attention men. When your lady flatulates (There’s that Microsoft Word ‘red line’ under ‘flatulates’)  – See what I mean about this subject being so hush-hush? You won’t even find this seemingly-probable word in the dictionary! – in your presence, it is more than the mere sum of last night’s rajma-chawal and lassi. That smell is the whiff of a peaceful revolution in the air. The genesis, of a whole new era in your relationship. It is…

The Unclenching, as it were.

I charge you: stop laughing and grasp the concept!

It is the sign, no, The Sign, that she has finally, really and truly accepted you as a part of her own private universe. Accept her exhaust as an exclamation of her newfound trust in you and honour it.

Tread carefully men, you have broken new wind… err, ground here.

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  1. ha ha ha. i love love love this post. finally it’s out in the open. really, there is absolutely no problem with farting partners as long as it’s not something they are doing at a regular interval of say ten minutes, every ad break is punctuated with a big fart…oh my, say bye to this relationship.

    and yea, i know so many women who refuse to even talk about farting or crapping. i’ve often wondered if they take a taxi, go to dahisar and let out a fart, and then take a taxi and come home. see baby, i’m barbie, i never fart or crap or pee.

  2. LoL!!!
    Man! Dahisar must be one hell of a stink hole in that case…
    cos’ I know plenty of those types too 😀

  3. very neat stuff…liked it…laterz…m

  4. oh christ. did she ever forgive you for writing this?

  5. LOL!

    Of course women don’t fart. We, er, release the pressure, so to speak.

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