Since the last couple weeks I’ve been covering slightly “heavier” topics of conversation, like banishing insecurity and the woes of Instagram creeping, today I wanna go a more light-hearted route and discuss something we all eventually deal with in a relationship. It may not be as emotionally complex, but oh, it certainly has its intricacies. I’m talking about something truly intimate; something so intimate we don’t even wanna share it with ourselves sometimes. That’s right ladies—keeping the mystery of your bowel movements intact. It may seem totally random, but when I did a little callout on Instagram today requesting ideas, that was one of my favorites.
Now I’m a very complex woman in that lots of things are contradictory about me. I was born into a very quaint, South of France town, but raised in bustling, grimy Brooklyn. I have long, French-manicured stripper nails and finger tattoos, but I’ve primly sat them at the most refined, white-glove dinner tables. I have a filthy, naughty sailor’s mouth, but I have never once farted in front of my boyfriend. At least not while I was conscious, which I can settle for because it’s about as good as it’s gonna get. I’m a feminist in my beliefs about female sexuality and freedom of speech, but I’m the opposite in my old-school view in that some things about a lady must remain a mystery.
Growing up, any time mentions or accusations of farts arose, one of my favorite coy, go-to lines was always, “Please, don’t you know girls don’t fart?” I mean, obviously we’re human and we do and guys know that, but it’s not just for them that you gotta keep shit bottled up, pun intended. I know from first-hand experience that once you cross that threshold from mysterious, sexy couple to the couple that’s constantly having fart-battles, there’s no going back. You gotta stay locked up tight, if not for them, for the sake of your own relationship.
Though it’s embarrassing, quoting Sex & The City is not beneath me, and so I’ll remind you of that time Carrie let one rip in bed with Big and said conversation ensued: Carrie: It wasn’t a choice. I’m human. It happened. Samantha: No, honey, you're a woman, and men don't like women to be human. We aren't supposed to fart, douche, use tampons, or have hair in places we shouldn’t. It might sound stupid or outdated, but in some ways the simplicity of it is really true. Not to say you can’t be who you really are or just let it all hang out sometimes—my man sees me looking a bummy mess all the time—but you can’t just throw all caution out the window.
When I was a teenager, my homegirls always clowned me about the fact that I wouldn’t even fart in front of them. Not even in front of my friends! I’m sure all these neuroses have something to do with it too, but I don’t understand when some people are like, “I couldn’t hold it.” Like dude, the tightest part of your body is your butthole, if you can’t hold a fart in it might be some serious dietary shit you should get checked out. Some of you might be like, “Jesus girl, just live a little,” but I was in a relationship where the mystery had become that diminished. It all started innocently enough, as they always do, where we were chilling on the couch one night, guard totally down, and the tiniest one escaped mid-laughter. Ugh, it’s always mid laughter. It’s almost worse the smaller the sound is too. I think I actually wrote the date and time down somewhere when it happened—that’s how defining a moment it was.
Alas, in a few years it was all out the fuckin’ window. Farting on each other, shitting with the door open, shitting next to someone while they’re in the shower. IT’S FUCKING DISGUSTING. After that, I swore I’d never go back. Sure, you reach this whole new level of intimacy with your partner—the intimacy of comfort—but you also eliminate an entire element of elusiveness and discreetness that’s so crucial in keeping the flame of a relationship alive. You might be a better friend to someone once you’ve seen them take a dump, but certainly not a better lover. Honestly, save that kinda stuff for marriage. And even then, be extremely cautious.
I mean look, we all occasionally get sick from time to time. I’ve had 4am runs at the mercy of my boyfriend now and again, and in those cases it’s a total exception. If anything, you actually become endearing and even cuter because it’s like, awww, my baby’s hurting. And I do sometimes pee with the door open, but that’s also totally different. It’s not like I’m some delusional bitch who swears shitting is unladylike and that farting is a sin, I just know, from first hand experience, the importance of maintaining said mystique. If you wanna take exposed craps, just don't wonder why the sex isn’t as hot as it once was.
So what do you do in the event of a necessary bowel movement in the presence of a significant? Any chick with half a brain knows it’s Feminine Mystique 101 to run the water. If he’s wondering what the hell you’re doing in there for 20 minutes running water, let him. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure it out, but the courtesy of water flow as opposed to plopping can surely be appreciated. If the situation allows for it, the true player move is to turn on the shower, do your biz, and then hop in there immediately after to eliminate all trace evidence, because masking odor is just as important as masking sound. Always keep something good-smelling in there, like incense or perfume. Febreeze and matches are fine too, just much more transparent. Nothing worse than feeling like you escaped, undetected, only for them to barge in immediately after you to that freshly “blown-up” aroma.
At the end of the day, it’s really not that serious, and ultimately just a preference on your openness and playfulness. But, coming from a gal who’s been on both sides of the spectrum, I assure you, it’s always best to hold it in. At least until I get his & hers bathrooms someday like Lisa and Ken Vanderpump…