Kyle, I remember you issuing a ruling on some guy who wanted to buy a throwback Flyers jersey and I thought you may be able to help me out though it has nothing to do with sports. I’ve been dating this girl for a little while now and I really like her. “The one” type shit. We’ve had sex and are in the “I’m just hanging out at your place for no particular reason” zone. But I haven’t farted in front of her yet and hanging out all day long sometimes hungover… well I have to let the gas out. She’s cool and I think she’d be down with it, but I don’t know when that is appropriate. Can you give me some guidance?
Sure thing! In fact, I’ll do you one better: hard and fast rules for dating flatulence.
First of all, there are two very distinct groups here: men and women. The rules differ, wildly, depending on which sex you consider yourself. Goes like this:
Women: You’re never allowed to fart in front of a significant other. Period. There, that’s settled.
Men: OK, this depends on a whole slew of very complicated prerequisites, so let’s break it down into a grammatical flowchart. Can you fart…
…if it’s before first intercourse (BFI)— no.
The logic here is simple: If she hasn’t seen your stuff, then you can’t gas in front of her. If she doesn’t want to sleep with you, then she most certainly doesn’t want to smell your day-old Wendy’s (my God take a shit already, man!). There’s no grey (brown?) area here. If you learn nothing else today, remember this: Stuck in handy hell? Then you’re SOL.
…if it’s after first intercourse (AFI)— maybe.
Intercourse alone isn’t the sole marker for when it’s OK to let go. You don’t want to do it, say, 10 seconds after the first time. That’s gross and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking that it’d be “real funny.” And don’t let one go when she escapes to the bathroom. This is the time for you to pull up the sheets and puff out your chest. You want to look real manly when she comes back into the room. After all, you’re a conquerer now. Conquerers don’t smell like shit.
You’ll want to wait a minimum of 10 days, 10 AFI, before farting. Your clock starts now. Tick tock, Doc.
…if it’s 10 AFI— in principle, yes, but there are many caveats here.
First, let’s address the three types of farts, because they are all very different, and come at different stages of a beautiful, butting relationship:
1) The oops it just slipped out haha I’m so sorry I’m really not that sorry I was testing you to see how you’d react fart. We’ll call it Giggle Gas – GG, for short – because it’s always accompanied by an embarrassed laugh – from both parties – if it’s discovered.
2) The we’re comfortable around each other now so, when I have to, I can do it without too many repercussions fart. The Old Fashioned.
3) The we’ve been together for so long and you vacillate between finding it funny and being totally disgusted with me when I fart, but regardless, I actively try to do it in your presence to produce the most noxious gas possible fart. Call it, Marriage.
GG is what Joe is talking about. That’s where he’s at, right now. That’s what you’ll encounter most often (you may only encounter rare gems The Old Fashioned and Marriage once or twice in life, and you should embrace those moments when they happen, celebrate them, don’t look that gift horse in the ass). The GG is what most people wonder about, stress over.
The rules: It always needs to be a minimum of 10 AFI (I suppose it can be 1 AFI if she has a tattoo that can be covered by a string bikini, because then she doesn’t really respect herself… but let’s stick with 10, 10 AFI– you’re safe there), and then you must meet three of the following five criteria: 1) you leave valuable, non-clothing goods at her house or apartment other than a toothbrush, 2) you’ve met her parents, 3) she leaves you in her bed if she has to go to work earlier and you lock up her place (or vice versa), 4) you drive each other’s cars without the other person in them, and 5) you let her use your phone (or vice versa) to look things up, make a call, etc. without having to ask permission.
If you met three of those five criteria, go ahead, break wind. And then laugh, sheepishly. You’ll want to gauge her reaction– look for a wrinkle of the nose or a sharpening of the eyebrows. You’re venturing into new territory, pal. It’s like stepping into a cold pool– you’re eventually getting all the way in, but you’ll want to wade slowly into the frigid waters. Go too fast, and it might feel like you just got punched in the gut… which she might do if you don’t ease your way in here. Start in another room and bring the gas in with you to wherever she is. Like an odorous tail. This is safest because you always have the option to abort (preferably into a small closet or storage area).
Great, Kyle, I’m already there! I’ve done the tail and then quickly graduated to the “on the same couch GG,” when do I get to give an Old Fashioned?
Very simple: it’s all based on time. Six months of continuous dating from the first GG– Congrats! You’re a full-fledged couple and you’re free to let go at will. If you first expelled on, say, January 4, then you’re going to have a fun-filled Fourth with plenty of fireworks. The Old Fashioned comes in six months to the day from the first Giggle. So, conceivably, it can happen 192 AFI (365/2, round down, add 10), but that’s the bare
The Marriage comes when you’re either A) married or B) living together. But, very important: it doesn’t trump any of the previously mentioned timeframes. Even if you go all Hangover and marry a hooker in a drunken stuper, you wait 10 days and then six more months. There’s no bending this rule (again, unless there’s a bikini area tattoo, which I suppose is entirely possible, if not likely, with a hooker). Marriage is just a binding contract, it doesn’t supersede common sense and respect for you partner’s olfactory system.
Addendum: Ladies, why can’t you fart in front of your guy? Because, you don’t poop.
We like to think of you as precious little gems, kissed by an angel every morning and then floated down to our pillows to bring us joy and laughter and help us navigate this treacherous world. We don’t want to acknowledge that you’re just an exquisitely assembled mound of hydrogen, oxygen and carbon.
Let me tell you a little story. A few years ago, I dated someone, over a summer, whom I had known since college. We were pretty good friends in school and, briefly, perhaps out of boredom or lack of demand, became something more for a few months. It was quickly apparent that we weren’t a good match, and we mostly seamlessly (save for a brief period when I thought she was going to burn down my apartment) transitioned back into the friend zone. We continued to hang out, and there was always the chance that, with enough alcohol, we might become more than just friends at any given moment.
One night, we were out with a group at Ladder 15. Everyone was doing shots and having a gay old time, and there was an increasing possibility that we were going to revert to our old ways. I remember this next part distinctly: I was jumping up and down like an idiot (dancing) and she was too. The sweet smell of stale beer and sweat filled the room. It was a summer’s eve and the glistening tans added a hue of sexiness to the air. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, a horrific stank filled my space. Not the kind that slowly works its way into your nostrils, but the kind that hits you like a fucking brick shot out of a vacuum. Honest to God, it almost knocked me over. I think I started to bleed. Somehow keeping my cool, I looked at her and twisted my nose in an obvious attempt to mock the “smelled it, dealt it” rule and let her know that, like Shaggy, it wasn’t me… annnnnnd that’s when she raised her hand, giggled a giggle not befitting a toned and tan woman in her mating dance, and exclaimed: “It was me!” Like she was fucking proud of it. Like a child who had just shat in the big boy toilet. I was done. Game over. Boner kill. I never looked at her the same way after that. In fact, I don’t even think I’ve even seen her since. I know she wound up blowing a former Flyer’s son on a South Philadelphia rooftop later that night, and now that’s become my lasting memory of her: wondering if she farted on Philadelphia Flyer offspring while giving a BJ atop a South Philly row home.
This, women, is why you can’t fart in front of men.
These are my rules, and I think they’re fucking perfect. But I want your input, completely anonymous, on when it’s OK to let go with a significant other. We’ll run the best.