The First Date Disaster

As I wait alone at the pub, I get the feeling that everyone is watching me—some poor schmuck alone at a table with a beer. Of course, naturally, everyone is too engrossed in their own conversations and lives to really give a crap about me. But nonetheless, when you’re alone in public, you get very self-conscious.

All that changes once she arrives. I immediately recognize her from the Facebook photos I was shown by my friends. She recognizes me too, and she walks right over to me.

My date is a cute blond girl. Her hair is shoulder length, she’s got dimples when she smiles, and she wears glasses. She’s not beautiful in the supermodel sense of the word, but I’ve always had a thing for geeky girls, and so she’s right up my alley. Better still, when the waiter asks her what she wants to drink, she orders a beer.

I am instantly attracted to her.

After an initially awkward conversation, we actually start to warm up to each other. Then again maybe it’s the beer. Either way, the more we talk, the more I realize I have a lot in common with this girl. We begin to feel like old friends talking. For once, my friends haven’t screwed me. This was actually a great setup.

About half way through dinner, as she’s telling me why she prefers Star Trek to Star Wars—girls take note, being a geek will only make you sexier to guys—I feel a sudden, faint urge. It is the urge to fart.

I stop talking momentarily and clench my butt cheeks together. As she continues to talk, I realize that I’ve been sitting and drinking beer for nearly two hours. I obviously haven’t been burping in this girl’s presence, and so the urge to fart seems only natural.

I feel my stomach gurgle and re-absorb the errant odour. I sigh in relief. Nothing breaks the mood more than a guy who farts.

If I were smart, I would’ve excused myself, walked to the restroom, entered a stall, shut the door behind me, and relieved the pressure in my colon. But I am not smart and I am not forethought. I am a guy, and I am reckless, and I am lazy. And besides, the urge to fart seems to have faded anyway. So instead of doing something, I do nothing.

Little do I know that there is a small cloud of misfortune hanging over this whole entire evening—or rather, hanging in my rear.

About ten minutes later, the waiter brings us two new beers and clears our empty dinner plates. My stomach grumbles again, and a familiar urge returns. This time, it’s back with a vengeance. I clench my ass cheeks so hard this time that my toes curl. I pause, mid-sentence, in what I’m saying and just stare off blankly for a few seconds.

I realize that it looks like I just had a stroke.

Still holding my bowels shut, I try to continue my conversation but my stomach gnarls and grinds. I can feel gas churning in my stomach, shifting and trying to find a way out. I realize that postponing this bodily function may have been an error.

“Uh, excuse me,” I say suddenly, interrupting my date as she is in the middle of telling me something.

I stand gracefully and calmly walk towards the bathroom.

On the outside, I appear complete and together, but on the inside I am fighting every urge in my head that is screaming at me to run. You have no idea how hard it is to walk normally when you’re holding your ass cheeks so tight you could crush a walnut. I’m literally holding my breath which each step I take.

As soon as I enter the restroom I release my breath and don’t even bother entering a stall. I immediately hunch over the sink, release my cheeks, and prepare for the loudest, stinkiest, most manly yet disgusting fart of my life.

I let out three farts in quick succession. They echo so loudly that part of me worries that my date may have heard them. A bro washing his hands beside me laughs and congratulates me upon hearing the first. However, the farts are so rancid that as the second and third join the orchestra, and the smells hit his nose, his look of congratulations turns to that of disgust. He curses me:

“Oh... Oh! Oh god! Fucking sick man! God damn!”

God damn indeed.

I smirk, “Don’t eat the fish.”

He storms out of the restroom holding his shirt over his nose.

“You’re a fucking animal!” he mumbles in disgust as he leaves.

As the pressure re-normalizes in my gut, I turn on the sink to wash my hands. Even though I didn’t actually use the restroom, somehow my hands feel like they need to be cleaned. I smirk to myself in the mirror and thank the gods for allowing me to relieving myself in private. Unfortunately, my stomach grumbles ominously at that very moment.

After I return to my date, we have a few more drinks and then I suggest we play a game of pool. Following the first round, as we’re conversing and joking by the pool table, I realize that it’s returning; my bowels are once again filling with noxious fumes that demand release.

The gods are just fucking with me now.

“Mother fucker...” I mumble under my breath.

This is not a good night to have irritable bowels.

Remembering my earlier debacle when I tried to postpone my farts, I decide it is extremely unwise to try and hold back the inevitable and I adopt a new strategy instead. In pool, you often circle the table when your opponent shoots. So, I decide to use these opportunities to innocently walk by the opposing pool table, and dust them with my haze.

It takes all the skills in my sphincter, but I manage to keep every wind silent, thereby passing the blame ambiguously on to the people from the rival table.

The only thing left to do is to be the first to point out the smell, thereby safely removing the blame from myself—after all, if I was the one who farted, why would I bring it up?

After my first release, as the smell percolates in the air, I look over at my date and wave my hand by my nose and make a grossed out face. Then, I coyly motion at the people behind me.

It works brilliantly! She laughs and does the same.

I feel like I’ve just cheated fate, and that my embarrassingly gassy problem may remain a secret and not cock block me tonight. I smile at my triumph, and begin to feel as though this night is looking up—at least, for a moment anyway. You see, these new vapours are an entirely different breed than before. If I thought my farts smelled bad earlier, I was living in a fool’s paradise. They say that silent really is more deadly... and they are right.

These are pungent and strong. They reek of rotting food and crap. They say that everyone likes their own brand. I believe this is generally true, as disgusting as it sounds, however, these I do not like—not, one, bit. And neither do the people beside us.

Unfortunately for me, I may have successfully convinced my date that it was the people beside us who were farting but the people beside us are friends, who can all talk to each other about the mysterious odours. And it doesn’t take them long to realize that none of them are the perpetrator of the obnoxious billows. It doesn’t take them long before they figure out that the offending odours are indeed my doing.

They start to grouse and cough and shoot me dirty looks. My only response is to pretend not to notice as I continue to covertly barrage them with my own unique brand of chemical warfare. And this is what ends my plot.

The realization that I am the one attacking their nostrils causes them to leave.

Upon their exit, they bombard me with dirty looks and glares. They are shaking their heads disappointingly and talking under their breath. I hear one of the guys call me a pig.

I feel a little guilty.

My date passes me casually and says, “Thank god they’re leaving. I thought that woman had shat her pants.”

“Yeah,” I laugh fakely.

One of the women glares at me.

“Me too,” I add insincerely.

Just for the record, I had not shat my pants. It just... well... smelled that way.

And herein begins the next unfortunate stage of my night. In passing the blame to the group of friends, I had inadvertently screwed myself. Because, with that group now gone, I could no longer fart with impunity. In fact, I could no longer fart at all!

I mean, what was I going to do, suddenly suggest that some other random bar patron had the exact same repulsive smelling odours? My date would see right through me, and the game would be up.

My cute and geeky date gives me a playful pat on the ass and stirs my thoughts from my dilemma and back to reality.

She grins and tells me that it’s my turn.

I should be gleeful at the obvious sign of flirtation from her, yet all I can think about is how that pat on my ass felt like it almost caused a disaster in my pants.

As the night progresses I begin to feel like some kind of colon-based weightlifter, stuck holding an asshole shut with all their might, lest they get a face full of human poop gas. At first, it’s doable. But the longer it goes on, the more unbearable the strain becomes. I need release!

After a few more games of pool, I break down and excuse myself for the restroom again. I start to wonder how many times I can do this. At what point will she think it’s weird that I keep running off to the restroom?

I rush into a washroom stall and immediately let out several large blasts.

Disgusting, vile, putrid, sweet release!

I cough and gag a little at the stench of it. However, after a few quick bursts, that’s it. There’s nothing left.

I drop my pants and crouch down on the toilet. I try to strain my bowels and let out the feces that is causing me so much trouble tonight yet... I can’t. I sit on the toilet for nearly ten minutes, waiting, trying to fart or crap or something, but I don’t crap, and I don’t fart.

“Fuck me...” I mumble under my breath.

Hunched on the toilet, I grunt and stress my bowels. I try pushing as hard as I can. I clench my abs like my life depends on it. As a result, a few more tiny squeaks pop out, and that’s it.

Breathless and strained, I realize that this can’t be good for my intestines.

My stomach churns and groans.

Ugh... unable to crap, brewing farts like crazy, what the hell am I going to do?!


I return to my date and tell her that I think I’m getting tired. I tell her that I’ve been having a lot of fun, but I shouldn’t stay out too much later. I tell her that she’s an amazing girl but I should leave shortly. I tell her all this, in an attempt to end the date.

Sadly, she misinterprets.

She agrees that she is getting tired too. She agrees that she’s been having lots of fun, but shouldn’t stay out much later. And she agrees that I’m amazing, but she should leave shortly too; she should leave shortly, with me.

She looks at me and asks with grin how far away I live.


The entire walk home, my mind is lost in a brown haze. My head is swimming with an intense burning fear that my ass will soon explode and ruin everything.

I managed to squeeze off a few more pressure reducing farts at the bar before we left. I used the guise of offering to pay the bill, and going up to the til to do it. However, even with those extra few farts at the bar my gut is once again killing me, and I spend the entire walk back with my asshole clenched shut. I’m fighting the urge to walk on my tippy toes, but feel like I’m still walking like a corn cob has been shoved up my ass.

My date is holding my arm, and tells me that I seem tense.

She doesn’t know the half of it.

We arrive at my apartment, and I realize that she’s been touching me, a lot. She’s touching my arm and shoulder as we talk. She gives me playful pushes and asks to see how big my biceps are. She squeezes my ear and tells me they’re cute. She’s finding excuses to be physical.

I realize that my silence and indifference tonight seem to be turning her on. The more I withdraw from her, the more she wants to pursue me.

It’s ironic that on the one night of my life when I should not be on a date with a girl, I am at the top of my game. And I have farting angst to thank.

I find myself sitting on the couch beside her. She’s talking—about what, I couldn’t say—while my gut is wrenching and I am in complete agony. All I want is to release my butt and yet I can’t bring myself to do it in front of this girl. So I am sitting on the sofa beside her, desperately trying to figure out a way to excise myself from the situation.

Still drunk from the bar, I realize that alcohol does not help in the formulation of devious plans.

She laughs at something and I realize that I just spoke, but I don’t know what I said. I realize I am sweating slightly and I think I am causing permanent damage to my intestinal tract with all the pressure that’s on it.

I can’t figure out a plan, so I decide to tell her that I need something from my car. However, at that moment she slides her hand to my thigh. She smiles gently and asks me something—again, I couldn’t tell you what. I’m not convinced I have the capacity to hear conversation anymore.

Caught in the middle of plotting and being put on the spot, my mind goes blank, and all I do is stare. I stare, and stare, and stare. I’ve gone zombie.

However, I realize that being frozen in a brain fart may be a good thing. Perhaps this will weird her out, and she’ll let go of my leg. I promise myself that if she does, I will run out of the apartment instantly. Much to my chagrin however, it doesn’t go down that way. Instead, regrettably, she misinterprets my gaze as the kiss-stare manoeuvre.

She is staring into my eyes, and I into hers. She starts to rub my leg eagerly, and licks her lips. It doesn’t matter what she asked me anymore, because she doesn’t want a response. At least, not one in words—I can see it in her eyes and realize that I am fucked.

With a slight grin, she leans in. She leans in and we kiss.



In my head, I should be cheering and triumphant. I should be celebrating and ecstatic at the vision of making out with this cute, geeky girl. But all I can think about is the mass of gas in my colon, and wondering if there is a way that I could cross my legs or shift my ass without crapping my pants in the process.

I shift my butt, under the guise of turning towards her, but we all know that it’s really only to gain a better vantage point from which to hold in fecal burps. She kisses me more and more and more.

In my head I am desperately trying to figure out how to stop this.

As we kiss, I am worming and wiggling. Every movement to a new position relieves the pressure ever so slightly, but then it returns in force. Were a naive observer to see me now, they would wonder why on earth making out is giving me a spastic seizure.

I’m trying to focus on this girl, and block out the knowledge of my inflated innards, but it’s just not possible. As she starts to remove her shirt I realize that I have to act before it’s too late.

“I need to get something from my car!” I suddenly blurt out.

“Forget about it,” she says, as she pulls me back to her lips.

“No, I gotta go!” I scream.

She starts to kiss my neck, then my check, then my stomach. You can guess where this is going right?

I feel my pants, and then my boxers, come off.

“I gotta go! I gotta go! I gotta go!”

But my cries for mercy fall on deaf ears.

She tells me to relax with a grin and then, before I know it, she is silent. She is mute, and it is awful. She’s stopped talking because she’s wrapped her lips around my dick. Yes, before I realize it she’s started giving me a blowjob whilst I am holding in the biggest fart of my life!

I close my eyes and try to block out the knowledge that she’s down there, nuzzling and sucking, right next to ground zero for the brown bomb.


I clench my ass harder than I ever have in my life, desperate to prevent any accidental discharge. If I thought passing gas subtly in front of a girl was not so good, what about blowing a shockwave in their face during oral sex?

“You’re tense,” she tells me as she looks up for a moment, stroking me as she does. “Relax.”

She returns to placing her lips on my member and I close my eyes I curse my whole damn situation.

As the blowjob continues I am writhing and churning in agony. My legs are shaking and I’m thrusting my pelvis erratically. I’m holding my breath for long periods and clenching the couch cushions so hard I’m nearly ripping them. I’m letting out short, panicked moans.

Ironically, all of this would be indicative of her giving amazing head if I wasn’t smuggling Hiroshima up my ass. And so, she takes it all as a sign that I’m close to cumming, and works harder and faster and harder and faster. This just makes me writhe in agony more and more.

I feel like my ass is holding back the Hoover-fucking-dam.

I’m sweating and panting and clawing at the sofa. I’m gyrating my hips and kicking my legs.

And yet it goes on. And on. And on.

As it goes on I realize a grim, horrible fact: I won’t cum; I can’t cum; I physically cannot cum! At least, not with the way I’m clenching my body!

I realize that holding in farts and ejaculating are two mutually exclusive events. Like keeping your eyes open while you sneeze, they can’t exist together; they just won’t. I know, because as she sucks me, the only thing I want in the world is to cum and end it so that I can run off into a cave and fart. Yet it’s an impossible dream. I physically cannot climax. And so, the blowjob simply continues.


The blowjob goes on well past the point of sexiness, well past the point where a blowjob should end. One minute turns into several, turns into dozens. I’m on the couch writhing and gyrating and panting and gasping and she is trying to adjust herself because her knees are falling asleep. Her arm is cramping and her jaw is going numb. Her neck is in pain and she literally is losing her strength in her hand.

This whole thing is fucked up.

She’s been giving me a blowjob for thirty-five minutes, and finally, she stops. She lifts her head up gradually, whilst still stroking my penis.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I’m repeating between gasps.

“How are you, uh, lasting so long?” she asks, a little embarrassed. “M-my legs are cramping.”

She has a shamed look, like she’s humiliated that she couldn’t make me cum.

“That’s enough,” I gasp. “It’s OK. That’s good. That’s enough.” I’ve sweat so badly that there’s a stain in the shape of my body on the couch.

I try to bat her hand away from my penis but I’m barely able to move out of fear of finally letting loose. In fact, the failed movement almost causes me to slip up, and I let out a worried gasp. Unfortunately, the timing of the gasp is perfectly timed with her upstroke, and she takes this as a sign. She decides not to surrender, but instead, to heroically redouble her efforts.

As her head returns to bobbing in my groin and her stroke becomes harder and faster I realize that this is it. It’s only a matter of time. I have lasted as long as I can, and in the next few seconds, I don’t know what’s going to happen!

Her lips are sucking and my whole body is shaking. She is moaning sexily and I literally just begin screaming. Every muscle in my body is strained and I realize that this is it! This is it!

My asshole breaks and all of a sudden I let out the biggest fart of my life. It sounds like someone screaming an orgasm through a trumpet. As the heat and shockwave hits her in the face she abruptly leaps back with a startled scream, and falls into my coffee table.

The fart smells like the world has ended. However, it is not alone.

Fart after fart streams out of my swollen sphincter. One after the other, fires at my cute, geeky date and she rolls and scrambles to get away like a desperate refugee fleeing from gunfire. She is gasping and confused and letting out screams of panic.

For my part, I lay there, pantsless, letting out moan after moan, whole body vibrating, as I fart again and again and again. It is literally the most relieving experience of my entire life, more so than cumming even, if you can believe it.

I could’ve stopped I guess. I could’ve dammed the floodgates, clenched pandora’s anus, and ended the winds of terror. I physically could have done something I suppose. But mentally, spiritually, I had nothing left. I couldn’t stop, I needed relief. And so, I just let it happen.

The farts sound like gunshots fighting ducks. I feel like a deflating human fart balloon as every conceivable variety and intensity of flatulence is released.

When it finally ends, my date is standing, horrified, at the edge of the living room. I am pale and drenched in sweat. My erection is completely gone somehow, despite the fact that I didn’t cum. My date is staring at me, speechless—or perhaps just too terrified to breathe in the noxious air around her.

As I lay there, panting, teary-eyed, unable to move, I realize there is only one thing you can say to a person in a situation like this; only one phrase you utter; only one sentence to be spoken. I look up and ask her earnestly: “Did I shit myself?”

There was no second date. If there’s one unanimous rule about how to behave in front of a girl on a first date, it’s this: do not fart in front of her.

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