Sheldon
Senior Member
- Apr 2, 2010
- 5,213
- 1,431
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So I used to go to college, went for only one year. My entire time there I had this major crush on a girl in my Economics class. I wanted to ask her out the moment I first saw her--stunning, in a word--but I was too nervous, or, in other words, I didn't have the balls.
But finally, on the last day of the year, I got up the courage to ask her out. A "no" wasn't going to kill me, I figured. When I did ask her, to my complete surprise, she said "yes", so we set up dinner plans.
I let her choose, and I'd pay (how it usually is
). She ended up choosing on this Indian place. This would be my first time ever eating Indian food, so, at the time, I didn't know what this food would do to me.
The date was going really well. We had the same sense of humor, she liked the same kind of music as me, we hated the same classes. Towards the end of it, though, I started feeling a rumble in my stomach. It wasn't because I was hungry--I was stuffed--but it was like I could feel the food moving through my stomach and my intestines.
It all started with me trying to swallow the burps.
Then, the farts began building. I couldn't let one rip in front of her, but I couldn't hold it in for much longer. It was like a time bomb in my anus. I excused myself from the table, power-walked to the bathroom, and then let it all come out.
I thought that was the end of it.
When I got back to the table, we decided to order dessert; or, in other words, she decided to order dessert and I don't tell her this food is waging napalm warfare on my intestines. About five minutes later, I could feel the second assault brewing. I had just gone to the bathroom; I didn't want to look like some kind of freak and have to go again, not on a first date. I decide to just wait it out. I'm a man; I can deal with this.
So it's coming, like a volcano, and if I get up it might all come out. If I could just let one, silent fart out, this would all go away. There were people at the other tables close to us; I figured she'd think it's them: "there's no way he'd fart on our first date".
I let the fart squeeze out, silently. It felt like an orgasm to my butt. But then I felt something else and all I could think was "oh, shit".
Literally.
Now, I was wearing khaki pants. Maybe if I was wearing jeans or black pants, I could get away with getting up from the table, turning around with my back to her, and walking to the bathroom. But I sat there, trying to figure out how big the stain was and how long it would take before she could smell it. I leaned on the armrest a little to keep from completely sitting on my own shit.
Once we finished dessert, I paid for the meal and we left the restaurant. She hadn't said anything about the smell. I tried not to walk like a cowboy. On the walk back to the train station, we passed a clothing store. I had some money left over, and--it goes without saying--I needed a new pair of pants.
"Hey," I said, "you mind if we stop in here real quick? There's this sweater I was looking at last week and I want to buy it before they sell out."
"Sure. I'd like to look around, too."
Fortunately, mens clothing was on one side of the store, and womens was on the other. We split up. I grabbed the first sweater I saw, then discreetly went the khaki's. I thought about putting on the new pants in the changing rooms, but there wan't any toilet paper in there, and I needed toilet paper bad.
As my date was still looking around on her side of the store, I rushed to the register and said to the cashier, quietly, "Just the pants."
"What?"
"Just the pants."
"Oh," she looked at me weird, "okay."
As she's ringing it up, I look around the store again. My date was still over there, so I'm safe, I thought. The cashier handed me my bag and I took it. We left the store for the train station.
I walk a couple steps behind her. The smell is getting really bad. I'm sweating out of anxiety and embarrassment. My heart's racing; I'm not thinking straight. I just want to get to a bathroom, wipe, put on this new pair of pants, and then go home.
Once at the train station, she tells me she has to go to the bathroom. After she goes into the women's bathroom, I dart into the men's. Once I'm in, I go to a stall and open up the bag.
The sweater. That stupid cashier bagged the fucking sweater. The pants aren't there. The smell is getting so bad, that I hear a guy come in to the bathroom and gag a little then leave immediately.
Think about what you would do.
I had no choice. I took my pants off, took my underwear off, and cleaned up. Then, I put my leg through one arm of the sweater, and my other leg through the other arm. I'm wearing a fucking sweater like a pair of pants.
But at least I'm clean.
At this point, there's no use continuing the date. She can't see me like this. A few minutes later, she calls into the bathroom. I don't answer. The train leaves. I wait for awhile longer, then get on the next train headed to campus.
I never saw her again.
###
I just got this in email, and took some liberties with it in this post. I'm still dying over here.
But finally, on the last day of the year, I got up the courage to ask her out. A "no" wasn't going to kill me, I figured. When I did ask her, to my complete surprise, she said "yes", so we set up dinner plans.
I let her choose, and I'd pay (how it usually is
). She ended up choosing on this Indian place. This would be my first time ever eating Indian food, so, at the time, I didn't know what this food would do to me.The date was going really well. We had the same sense of humor, she liked the same kind of music as me, we hated the same classes. Towards the end of it, though, I started feeling a rumble in my stomach. It wasn't because I was hungry--I was stuffed--but it was like I could feel the food moving through my stomach and my intestines.
It all started with me trying to swallow the burps.
Then, the farts began building. I couldn't let one rip in front of her, but I couldn't hold it in for much longer. It was like a time bomb in my anus. I excused myself from the table, power-walked to the bathroom, and then let it all come out.
I thought that was the end of it.
When I got back to the table, we decided to order dessert; or, in other words, she decided to order dessert and I don't tell her this food is waging napalm warfare on my intestines. About five minutes later, I could feel the second assault brewing. I had just gone to the bathroom; I didn't want to look like some kind of freak and have to go again, not on a first date. I decide to just wait it out. I'm a man; I can deal with this.
So it's coming, like a volcano, and if I get up it might all come out. If I could just let one, silent fart out, this would all go away. There were people at the other tables close to us; I figured she'd think it's them: "there's no way he'd fart on our first date".
I let the fart squeeze out, silently. It felt like an orgasm to my butt. But then I felt something else and all I could think was "oh, shit".
Literally.
Now, I was wearing khaki pants. Maybe if I was wearing jeans or black pants, I could get away with getting up from the table, turning around with my back to her, and walking to the bathroom. But I sat there, trying to figure out how big the stain was and how long it would take before she could smell it. I leaned on the armrest a little to keep from completely sitting on my own shit.
Once we finished dessert, I paid for the meal and we left the restaurant. She hadn't said anything about the smell. I tried not to walk like a cowboy. On the walk back to the train station, we passed a clothing store. I had some money left over, and--it goes without saying--I needed a new pair of pants.
"Hey," I said, "you mind if we stop in here real quick? There's this sweater I was looking at last week and I want to buy it before they sell out."
"Sure. I'd like to look around, too."
Fortunately, mens clothing was on one side of the store, and womens was on the other. We split up. I grabbed the first sweater I saw, then discreetly went the khaki's. I thought about putting on the new pants in the changing rooms, but there wan't any toilet paper in there, and I needed toilet paper bad.
As my date was still looking around on her side of the store, I rushed to the register and said to the cashier, quietly, "Just the pants."
"What?"
"Just the pants."
"Oh," she looked at me weird, "okay."
As she's ringing it up, I look around the store again. My date was still over there, so I'm safe, I thought. The cashier handed me my bag and I took it. We left the store for the train station.
I walk a couple steps behind her. The smell is getting really bad. I'm sweating out of anxiety and embarrassment. My heart's racing; I'm not thinking straight. I just want to get to a bathroom, wipe, put on this new pair of pants, and then go home.
Once at the train station, she tells me she has to go to the bathroom. After she goes into the women's bathroom, I dart into the men's. Once I'm in, I go to a stall and open up the bag.
The sweater. That stupid cashier bagged the fucking sweater. The pants aren't there. The smell is getting so bad, that I hear a guy come in to the bathroom and gag a little then leave immediately.
Think about what you would do.
I had no choice. I took my pants off, took my underwear off, and cleaned up. Then, I put my leg through one arm of the sweater, and my other leg through the other arm. I'm wearing a fucking sweater like a pair of pants.
But at least I'm clean.
At this point, there's no use continuing the date. She can't see me like this. A few minutes later, she calls into the bathroom. I don't answer. The train leaves. I wait for awhile longer, then get on the next train headed to campus.
I never saw her again.
###
I just got this in email, and took some liberties with it in this post. I'm still dying over here.
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