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Old 11-28-2012, 12:13 AM
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Default Anna's Fart

Like everything in life, farts have a time and place. However, I never realized that in the wrong time and place, flatulence had enough power to alter my course in history. Well, it can if it's the third date with the man of your dreams. And, if it makes his eyes burn. If God destined us to be together, I was one SBD away from foiling His plans (that's "Silent But Deadly" for you prudes).

It was about five years ago. I was trying to lose a few pounds so I was staying away from carbs. That's when I met my husband, Rob. On our first date, he booked the next two. He liked me. I liked him. Things were looking real good.

He picked me up in a Cobra, Mustang and his pathetic attempt to win me over with a car totally worked. I'm not shallow, but since I spent most of my twenties picking men up because I didn't want my hair to frizz in their non-air conditioned jalopies on 3 wheels and a 15 year old spare, I welcomed his fancy sports car with open arms.

We arrived at the restaurant and Rob was ordering food I hadn't allowed myself to eat in years. I didn't want to be "that girl" so I ate, drank, and oh, was I merry. Later we shopped a bit. Rob surprised me by buying an expensive pair of shoes that he caught me eyeing. Was this love?

That's when it happened. Gas strikes in two different ways - uncontrollable toots or sharp, shooting pains that feel a lot like dying. I thought I was dying. Not to make a scene, I told Rob I suddenly wasn't feeling well and probably needed to head home.

On the way home in his Cobra, he tried to hold my hand and ask me lots of questions, but I wasn't having any of it. The pain was so bad it felt like I was being stabbed with a bunch of tiny forks. Then I realized ...

My God, help me. I have a horrendous fart on deck. I'm in trouble. Big trouble.

The more I held it in, the more pain would shoot through my stomach and down my legs. I was even having to raise myself off the seat, gripping on to my door and the dashboard.

"Seriously, you need to hurry - I'm in a lot of pain." I managed to say through gritted teeth.

"Wow, it's that bad? What's wrong? Do I need to take you to a hospital?"

How do you tell a man you just started dating that the reason you're writhing in pain is because you have to fart?

Well, you can either tell him, or like me, let the fart speak for itself.

People, hear me. There was nothing I could do. As impressive as I am with sphincter control, this was out of my hands. Slowly, it eeked out. The more I tried to stop it, the more it forced it's way through the door. However, to my pleasant surprise, there was no sound. I sat silently, sweat accumulating above my upper lip. Ok, maybe I got away with it. Maybe I'm home free. Then it hit me. Not an idea, a cloud. A horrific, fart cloud. Not in a, "am I smelling something?" sort of way. More like a "is someone dead and rotting in your trunk and am I in hell?" sort of way.

Suddenly, I panicked. "Roll down the windows!" I screamed (yes, I literally screamed it like I was in a horror movie).

"What? Why?" Rob asked, starting to freak out because I was freaking out.

"I can't roll down the windows, unlock it! UNLOCK IT!"

"What's going on?" Rob yells back to me, "Why are you ..." then it hit him. I could see it in his eyes. Was it surprise? Horror? Water started to accumulate at the base of his eyelids, "Oh my God, I CAN TASTE IT!" he screamed.

"Roll down the windows!" As I screamed, the toots started to flood out uncontrollably. I scratched and clawed at the window like I was being kidnapped. Rob, unable to see either by fart cloud or panic, kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of unlocking the window.

It was chaos. We were acting like we were under siege by gun fire. We were under siege alright, just not by gun fire.

Finally he was able to hit the right control and he rolled down our windows. We both gulped in fresh air. I was horrified, yet happy to be alive, then remembered I just farted on the man of dreams, then sorta wished I was dead.

We sat silently for the rest of the way home. Although the shooting pains had subsided, I now desperately needed to use the bathroom, in an urgent, explosive kind of way.

He pulled up to my apartment and before he could come to a stop I had already jumped out, "Ok, thanks for dinner, sorry about the fart, love the shoes!" and ran in to my apartment like I was running from the cops.

I burst through my door and ran straight for the bathroom, where I was finally able to unleash and make noises that no one should ever, EVER, hear coming from another person.

Then I heard it. Rob's voice. Right. Outside. My. Bathroom. Door.

"Anna? You left your shoes in my car and your front door was open. Where do you want me to put them?"

"Get away from the door!" I scream like Reagan from The Exorcist.

"Ok, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

*toot* *toot* *splatter* *ungodly noise*

"I'm fine, Rob - just leave the shoes there. I'll call you later okay?"

"Okay, are you sure you're ..."

"I'm fine! Get away from the door!"

This man! I mean, I love him, but take a freakin' hint!

Finally, I heard the front door shut, and the Cobra engine zoom away. I thought that was the last I'd hear from him. I didn't think it was possible to ever see a man again after he screams he can taste your fart after only knowing you for 48 hours.

But, to my surprise, I did. A couple days later, actually. Now we're married and he's laying on the couch while I type this ... "It was your rack that saved you," he just lovingly reminded me.

Well, thank you boobs. You saved us. You saved our destiny.

Traumatic memory recalled by Anna Lind Thomas
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  #2  
Old 11-28-2012, 01:03 AM
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Hahahahaha!
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Old 11-28-2012, 01:22 AM
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OMG, this is even worse

Look what happened to me....

So I did it. Got the snip -- the tiny tubes terminated -- pinched off the old baby batter blaster -- you get the picture. While it was (as every man who has ever had it done at least one year prior will tell you) a very simple and quick procedure, I would not ever in good conscience tell another man considering it that it was anything less than a miserable experience. Most guys (fellow blank shooters) I spoke with played it down and made it sound as easy and manly as getting a few stitches after a bar brawl -- well I beg to differ. Although, all the slice-snip-burn-sew blow by blow, step by step tales I was told were frighteningly similar -- and mine is no different:

THEY TAPE YOUR DICK!!!- So after sitting slightly nervous and unquestionably cold in an ass-less gown for about 15 minutes -- periodically wiggling my pink pal just to shake out the shrinkage all the while being mindful not go full mast -- I mean who gets a hard-on in a cold doctor's office while waiting for some dude to rip open your sack and jam some scissors in the hole? Not this weirdo -- Anyhoo, the doctor & nurse bust in like they were trying to catch me jerkin' it (I'm too quick handed to worry about that) and get to work. I lay back, and ol' doc flips up the gown with the vigor and assuredness of a popular jock prom date -- pulls out and rips off about two feet of masking tape -- grabs my #### -- stretches it past my belly button -- and tapes it quite securely to my abdomen. In hindsight I think it's so my Johnson didn't retract into my pelvis as the pain, shame and discomfort slowly consumed me.

MEATBALLS IN A HOLE- The next step in prepping for the procedure was a generous coat of peroxide lathering my thighs -- then came the covering. The doc held up a dishtowel sized heavy cloth with a 3-4 inch diameter hole, well stitched and reinforced with a canvas-like material (you know, so your balls don't tear through it like wet toilet paper when they figure out what's about to happen to them). My freshly shaved scrotum poked through and also received an incredibly cold peroxide dousing. He says "this might get a little uncomfortable" and begins kneading and emulsifying my scrotum between his fingers looking for the right tube to terminate (there are a few on either side) and then came the needle. . .

YOU FEEL EVERYTHING- "You're probably going to feel a sharp pain and a some burning, but then you should not feel any pain from here on" -- Now, it's not that he was lying, but it's really not that simple. Needles don't bug me and a Novocaine shot is really not that high on the pain scale -- so far so good. Then he cut into my scrotum using some Chinese method I got a pamphlet on, but didn't give a #### enough to read about -- felt every bit of it, but it was not painful -- numb, but sensitive enough to know exactly what was happening down there without looking. He tears me open quite aggressively (still no pain, but discomfort was creeping in) and then the snip. . ...Ooooohhhhhh the snip. I could write a 2000 adjective only essay on the sensation that shot through my lower abdomen and there is not a woman on this planet that could read it and have even a slightest inkling of what I experienced in that very moment, but it only takes four words to let a brother know -- Kicked In The Balls. Not the initial contact pain like when the foot hits the ball or the balls slap the thigh or butthole, but the stomach ache fallout that follows. It's extreme nausea without the possibility of puking AND getting the wind knocked out of you without the breathing issue AND the cold sweats of a fever without the hot skin mixed with the sharp stinging sensation (and I'm assuming here) of being stabbed.

This was the point where I made the decision not to look up and see what was going on -- let me explain: It was during the birth of our first child that I discovered something about myself that had not previously occurred to me -- blood and gore does not phase me in person. I actually cringe sometimes when watching something particularly graphic in a movie or on TV, but when I peeked over the curtain while sitting beside my beautiful and insanely brave wife and (against the advice of the doctors and nurses in the room) peered directly into my wife's open abdomen -- did not feel faint or woozy or even the slightest bit phased witnessing the c-section birth of our daughter (I think that I am one in a very small group of men that can truthfully say that my wife is indeed beautiful both inside and out). And again for my son's circumcision (it's not mutilation if it can actually help him get laid when he is of sound mind and consenting age) where I watched wide-eyed and unflinching as they pinned back and peeled off the extra skin of my infant's penis without so much as nose crinkle. It surprised me -- I felt slightly faint in anticipation both times, but not even a knee buckle once the gore was in view. Now, after all that chest pounding I will humbly admit that I was in no condition and harbored no desire to attain so much as a glimpse of what this sadistic prick was doing to the closest friends of my taped dong.

EVER WONDER WHAT BURNT SCROTUM SMELLS LIKE?- I'm not totally sure exactly what was cauterized, but I smelled it. Didn't bug me -- it's the first thing every non-lethal sharpshooter out there told me about because it was so disturbing for them -- and because of that I was mentally prepared for it. It was weird though -- worth mentioning.

THERE ARE TWO- I am well aware that I'm no genius and this may just be common sense to most men out there -- maybe it's because I never gave it very much thought -- but it is a two part procedure and that did not initially occur to me. Two places to numb, two holes to cut, two tubes to snip and remove (which look like two small sections of spaghetti noodles -- which my doctor pointed out when he showed me commenting, "hope you weren't planning on pasta for dinner tonight" -- worth the co-pay alone) because most men have. . .everybody now. . .two balls. Duh. This was both surprising and disappointing to me as the first one is no picnic and after the full frontal sense assault I was in no mood to go through it again, but it was actually a lot easier. This time I was already entirely numb and I could identify each tug and snip as landmarks along the shameful journey and I knew exactly how many more pokes and puffs of flesh smoke were left until I could get out of there and get a burrito.

. . .AND THEN I PASSED OUT- Okay, procedure's over -- doc is gone -- nurse is gone -- and it quickly becomes (painfully) obvious that I did not shave above my penis as I rip the tape -- and my pubes -- off of my abdomen. That hurt, but detaching the tape from the loose skin of my now embarrassingly small and shriveled dick helped me to forget real quick. I was not in any pain, but I instinctively got dressed and walked out of the doctor's office (yes office -- no surgical room) like a 90 year-old with osteoporosis after a 2000 mile donkey ride. I think my ego/pride/mojo was more injured than my balls. I was texting my supportive mate to come pick me up, but looked up to see her popping up from a waiting room chair -- mojo back -- posture back -- let's go eat! We carefully walked to the car and headed to the pharmacy to pick up my new best friend for the next two days. Driving along I gave my better half a quick and g-rated rundown of the procedure and about 4 miles out the car began to close in on me. The corners got dark and I warned my bride that I was going to go under for a moment and then the entire conversation we just had played back in my head at a much higher volume and furious pace -- the screaming in my mind gave way to white noise and I came to slouched in my seat and looking over at an angelic, but severely concerned companion. If getting your balls fondled and shredded by another man doesn't #### with your self-esteem, passing out like a little girl shortly thereafter kind of closes the deal. Feel free to make fun of me.
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Old 11-29-2012, 12:50 AM
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That is hilarious in a most awful and sadistic sort of way.
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Old 11-29-2012, 09:23 AM
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GT....
Damnit, you had to post that didnt you...lmao
Im going on the 3rd of January to get snipped and damn did I actually have to read the whole thing? Geeze.
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