Sitting in biochemistry, I began to worry.
It was the first day of my last semester of college, and one that I’d hoped would rewrite the past three months—three months that had seen me dumped by my girlfriend, rejected by every other girl on campus, and sprouting what I can best describe as burgeoning breast buds.
It was a lot to go through as a college senior, and something that would eventually lead me to take a job at Victoria’s Secret, where I planned to learn everything I could about women—and bras, just in case I needed one someday.
But for the moment at least, listening to my biochem professor read over her syllabus, all was right with the world. I was sitting next to a cute blonde girl wearing a Polo ball cap, and behind me was a stunningly exotic Tennessee Titans cheerleader. I couldn’t believe my luck. Things were finally going my way.
And then I felt it: the gurgle.
It came from somewhere deep in my abdomen, that final, foreboding outpost of the digestive tract where, once the train leaves the station, there’s no turning back. At this point, I know I’ve got about 10 minutes to find a toilet, or things will get ugly. Particularly on this day when, the night before, I’d enjoyed a fajita quesadilla, or what I’ve now come to call a “mud-butt supreme”.
Which also explained the gas.
Like smoke before a fire, there was almost an immediate, windy knocking at my back door. I thought briefly of holding it in; this was the first day of class and I was trying to turn over a new leaf; but holding-it-in has never been my policy with regards to flatulence. Call me selfish, or rude, or loose-anused: but as long as there’s a chance it’s going to be silent, and there are more than two people in the room, I’m going to let it rip.
Eh, It’ll be fine, I thought. Mine never really stink anyways.
Just how gross of a misjudgment this was became apparent to me upon release. It was, for lack of a better description, one of those “hot ones,” the kind that singes on the way out and leaves nearby individuals looking like Satan from The Passion of the Christ: pale and eyebrow-less.
The scent was unlike anything I’d smelled before. Terrified, I glanced at the cute blonde next to me to see if she was still breathing. Thankfully, she was, unlike the poor Titan’s cheerleader behind me. I didn’t even have to look to know that I’d killed her.
The one consolation I had was dissipation. In less than a minute, the scent would clear and I’d pucker my butthole for the remaining 30 minutes to make sure nothing else escaped. So I held my breath and waited.
Two minutes, it still smelled.
Five minutes, it still smelled.
10 minutes, it still smelled.
At 15, I began to feel like Elliot Sattler in Jurassic Park when Mr. Arnold doesn’t come back from the electrical shed. Something’s wrong, I thought. Something’s happened. Something’s wrong.
And then I felt it: the squish.
Oh dear god. You’ve gotta be shitting me.
Completely embarrassed, I very gingerly got up and walked to the bathroom to inspect myself. It was there that I confirmed it: I’d had a complete and utter blowout.
“So, how was your first day of class?” my mother asked on the phone that night.
“It was fine. It was good,” I said. “I shat my pants; but it was fine.”
“So I take it you didn’t meet any new girls today, then?”
I remained single for the rest of the year.