Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??
Thursday, 4 February 2016
Women don't fart
Sharing an office with Suzanne had many advantages.
In her early 30s, with shoulder-length auburn hair and
full figure, she brightened my working week. Indeed, she kindled all my five senses.
My 50-year-old eyes feasted on her taut buttocks and fulsome breasts – but only
when she was occupied and wouldn’t notice my attention; I’m a gentleman and
wouldn’t wish to make her feel uncomfortable nor for her, God forbid, to conclude
that I was indulging in unwholesome thoughts. Her gentle voice caressed my
eardrums with intelligent commentary on work-related issues. And as for smell,
her entry into the office was always followed by a delightful waft of Opium
perfume mingled with herbal-essence shampoo. Alas, the touching and tasting
only happened within the confines of my imagination.
But there is one major drawback of sharing an office
with a woman: you can’t fart. Amongst males, one can let an audible one fly,
apologise, and carry on as normal. But with females around, gassy emissions are
Contrary to what you read in biology textbooks and on
social media, pretty women never fart. Nor do they defecate. It is a
little-known fact that females’ waste products, and associated gases, evaporate
from the tops of their heads and smell like hairspray.
One morning in the office, Suzanne at the adjacent
desk, I felt the ominous stomach rumble, like the extended growl of thunder
prior to an electric storm. A swirling vortex of noxious gas was demanding
release and accelerating towards my arse. And I knew it would produce a stench
of eye-watering intensity - six pints of finest cask ale the night before would
see to that - so slipping it out silently was not an option.
‘I’ll pop out and photocopy this document’ I said,
while rising from my chair and grabbing the nearest piece of paper from the
‘Do you want me to do it later?’ asked Suzanne. ‘I’ve
got a lot of photocopying to do and …’
‘No it’s OK’, I interrupted, already exiting the
Clenching my buttocks, I scampered along the corridor
to the deserted photocopying room and closed the door behind me. In the privacy
of this oasis, I leaned forward, hands on my thighs, and prepared to let rip. But
nothing happened. As with other bodily functions – urinating in the doctor’s
bottle, achieving an erection during one’s first sexual encounter – the process
of breaking wind can, paradoxically, fail to deliver when you most need it to.
On this occasion, my intestinal cyclone of noxious vapour had performed a
U-turn and burrowed into the depths of my gut. I loitered a couple of minutes
beside the photocopier, expecting the stomach rumble to return, but the gas
showed no sign of a seeking a reappearance.
Deflated in mood, if not in body, I returned to my
office. As I entered I noticed Suzanne’s cheeks had turned crimson. Unusually,
she did not look up to acknowledge my presence, instead maintaining an
unwavering focus on her computer screen.
And then it hit me. A rancid mix of rotting egg and semi-digested
cabbage clung to the inside of my nostrils. My embarrassment was palpable with
the horrific realisation that, unknown to me, my fart must have slipped out
during my hasty exit. After all, what other possible explanation could there
Photos courtesy of: Stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos .net Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net