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 prohibited.

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 desk.

‘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 office.

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 be?



Photos courtesy of: Stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos .net
                                Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net