Do You Fart in Front of Your Boyfriend?

here are two types of couples: those who fart in front of one another and those who don’t. Where do you think I fall? Back to that later.

The other night I watched the Sex & the City episode in which Carrie farts in front of Mr. Big for the first time. He laughs, but she is humiliated and freaks herself out thinking he will now lose interest in her because of this vile, unforgivable act.

She recounts the incident to Samantha, whimpering, “It wasn’t a choice. I’m human.”

“Men don’t like women to be human,” says Samantha. “We aren’t supposed to fart, douche, use tampons or have hair in places we shouldn’t.”

Well, that blows for me, because guess what? I do all of those. Except douche. I don’t douche. But as for the other three? Hell, I’m rocking a tamp, haven’t shaved in four days and farted five seconds ago. Boo-yah! I’m human, muthatruckas!

On the other hand, it is perfectly acceptable for men to be human and fart. Or is it?

Men Who Don’t Fart

One of my best friends, Rachel, had been dating a guy for about two months when his butt accidentally burped in front of her. Embarrassed, he apologized profusely and said it would never happen again.

But instead of feeling repulsed, Rachel thought this opened a new window in their relationship — and not just to air out the stank.

“No, this is great!” she said. “Now you can fart in front of me and I can do it in front of you. It brings us closer.” To Rachel, flatulence was a stepping stone to intimacy.

Her boo did not agree. He felt it was inappropriate and said he wanted no part of this mutual farting business.

Rachel was heartbroken. You see, to her, this was a dealbreaker. She wanted a guy around whom she felt comfortable enough to be human. She decided this dude was way too uptight for her and dumped him shortly thereafter.

Similarly, I once dated a guy who claimed to never fart. Like, ever. I found it odd because he was a laid-back surfer boy and didn’t seem the type to pooh-pooh a little ass gas.

“How is that possible?” I’d ask. “Everybody farts.”

“It’s disgusting, and I simply don’t do it,” he’d say.

I was dumbfounded. I wondered if:

1. He had some kind of super-powered biological makeup that exterminated any air inside his body before it found an exit route
2. His psyche was so tormented that it wouldn’t allow him to consciously let it out and he floated air biscuits uncontrollably in his sleep
3. He was lying

I went on to spend the night with him several times and never heard or smelt anything foul, which means it was either 1 or 3. Tough call.

Neither of these men wanted to be half of a couple who farts. And they were dating women who did.

I Fart, Therefore I Am

The way I see it, it’s too hard pretending not to be human. It’s challenging enough with the whole ruse of makeup, hair color and waxing. So I beg the male race: please, just give me this one thing. At least I’ll look pretty when I do it.

I eat a lot of fiber. It affords me a bangin’ bod, but it also makes me a tad gassy.

Now, I understand the rules of society and I don’t poot in public or around innocent bystanders. But with the person I love, with whom I must spend several hours — often days — on end? Honey, I can’t hold it in that long. It just wouldn’t be healthy.

Luckily, Tom and I share a very special relationship based on open farting. You should hear us in bed after we wake up — talk about morning thunder. It’s like the horn section of a Big Ten school’s marching band. He calls mine “Bert and Ernie” farts, because they’re short and cute. His aren’t. Those suckers are grown-up ass rippers. But I really can’t complain. It’s organic.

Of course, I broke wind in front of Tom on our second date, but he didn’t know it. I’m crafty like that. But now it’s all out in the open and it’s all good with me.

I’d rather be in a relationship with someone around whom I can be a natural woman, not a robot. I have found my fartner, and he loves me just the same.