Vancouver
2 min

Airing the truth

Don't hold it in

Credit: Xtra West files

After dating someone a few months, there are secrets you just can’t
hold in any longer. For example, some people pass wind; I manufacture
poison gas. If I eat the wrong foods, I produce an odour rivalled only
by the dead.

Maybe it was the broccoli I’d eaten at supper, or the cheesecake the
night before, or the salami and cheese snack I’d had an hour
earlier-maybe it was all three of those things in some bizarre chemical
reaction-but the other night I was particularly foul. Instead of saying
something, I tried every trick I knew to keep my trap shut.

Lucky for me, I’m graced with a refined ass. I have silent farts,
completely undetectable by the human ear. Early in our dating, there
were a few times when I let one go and successfully had my boyfriend
convinced it was the dog. Even now he says he can’t tell our farts
apart, which sometimes makes her less popular than she should be. So be
it; she’s an animal, and I have feelings.

Other times I strategized and went to the washroom (you can only do
that once or twice in an hour before suspicion sets in), or I clinched
my anal pucker tight and wouldn’t open it for the world. I passed out
at a gig once doing that, and no word of lie, they hauled me out on a
stretcher (yes, my sphincter is that tight). Take it from me, holding
in your bum-breath is unhealthy, and dangerous. Now and then, you gotta
let one rip.

By midnight, just as we were beginning to snuggle, I started to cramp
up in pain from repressing my rear. Every time he wrapped an arm around
me and squeezed, a chemical bomb threatened to roll out of my ass and
detonate. Instead of admitting my discomfort, I pushed away from him. I
hate being chained to my body almost as much as I hate being vulnerable
(the irrational and not very intelligent feeling is, if I smell, he
will dislike me).

It got so that I was afraid to even leave the room, in fear standing up
might exert pressure, or force me to relax the wrong muscle, and
kaboom. Finally, my ass was so sweaty the portal slipped open. A new
evil was born.

“Is that you?” my boyfriend asked.

I looked around for the dog.

“You’re rotting from the inside out,” he said. “It’s like a cloud of
shit; it just hangs there.” He wiggled his fingers in the air above me.

I apologized, sincerely, and told him I’d been holding that poison for
hours. He sprayed two kinds of air freshener, then, much to his credit,
he laid back down with me. As it does when secrets are revealed, my
mind went Ahhh, thankful to have cleared the air.

See Miss Cookie at the Community Achievement Awards, May 25 at Bar
None; tickets at Little Sister’s and Kokopelli’s. She’ll smell like
roses.