In the tradition of fart stories from Single Dad Laughing, I present:
How not to get kissed
I was 17. He was 18. We were the only expats at our highschool. Two melancholy artists. He introduced me to Neitzche and Fight Club, both of which I found darkly fascinating. I introduced him to Pentecostal fundamentalism and team sports, both of which he found to be darkly fascinating.
He had this interesting effect on my knees that frequently made it necessary to lean against him, much to our Economic teacher’s annoyance.
It was spring. Sunshine filled the air. Flowers and butterflies danced. We left campus for lunch and ate interesting food from a roadside stand and went exploring. There was a large park across the road about 2 km squared. In it was a nearly finished art gallery. We explored each of its rooms that had been left unlocked and unguarded. After wandering the park discussing the essence of art and the nature of reality, we stopped for a bit in a sunny glade.
I sat down surrounded by long grasses and greening trees. He lay down and put his head in my lap. I froze, except for my heart which began accelerating. He reached up and played with my hair, which was shining gold in the smiling sun. Then he tugged my head slowly down.
The surprise and shock hit me at the same moment that our deviant lunch hit my intestines. There was a small eruption right underneath his head.
He sat up quickly.
We weren’t late for our next class.
For a fart story that turns out differently, see: http://hahasforhoohas.com/the-fart-that-almost-altered-my-destiny/