A Flatulent Tale

Why is the “acute stress response” called the “fight-or-flight response”. It’s too polarised. Why not the “fight-or-flight-or-freeze response”? For the anxious person - this one at least - in most cases, when shit hit the fan, neither fight nor flight was my instant reaction. More often than not... I froze. But believe it or not one of the most mortifying moments in my life is also one of my proudest.

The Tale

Once upon a time, I had a fuck buddy. Al, whom I had been seeing for a month, lived less than ten minutes away from my job, which made things very convenient for us both. Sometimes we fucked during my lunch break, sometimes after work. On one particular night, in June, Al invited me to stay over. We ordered Pizza, watched Call Me By Your Name, quickly followed by sex. Just a pair of gays spending the night in. And what a beautiful night it would have been, had I not made one grave mistake.

Of all the relationships I had been in, the most toxic one, is the one I had with Cheese. I adored it. In return, it hurt me, shouted at me, gaslighted me. I had cut out all its relatives, although I kept acquaintance with his cousin, Chocolate. But it was Cheese whom I always went back to, wholeheartedly, without hesitation. An ominous warning of the embarrassment to come.

It. Was. Instant! Soon after ingesting it, my stomach began to protest, churn, expand. Not really something I could have masked well. How could I have hidden what sounded like icebergs detaching from a glacier, one ferocious rumble after the other?

I was a liberal farter around friends and family. Not so much with new romantic partners. I’m not sure why I thought it to be so ghastly. Just thinking about it made me cringe. Al must have known how embarrassed I felt. He glanced at every rumble but made no comments. I appreciated it.

The night wasn’t all bad. The sex was still great. Gazing into his eyes and hearing him moan took me outside of myself. Even as my growing stomach created distance between us. Throughout the night, I tactically found relief every time I went to the bathroom. When I flushed, I passed air in short, controlled bursts, hoping they’d be overpowered by the cascading water.

When I awoke in the morning, the morning light flooded the room gracefully. Al’s head rested on my bicep, open-mouthed, inhaling and exhaling peacefully; his stomach pressed into my side intermittently. A serene moment, or it would have been, had his fucking arm not been pressing down on my stomach. My God. The pain! I moved his arm and removed mine from beneath his head, waking him in the process.

He kissed me. I felt gross; I felt like a whale carcass about to explode. Had he stabbed me with a flaming sword, we would have both died. I needed to deflate, and I had a plan: he would shower first, and the moment I heard the water running - release! However, luck would not be on my side this day. He didn't have work, and he wouldn’t be showering until after his workout… which he wouldn’t be doing until after I left. Meaning - No. Shower.

In the bathroom, there was rain but no wind. As I had done the night before, I tried to alleviate myself in a controlled manner. When the squeak of a strained, deflating balloon came out, I tied the knot. My chest set aflame. I was sure he had heard it. Convinced that the shower could not compete with the tempest within, my arse clenched tighter than a baby’s fist.

I thought food would make me feel better. I was wrong. It was small but took more space than I could spare.

After breakfast, we sat in the living room and Al’s housemate joined in on the conversation. When I motioned to sit on the sofa, my body contracted naturally; my butt clenched impossibly tighter. I knew then I was at my limit.

I wanted to excuse myself, to go to the toilet. But it was at me she talked. Afraid of seeming rude, I smiled and endured as she said things like, “You’d be really good on stage!”, “You’re so castable.” and “A lot of productions are looking for people with your look.”

My breaths became shallow, my smile strained. I had lost track of what she was saying until I heard, “Be right back,” and she left. Al, who had been on his phone for most of the conversation, noticed. An opportunity arose. I dropped the smile. I dropped the act. I reached for my phone ready to make a hasty escape, and in an act of defiance, my body relaxed. Allowing my butt to exhale and - nothing. Lulled into a false sense of security, I stayed, continuing to relax until - on impulse - I blocked the flow of air. “Oh, no!” I thought to myself, as my chest began to burn. “Shit!” - Pun intended. The air, warmer than it had been at the beginning, also felt - textured. But I couldn’t be sure. And this is where fight-or-flight-or-freeze comes in.

In the few seconds it took to analyse the situation with my cheeks, I envisioned several outcomes.

Scenario one: I envisioned myself saying nothing and staying put. Paranoid once again. I hadn't actually shat myself. Why actively draw attention to myself?

Scenario two: I also stayed put. This time, however, I HAD shat myself. His housemate came back. I sat through an even longer conversation until the smell permeated the room and I was found out.

Scenario three: I saw myself, calmly, telling Al what I thought had happened.

They were all terrible options. Flooded with shame and still unaware of the gravity of the situation, I looked into the eyes of the man whose body I had been in only a few hours ago. “Al,” I stammered. “I just shat on your sofa!”

“What?” he replied, rolling his eyes in confusion. “No, you didn’t.”

“I think I did!”

His expression morphed into one of terror and concern - and then into one of laughter. “Oh my god,” he gasped. “Get up! Go upstairs!”

“I can’t. I’m too scared.”

“Get up, now! Before she comes back!”

I hoisted myself up, petrified by what I would find. Standing rigidly, I turned to inspect and there it was: a shiny, slug-shaped stain on the fake-black-leathered armrest. “Oh my God,” I gasped.

“Oh my God!’ he echoed, failing to keep his laugh captive.

“Oh my fucking God!”

Al ran to the kitchen and began looking under the sink.

“Let me clean it,” I said.

“No, she’ll be back in soon. Go”

I ran upstairs and into Al’s ensuite. Before I hopped in the shower, I sat on the toilet where, finally, I was able to fully release the indomitable force I had been storing. Sadly, what should have been a moment of solace was tainted - literally - by shame, anxiety and the stain on my boxers. It peered into my soul. The shame was greater than the damage, though. I expected it to be less… translucent. A mucousy substance with a golden-yellow hue and some fragments of, let’s call them, debris.

Just a week or two prior, as I watched a film with my best friend, I pigged out on a packet of Cadbury’s white chocolate buttons. The next day as I walked to the shop, the same thing happened. Same colour. Same consistency. Why hadn’t I remembered this before agreeing to pizza?

Alas, there I was, naked from the waist down searching for the courage to walk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where I knew Al waited for me.

The End

Just kidding.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and tried to release tension from my arms. Like a guilt-ridden dog cowering from its owner for destroying the sofa - or shitting on it - I stepped out, head bowed and sat on the bed next to him. “I’m really sorry,” I murmured. He chuckled and embraced me. I accepted the embrace but didn’t return it. Then, as if I hadn’t experienced enough shame for one morning, I said, “Do you...” - I cleared my throat, a nervous tick of mine - “Have a pair of shorts I can borrow, please?”

He chuckled again. “Yeah, of course,” he replied as he got up to search for a pair.

Then: “And a plastic bag too, please.”

The real end.

You must be wondering why this is one of my proudest moments.

When faced with anxiety and certain humiliation, somehow I didn’t freeze. I just saw how amazing the human brain can be in a moment of personal crisis, a moment of panic. I’m proud of myself for that.

But, if you ask me if I would go through it again, I’d say, no. Do I regret having gone through it? Absolutely not.