Bodily functions, both liquid and gas, play starring roles this month. Excerpts from Post-Date, published in Red Thread, are done with our promise that the author’s name will be withheld.


About six years ago I went on a date that, to this day, I will never ever forget.

My mom was dating this guy named Dan. Dan’s son, Adam, was coming up to Michigan and mentioned Adam and I were about the same age, 24.

Well, Adam gets up here to Michigan and he’s very cute … a little dumb, but whatever. So, Adam asks me out on a movie date. I acceptand a few days later he picks me up.

His car was old and had bench seats, so it wasn’t two separate seats but one long one. Well, it’s broken, and pushed nearly all the way up to the dashboard. I literally have to sit in this car with my legs spread apart like a floozy, with my [omitted] nearly plastered to the dashboard.

On the way to the movies Adam won’t shut up; this wasn’t conversation, he was just blabbering; and I realize this [omitted] is nearly drunk, if not just plain drunk, already.

We get to the movies, and I can’t even remember what we saw but I know it was a drama. Inside the theater there’s maybe 20 people. We sit pretty much in the middle, but we’re the only ones back there.

The movie starts and this Adam joker is just being an [omitted] … just talking up a storm, being drunk. I just wanna watch this movie.

Finally he quiets down and 30 minutes later I look over to see he’s passed out. Sweet! Suddenly, all is good and I’m relaxed, and enjoying my movie and my tasty treat. Then it happens.

Now, we all know the acoustics of a movie theater.

Slowly, and loudly, the juiciest fart starts blowing out his ass, like, it wouldn’t stop. I swear to Christ, if I’m lying I’m dying.

This fart lasted about five whole seconds — to where I could see the silhouettes of everyone’s heads looking from left to right…like… OK who just sharted all up in our feature presentation?

So, now, not only am I mortified, I’m shaking from the silent laughter because, through the whole fart, Adam never wakes up.

And after the fart, he stirs around all sleepily in his chair. I’m thoroughly disgusted, hoping it doesn’t smell or I’ll barf, but laughing because it was an epic fart, nonetheless — and it was hilarious.

I never told Adam, but I did tell his dad and my mom; needless to say, that was the alpha and the omega of our dating.


It had been over a year since Mr, Right dumped me.

I had managed to avoid seeing him again, even though we had a large number of mutual friends. I suspect our friends worked hard to make sure they invited only one of us at a time to parties; but then there was a oversight.

One beautiful spring evening in Chicago, I had settled in with a beer at a party on the second floor of a four story walk-up, hosted by my good friends. Within a half hour, Mr. Right walked in with a date. The sudden urge to vomit made me realize that I wasn’t over him; I ran to the bathroom.

Looking into the mirror, I repeated over and over, “I am a class act. I am a class act. I am a class act,” until I believed it. I was able to return to the party with a confident smile, say “hello” to Mr. Right and introduce myself to his date.

Mr. Right was very polite, but then, he always was the gentleman even when he dumped me (that’s another story). Anyway, that’s about all I could handle before that urge-to-vomit sensation resurfaced.

I excused myself and moved outside to the deck, where most of my friends had gathered.

I found a seat and noticed there were two empty chairs directly across from me. Before I could mutter, “Please, no,” under my breath, the chairs were taken by Mr. Right and his lovely date.

It’s hard to describe the level of my discomfort as I watched them chat, but I imagine it being similar to staying upright after a blow to the head with a crowbar. Despite all that, I managed to plaster a “class act” smile on my face.

[Then] something dripped on me. Was I sweating that much? Something dripped on my head. Could the upstairs neighbor be so rude as to water his deck plants during this party? When the dribble became more of a current, I glanced up to see a shadow between the upper deck boards and heard the clicking steps of … a dog.

The upstairs neighbor, too lazy to take it for a walk, had let his dog on the deck to relieve itself. I was so traumatized that I have absolutely no memory of how I responded or what followed.


No. Memory. At. All.

I understand that my friends helped me wash up, and Mr. Right left to find a better place to enjoy his date.

In hindsight, although he denies it, I believe the event triggered something for Mr. Right; I must have been the “class act” he couldn’t resist.

He proposed within a year.