Girls don’t fart. Duh. We have this tiny mechanism inside of us that vaporizes any waste that needs filtering. That would probably also explain the bloating.
Anywho, farting in general for women is not a good look. Talking about it isn’t really cool either but whatever, you don’t know my life. So you know that farting around men is especially dangerous, so we think. It is feminine suicide.
Whomp, whomp. Boys get to have all the fun.
I usually try to be a ladylike as possible around the opposite sex. I mean I actually try. I know the rules, kinda, at least the basic ones. Don’t scratch. Don’t burp, don’t yawn. and the most obvious one, don’t fart. So there we were having this nice Mexican meal at the usual neighborhood restaurant. I ordered my usual, Pollo Loco, not too cheesy, not spicy, ya know. It’s a nice evening. The food is really good. We down a few margaritas and what not. The check comes, he takes the bill. Head down he is fumbling for his wallet. I feel my tummy bubbling. I know what time it is. I casually swing my legs to the left in an attempt to make a classic exit. Buuuurrrrmp. He looked up. I looked down. I tried to casually play it off as I was bending down to pick up a napkin on the floor. I blamed it on those plasticky restaurant booths. I almost got away with it. But I think I paused too long. A sec too long in hesitation. My face showed embarrassment. He squinted his eyes at me. I felt mine water up. What seems like forever passes before anyone says anything. He laughs first. I sigh. No use in carrying this charade out any longer. I apologize profusely. Mid laugh, he farts too. I laugh. Hard. Guess it was love at first fart.