Taking Cues from Couple Watching

All I wanted to do was fart; but I couldn’t. We were in sophisticated company and it wouldn’t do to let one rip out there on the elevated terrace of JCT Kitchen in the heart of Midtown. The Garners had invited us out for a birthday celebration, and it was the first big social gathering I had been to in months. The last one was for Mrs. Garner’s bridal shower at Wine Shoe. Somehow, this couple was the only one who had been successful at coaxing me out of my house in semi-formal attire and heels. Ever since the third baby was born, the epitome of my social experiences has been a night at the Cheese Cake Factory, possibly preceded by a movie. I am always in bed by 11pm.

So there I stood, in my belted midnight blue dress and plum snakeskin heels, making twin attempts at small talk and containing the fire in my bowels that threatened to explode at any minute. I appreciated the ambiance of the venue. The crowd was young – no person was older than 38 – and there was a steady stream of rich folk laughter permeating the air. Nearly everyone had shown up in a couple, except for the trio of aggressive-looking single Black women who went over to greet the host with a hug, breasts first. Somehow their tatted necks, sparkly eye shadow and orange tinted coifs made sense against the backdrop of votive candles and potted lemon trees.

I don’t know about my husband, but I felt like an antiquity among this group of newly married and freshly coupled individuals. While our conversation centered around what our fourth child was up to, many of them were carrying on about their new apartments in Buckhead, or some new project they were working on at work, or a Braves game they had just come from. I was boring, and I knew it. Boring and gassy. Oh God.

Not only was my conversation vastly different from these late twenty-something folks, but so was my body language. That could have been attributed to the fact that I had stuffed my feet into unfamiliar heels, but I don’t think that was the case. I watched as most of the girls leaned into the chests and ears of their partners, as if sharing intimacies than no one else should be privy to. This only made me lean in closer.

“You wanna another beer?” asked the husband of one of my old co-workers who was there.

“Sure,” she smiled, her blue eyes twinkling.

What was so intimate about that? Nothing – but somehow he had managed to make the question unquestionably seductive, as though he were asking if she’s like to shag in the presence of all these strangers. I felt dirty and intrusive. Marshall was standing behind me and tapped me on my shoulder.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked.

It was a simple question, and very direct. There was no sex in it at all.

“Yes,” I said. “Lemonade please.”

When he returned I downed it in four gulps. Not only was I gassy, but I was also sweaty and thirsty. Finally when I could take it no more, I said my goodbyes and left with my husband in tow. An hour and a half was a respectable amount of time.

“There’s a full moon,” I explained. “I don’t want to transform into a werewolf and frighten your guests.”

The Garners laughed and we were allowed to leave.

The night was still young, so we decided to grab some desert from Café Intermezzo, which is a premier dating spot in metro Atlanta. My husband is an unabashed romantic, and revels in any opportunity to show physical affection to his wife, especially in public. However, that evening showed me that he wasn’t doing it right.

For starters, he was holding my hand. I noticed that virtually every woman was being led to their destination by her butt. Literally.

“When did guys start guiding women by their butt cheeks?” I asked Marshall.

“What?” he chuckled.

“Look over there,” I said. “That guy has his hand on her butt, propelling her forward.”

A few more couples passed and I saw a repetition of the same phenomenon.

“And look at him!” I whispered non-too-softly. “His hand is just above her butt, but just barely.”

“Do you want me to start guiding you by your butt cheeks too?” Marshall offered.

“No,” I said quickly. “I’m good.”

Marshall’s hand is enormous- a palm width of about 6 inches- and my butt is expansive. It would be an entirely inappropriate sight.

However I can’t help but wonder if I should present my posterior as a tether by which to be led by. Is being shepherded by the butt cheek the new “in” thing to do? Like sharing milkshakes from two straws in the 50’s was?

Tom Brady seems to think so.

However given my propensity for gas, it might not be the safest (or sexiest) route for anyone involved. I’m no Gisele Bundchen.

  • This was a post and a half!!! One of your best yet. I ROFLLLLD the whole way through. Good job my dear! Humor is the best medicine invented for farting and all other problems.

    • Hahahaaa!! If only that were true. Can you imagine going to a state dinner, farting in the POTUS’ presence, and then telling he and all the delegates to find the humor in it?

      That would be breaking news I would watch again and again.

      • girrrrrrrrrrrl,if I heard a tro tro tro tro, bubbling from my behind, I would just let it out, and stand mortified at the sound of guns coming from behind me, either that or I would just erupt in laughter. As is, it is embarrassing but what to do?!

  • Nana Ama

    You are a gas! Your take on the banal is such a breath of fresh air:-) if you’ll pardon the puns. Don’t worry things really do get better! I’m having the time of my life in my fifties. None of the angst and posturing of earlier decades. One day you will find out and I hope write about it too.

  • E. Scrooge

    I must have been living in a cave for the past few, not to have caught on to the newest form of display of chivalry… But alas!!! Fear not O ye damsels in (gaseous) distress for I shall volunteer MiLady to test the practicality of ButtGuiding… M, you are in luck!!!! Not only can I boast of an over 6in palmspan (yes, I’m part gorilla, just won’t say from which side).. Milady also possess an expansive butt and she’d have made BillGates look like a pauper were farts the new fuel (I didn’t say anything oooo)… Thus, we have all we need save the FragranceEmittingGloves I’ll need to have a PostExperimentProperlyFunctioningHand!!!

  • I think it makes perfect evolutionary sense. Cavemen started out by dragging women by the hair. It only stands to reason that modern men would drag us where they want us to go by the buttocks.

    Put those gorilla hands to work! 😉

  • Haha…u r brutally honest in your writing

  • Jennifer

    I think I know the difference when it comes to this butt-thing. It’s called class. Not money, family name, or age can get someone class; they have to choose it for themselves as behavior. It’s like exiting a room as a good girl should instead of cropdusting, another new fangled stupid behavior. You won’t find it in the Merriam-Webster, BUT (hehehee) it’s in the Urban Dictionary. Boys have been grabbing our A’s & T’s since the dawn of time, but girls with manners out in public have pushed their hands away. (Men who’ve known women with class, don’t grab at our tushies in public; they know the drill.)