I knew the moment I agreed to eat Mexican that day that I'd made a mistake. But she'd fluttered her eyelashes and had been so excited to eat Mexican that I couldn't say no.
"So do you want to go to Taco Bell?" I asked.
She stared at me. Clearly she had no sense of humor.
So it was beans and cheese and spicy salsa for me at a more upmarket restaurant. Lots of it. I'd already felt bloated that day. I'll spare you the scatological details, but the gist of it was that my daily motions had become stubborn for some reason.
She wasn't very bright, nor very interesting. But, boy, did she have a body. So my dick took over and commanded my lips to continue making conversation with her. By the time we walked out of the restaurant, the conversation had become insufferably vapid and my arm was around her waist. Yes, I am a pig.
She readily agreed to go home with me. We were on the couch, and under the pretense of watching TV, we starting making out. Passionately. That's when my stomach started rumbling. At first a soft warning, like a person coughing politely. But I didn't pay any attention to it, until I became aware of the mounting pressure in my belly. Midway through the heavy petting session I excused myself and went to the bathroom. The release of air was a relief, but also highly odiferous.
Back on the couch, we continued from where we'd left off. By now her top had come off and her pendulous breasts enticed me. Her hand was inside my pant, she having decided to made acquaintance of its lively resident. And then it happened again. The pressure became unbearable. I excused myself again and rushed to the bathroom to find relief and ended up fogging up the mirrors. But the relief was immense.
When I returned, she had a quizzical look on her face. "I'm fine," I mumbled, and avoided looking at her by taking one of her large nipples in my mouth and sucking it. She was hot. She was passionate. We were both naked very soon, on the couch, on top of each other. As the pressure built up again, I knew that if I excused myself once more, it would kill the moment. So I decided to summon all my inner strength and bully my body into submission. And it seemed to work. We continued to enjoy ourselves. Both of us deriving pleasure from each other.
And then it happened. My inner strength wavered for a split second. That's all the air needed to escape. And it did, with the fanfare of a marching band rendering a Souza number. The odor hit a moment later. It was gagging, suffocate-me-with-a-cloth-soaked-in-chloroform odor.
She went pale. I could see that she had paused mid-breath. The poor thing didn't know whether to breathe in or out. I didn't know if I should ignore it as though nothing had happened or laugh it off or apologize. In the end I did nothing. The lively little man wilted. Her nipples retreated.
A few moments later, catching her breath, she slid from under me. "I just remembered," she said frantically. "I have to feed my cat."
She wore half her clothes in a hurry, carried the other half and ran out so fast that she was a blur.
That night I sent an email apologizing. I never got a response. Not that I expected one. But I also resolved that I would not have any more Mexican food on dates, even if the said dates were in Mexico.
No comments:
Post a Comment