Part 1
My best friend growing up was a guy named Dave DeGreco. He had long, greasy blonde hair that curled up at the bottom like Mary Tyler Moore, buck teeth, and so many beauty marks on his face that the tough kids called him "Dots." They used to hold him down in the playground and connect his beauty marks with a black marker hoping it would result in a circus elephant or a Mickey Mouse. It never did. When they let Dave up, he would cry and hide in the coat closet.
Despite these shortcomings, and a boatload of others too numerous to mention, Dave ended up with a girlfriend in the 10th Grade.
Her name was Laura. She was ugly and mean, had hairy arms like Lancelot Link Super Chimp and her dad drove a sky blue Lincoln Continental Mark IV. They were made for each other.
Prior to his going out with Laura, me and Dave would spend every non-school hour together, playing basketball or wiffleball or watching TV. After Laura showed up, I had to renew my friendship with former friends that were even worse than Dave. Guys like Pete DeSilvio, Tony DePietro and Augie DiDimonico. Life sucked for me, but on Sundays, the pasta was good.
Then one day, Dave asked if I wanted to go on a double date with Laura's friend Margarita Ruriani. Turned out Margarita liked me. Who knew? I was in 427 classes with her and she never said a word to me. Once in gym class, during the dreaded square dancing marking period, she tripped me on purpose while I was promenading with Cheryl Satriali.
I had probably rubbed it out to Margarita over 200 times which put her in the same grouping as my math teacher Mrs. Rosner and Trish Nixon. I couldn't be happier to go on a date.
The girls decided that we would rent bicycles built for two and ride around Hecksher Park before having a picnic and then going to a concert at the band shell. Pretty damn ambitious for a first date but what choice did I have?
The morning of the big event my grandpa made over-easy eggs with a pile of corned beef hash from a can that was so big, Richard Dreyfus could have used it to build Pike's Peak. I ate it all. Then he beat me at Stratego a couple of times even though I moved my bombs. The old guy was a Stratego savant even though he hated the French.
Bicycles built for two were lame but Dave and I had a plan. Get the girls to ride in front so we could look at their butts. Margarita was wearing a plaid skirt that had the potential to ride up on her. It was my lucky day.
Hairy armed Laura gladly sat up front. Margarita wanted to be in back because she was afraid to steer. Now she was going to get to look at my butt. Fuck luck.
As I mounted the bike my stomach began to percolate. The lethal combination of intestinal tract microbes, corned beef, chocolate milkshake and cold Pillsbury broccoli and cheddar quiche (I had sneaked out of the fridge) were starting to ferment in my lower bowels. Copious amounts of nitrogen, methane and hydrogen sulfide were demanding to be released. Like Gandalf the Grey, I brought all my magical powers to bear on the elassitude of my rectum, "Thou shall not pass gas!"
My determination lasted 20 seconds. The warm, supple bicycle seat kind of tickled my balloon knot and I had to let one go. Years of practice in classrooms and the backseats of cars allowed me to deliver the bomb slowly. I lifted up a cheek and opened the smallest aperture I could muster, resulting in a silent but steady release of pressure that lasted all the way to the duck pond.
Margarita didn't seem to notice. I relaxed a bit and carefully repeated the process. This time my results were mixed as I released a series of staccato sighs as if my anus were blowing kisses to my attractive co-cyclist. I was now officially and solidly freaked out and in my distracted state proceeded to slice off a hunk of cheese that could have adorned the head of Andre the Giant. The sound so frightened the paddling of ducks that they left their bread and rose as one, and didn't stop flying until they got to Sunken Meadow State Park and the safety of the Long Island Sound.
Should I apologize or pretend that the obvious didn't happen? I was fairly inexperienced in the nuances of the dating game so I just peddled on through the heavy stench of rotting cheddar and corned beef.
When it was time to dismount, I took a chance and looked at Margarita. Our eyes met. The disgust I was expecting was absent. No smile graced her lips but there was something locked in her eyes. A longing. Maybe, a longing to be as far from me as a frightened duck.
Later, while sitting under the stars, on a blanket, with Margarita in my arms, listening to the Huntington Philharmonic butcher Beethoven, through whispers and kisses I learned of the joys of eproctophilia.
And thus began the greatest three months of 10th Grade a guy ever had.
End of Part 1
Remember the immortal words of James Joyce:
"It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women."
Additional Reading: Great Farts in Literature.
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