The Farter

28 Feb

Brian lived in the apartment above me at my former residence in Williamsburg.  We met for the first time when I came home from work one night and he and my roommate were rolling doobies in the backyard.  I politely declined their herbal offerings, but agreed to join them for drinks upstairs.  Brian was a big pothead and his apartment looked like a hippie commune, complete with all sorts of crazy tapestries, a plethora of plants, and an assortment of loose felines.  He introduced us to his favorite cat, a female named “BJ” – short for Brian, Jr.

I assumed he was gay.  His vocal inflections were very effeminate and my roommate told me that he used to be a male model.  He got out his portfolio and, sure enough, there he was- half-naked, posed provocatively with attractive women.  I showed a current picture of him (in which he is stabbing a miniature squash with a butter knife while spilling red wine all over his shirt) to one of my best friends, and he said he looks like someone who kidnaps children in the back of a van.  I have done many impressions of Brian’s outlandish vowel usage.  It’s hard to convey via typing, but when he would say the word “so,” it contained every vowel in the alphabet and would take him ten seconds to say, ie: “saaaaaiiiiieeeeeeooooooouuuuuuuuwwww.”  He also used more generic British lingo than an actual English person, such as “bollocks,” “blimey,” “fags,” etc.

After that evening I didn’t see him for a couple months.  Then, one night my roommate and I went to a sports bar in Cobble Hill and, as if out of nowhere, Brian appeared.  I assumed she had invited him because she was planning on pursuing his loins (she had mentioned the fact that a year or so ago they had rolled around naked together for a hot second.)  To my surprise, she set her sights on the bartender and spent the majority of the evening smothering him with her monumental mammaries.  Apparently Brian and I appeared to be hitting it off because my roommate kept coming over to make sure we appreciated all of the free drinks she was securing for us with her feminine wiles.  She also kept grabbing his hands and placing them on my legs, something she frequently did when we were out and I was talking to someone.  I could never figure out whether she did this to alienate or “help” me.

After several beers on an empty stomach, I stumbled down to the restroom.  Brian got up to follow me to the “loo” and was confronted on the way by my roommate.  It is unclear why, but allegedly he defended himself by telling her that he had a bowel emergency.  A few seconds later, I came out of the stall to Brian enveloping me in a gigantic aggressive kiss.  As if that didn’t catch me off guard enough, the next thing I see is my roommate bursting through the door, breasts and eyes ablaze, screaming at him: “YOU DON’T HAVE LOOSE STOOL, YOU’RE JUST A CHICKEN SHIT!”  She then proceeded to storm upstairs and out of the bar.  I followed her, apologizing and telling her it certainly wasn’t my intention to make out with that gay goose.  She drunkenly pushed me away and disappeared into the night.

I was pet-sitting for my sister at the time and staying overnight at her apartment, which happened to be four blocks from the bar.  Brian followed me to her place and continued his aggressive tactics on her couch.  At this point, I was willing to ignore his cuffed man capris, beaded necklace, and Hawaiian-print flip flops.  I’m pretty sure there was a pantless scenario taking place when he passionately kissed me and simultaneously ripped the most vibrant fart of 2011 all up on my sister’s futon.  I sprung up faster than I knew was humanly possible.  “WHAT was that?”  I questioned in a tone that was less than friendly.  “What was what?” he asked innocently with a slight grin that came across a little too relieved for my comfort zone.  I told him it would be best if he went on his merry way, and apparently on the way home, he ran into my roommate, still searching the streets of Brooklyn for her car.

I must admit that The Farter and I hung out a few times after that.  Once, we were watching “Lolita” on TCM, and he began thumbing my boobs like a Nintendo controller while hissing “You have fantassssstic titsssssss.”  Another night he came over and was bragging about how all the servers at his bar loved it when he used his “secret weapon”- aka farting on patrons to get them to leave the bar when they were closing.  I am not kidding.  The other thing I forgot to mention is how long his toenails always were.  One of the last times we hung out before I moved out of the building, I tried to hug him goodbye and legitimately stepped on his toenails.  He had on his usual floral sandals, but his toenails protruded further than God intended when he created those pink Walmart flip flops.

The Farter and I never made it past second base thanks to his flatulence.  My coworker commented that it was probably a good thing because if that’s the kind of attention he paid his toenails, his nether regions “probably smelled like Boston Market ranch dressing with a hint of dill.”

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3 Responses to “The Farter”

  1. shannonsutherland February 29, 2012 at 9:58 am #

    Reblogged this on PoopPeePuke – Staying Glamorous Despite the Mess and commented:
    Check out my good friend’s blog about her crazy adventures as a glam single gal in NYC!

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Where Are They Now? « What's in the Box? - December 26, 2012

    […]  The real Clay Aiken is seeking legal action after catching wind of his equine financial gains. The Farter — Although The Farter and I met because we were neighbors, he was also on a dating website. […]

  2. Lemme Sleep on Your Couch « What's in the Box? - February 2, 2013

    […] to pass him off to me first to see if he liked me better.  This was a regular game with us (see The Farter).  He sat down next to me and she put his hands on my legs (again, the usual M.O.).  The night […]

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