Dategirl

When the Greek and I decided to quit fucking around and give it a go, I promptly freaked out. I worried that it would end in (my) tears. I fretted that I'd no longer have any time to sit around in my underpants and stare into space. But mostly I spazzed over the fact that it had been so long since I'd had a steady piece that I was afraid I wouldn't remember how to behave. Even though I had no doubt that I wanted him, the reality of having a b-b-b-b-boyfriend scared the shit out of me. Until I noted that hanging out with a hot guy who wanted to have sex with me all the time was not only easy, but quite fun as well. In fact, up until this weekend (which we spent together), I felt like I was handling all this relationship crap pretty handily.

However, after 48 hours of non-stop togetherness, I was reminded of the hardest thing about having a new boyfriendand it wasn't the constant hair removal or lugging home the economy-sized box of ribbed-for-her-pleasure condoms. Oh, no. The most difficult thing about having a new man in my life is holding in my farts.

Now I know that if I'm going to be in a mature, adult, committed relationship, the occasional passing of wind is bound to occur. But having been in a number of long-term relationships (though none particularly mature or committed), I knew once that inaugural fart reverberated through my fleshy ass cheeks, it was just a hop, skip and a "pfffft" to non-stop pull-my-finger jokes and Dutch ovens.

See, it's okay if the new guy cuts one. Protocol demands that he sheepishly apologize (like it's some weird aberrationyeah, right!) and that his date subsequently ignore both the offending aroma and apology. It is key that the woman does not, under any circumstances, acknowledge what just happened. It's like looking directly into the sunyou just don't do it. Because once you let that stanky cat outta the bag, it's impossible to wrassle it back inside. (I feel it's important to note that most women can pull a poker face and pretend the offender never pooted. Just try and get a man to ignore the fact that you cut one. It's impossible. Cannot be done.)

I called my friend Trixie for back-up on this theory. "You're so right! Pretend it never happened!" she yelped excitedly as her husband prepared himself a bean burrito for dinner. "Sometimes when he's farting away watching the Yankee game, I yell at him, 'Pretend I'm new!'" Because once a man figures out that you're not going to dump him upon discovering he's a gassy bastard, he'll be doing it all the time.

My friend Sheila's boyfriend is a typical offender. "He'll pucker up and lean over like he's going to give me a sweet kiss," she told me over drinks. "Then I'll go to kiss him and instead of kissing me he pulls his head away, farts really loudly and laughs like a maniac."

I don't know why it is, but men (and please note I'm not talking about 13-year- olds here either) get a big kick out of all things ass-related. My buddy Julie told me about her stint as a gassy houseguest. "I thought I was alone in Vanessa's house, so I was tooting away happily on the couch," she laughed. "After a while, her boyfriend came slowly down the stairs and gave me a piercing glance on his way into the kitchen. I told Vanessa later that I was completely horrified and she laughed it offshe said the look he gave me was one of lust."

Yes, but that's someone else's boyfriend! I asked my wise pal what she thought about letting one loose in front of her man. "The first time you fart in front of your boyfriend is a horrible, horrible business," Julie agreed. "It's a dropping of boundaries that some men can't handleespecially the ones who grew up without sisters. Those are the ones who still think girls shit ice cream and fart perfume."

It's not that I think the Greek can't handle the eau de Judes, or that he thinks my ass reeks of rocky road, I just want to prolong what passes for romance for a while longer, and thus I clench. I excuse myself to the bathroom, run the shower and cough loudly. I wander away occasionally when we're out together. Is that so wrong? Julie doesn't think so. "The fart-holding stage is coincidentally, also the sweetest," she said. "It's the time when you have only kind illusions about him and are still putting forth your best self."

And sure, by Sunday night I was a tad uncomfortable, but excruciating gas pains and a slightly distended belly were a small price to pay for hearts and flowers, right? My buddy Bob agreed wholeheartedly. He pointed out that all that clenching pays off for both parties in the end. "It tones your pelvic muscles," he winked with an evil grin. "The more uptight the chick, the tighter the grip." o