Levels of Intimacy

If those sheets could talk... they would suffocate

I am now going to tackle the relative importance of farting in the construction of a long-lasting, loving couple. I do this knowing that I risk turning this little blog into a big scatological joke, but I have no choice – I need to save face somehow after Leta’s indiscretions about fingers that were pulled and the reaction that such pulling caused.

I believe that finding a life companion is never having to be fake. Secrets have been shared, good traits have been embraced, bad ones identified and ameliorated and also embraced, what the heck. That aura of personal awkwardness has been blown away, and the Masks We Must Wear are left at the door, make up is optional and that bellies are never sucked in, but proudly displayed as permanent reminders of how we must go to the gym soon. Really. Soon, I mean it.

Nakedness is a frontier that’s usually crossed with the first romp, or the second, and at one point the bathroom door stays open through the many tasks of our morning routine. Relationships are lucky to pass the year mark without a shall-not-be-discussed-again moment of hair-holding and boundless barfing. And let’s be honest, with so many carbonated drinks around us, the first belch is just an unguarded moment away. Say, the fourth month. And thus, one by one, the walls between us crumble.

50 years from now (because why think if you don’t think big?), do I want my beloved to lock herself in the bathroom, and then run the water so no sounds escapes that most sacrosanct of all rooms? And say that as the humans that we are, gas accumulates inside of us on a cold, cold winter morning, one of those mornings when the covers form a warm haven that we can’t leave without much consideration of the pros and cons, the consequences of just staying there for a few more hours, until it’s warmer, pleeeeease?, and you hug and cuddle and just enjoy with your eyes closed those lazy minutes where you manage to forget you’re a grown up, with responsibilities, doggone it!

And my life companion suddenly feels an urge she can’t repress, and looks at me. She has to get up, she says, and cross the cold hall to the bathroom. We share a bed, you see. Well, not on my watch, miss! There’s no I in team, is there, so we just keep on hugging and make a huge joke of the aftermath, the shaking of the sheets and the unfortunate consequences. My beautiful princess is human after all, and I feel like celebrating with a concert in Fa minor. To me, that is love.

I might be sick.

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About Hernán Arán

Making mediocre look good. Ish.
This entry was posted in Love Means Never Having to Say 'Your Sense of Humor Is Fucked Up", scatological. Bookmark the permalink.

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