I walked from my office to pick something up from the shelf and found myself about 10 feet behind a man who was seemingly headed in the same direction as me. He was familiar, but I didn’t know if he was just a regular patron or possibly someone I might know outside of the library. Hopefully it was just the former.
About three steps into our synchronized stride, I heard a flubbery squeak that was fairly loud. It did rather sound like a fart, but many things make fart noises around our library, including the carts, my shoes, and the gerbils running on their wheels inside all the computers.
Note to self: we really must upgrade to mice, which are smaller and have more energy.
In front of me, the familiar man reached behind himself and, through his nylon shorts, firmly grasped his left buttock in his left hand. With the bun secured, he pulled the cheek away from the other and the same flubbery squeak emanated from the gap his hand had created.
My face contorted into some kind of mixture of horror and disgust. My feet stopped walking, but I didn’t remember telling them to stop.
Unfortunately, the familiar man also stopped, still 10 feet ahead of me, and this time, instead of clearing the way for another gaseous expulsion to exit without speed bumps, he dug his hand between his cheeks and seemed to be scratching or massaging the orifice through his shorts.
At first I gagged and made a turn to avoid hitting the odoriffic cloud that he’d let loose on the planet just a moment ago, and also to avoid touching anything that he might touch before me.
Then it dawned on me – this man, however socially challenged and intestinally free he was, had absolutely no qualms about his bodily functions. He welcomed his farts into this world with cheeks widespread, and he rewarded his anus with a nice rub afterward. That’s someone who loves his body. That’s someone who believes his body can do no wrong. That’s someone with more confidence than I will ever have.
And, dare I say, I was a little turned on.
They say you have to love yourself before you can love anyone else, and I believe it. If this guy loves his bowels this much, imagine how much he might love the more lovable parts on someone else. It was titillating just thinking of the possibilities. Those hands were accustomed to accommodating the needs of his own body. What might he do to someone else? And no one ever need be humiliated if some playful activity leads to their own escaping squeakers because this guy is likely to hold your cheeks apart and beckon them into the world, possibly give you a little rub of a reward after.
Yea, I say! I’m downright intrigued with this man! Perhaps we could all stand to be a little freer with our bodies!
As I rounded the corner and caught up with him, I realized where I knew him from the second I saw that same hand that had so recently been giving himself a nice post-fart stroke was shoving a finger so far up his nose, I thought it might come out his eye socket. Yes. Now I remember. This is the mentally handicapped man who visits the library with his mother. Years ago he used to follow me around in the stacks in the opposite aisle and peek at me through the holes in the books, which inevitably would scare the mother-fucking-shit out of me and I’d almost crack a tooth from clenching my jaw in an attempt not to scream bloody murder.
It was suddenly all so clear.
And now that I’ve amused myself and repulsed all of you, let’s all take a break and have a group vomit! Wheeee!
About three steps into our synchronized stride, I heard a flubbery squeak that was fairly loud. It did rather sound like a fart, but many things make fart noises around our library, including the carts, my shoes, and the gerbils running on their wheels inside all the computers.
Note to self: we really must upgrade to mice, which are smaller and have more energy.
In front of me, the familiar man reached behind himself and, through his nylon shorts, firmly grasped his left buttock in his left hand. With the bun secured, he pulled the cheek away from the other and the same flubbery squeak emanated from the gap his hand had created.
My face contorted into some kind of mixture of horror and disgust. My feet stopped walking, but I didn’t remember telling them to stop.
Unfortunately, the familiar man also stopped, still 10 feet ahead of me, and this time, instead of clearing the way for another gaseous expulsion to exit without speed bumps, he dug his hand between his cheeks and seemed to be scratching or massaging the orifice through his shorts.
At first I gagged and made a turn to avoid hitting the odoriffic cloud that he’d let loose on the planet just a moment ago, and also to avoid touching anything that he might touch before me.
Then it dawned on me – this man, however socially challenged and intestinally free he was, had absolutely no qualms about his bodily functions. He welcomed his farts into this world with cheeks widespread, and he rewarded his anus with a nice rub afterward. That’s someone who loves his body. That’s someone who believes his body can do no wrong. That’s someone with more confidence than I will ever have.
And, dare I say, I was a little turned on.
They say you have to love yourself before you can love anyone else, and I believe it. If this guy loves his bowels this much, imagine how much he might love the more lovable parts on someone else. It was titillating just thinking of the possibilities. Those hands were accustomed to accommodating the needs of his own body. What might he do to someone else? And no one ever need be humiliated if some playful activity leads to their own escaping squeakers because this guy is likely to hold your cheeks apart and beckon them into the world, possibly give you a little rub of a reward after.
Yea, I say! I’m downright intrigued with this man! Perhaps we could all stand to be a little freer with our bodies!
As I rounded the corner and caught up with him, I realized where I knew him from the second I saw that same hand that had so recently been giving himself a nice post-fart stroke was shoving a finger so far up his nose, I thought it might come out his eye socket. Yes. Now I remember. This is the mentally handicapped man who visits the library with his mother. Years ago he used to follow me around in the stacks in the opposite aisle and peek at me through the holes in the books, which inevitably would scare the mother-fucking-shit out of me and I’d almost crack a tooth from clenching my jaw in an attempt not to scream bloody murder.
It was suddenly all so clear.
And now that I’ve amused myself and repulsed all of you, let’s all take a break and have a group vomit! Wheeee!
4 comments:
Hmmmmm. The label "freaks" is probably redundant since it looks like every post is going to get that tag. Maybe time to rethink the classification system? Just sayin'...
(Yes, I am in a metadata class this week and next, sorry.)
Quickly! To the vomitorium!
So ripping a few & picking your ass in public turns girls on? Maybe I should give that a try some time.
Phil
Echoes in a Nomad's Head
LOL-aahhhh, farters. There's at least one in every library. Ours is one of the librarians, and once she walked by and let one rip that was so bad I had to make up and excuse to leave my desk!
Talk about silent but deadly... ;)
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