Current Age: 32
My mother was—and is—the absolute Queen of Farts. Growing up, our house was filled with stories about her, and since she worked as a nurse, it was just part of that gritty hospital breakroom culture. At home and at work, she never held back; she made a huge, hilarious production of it and was legendary for it. As a kid, I had this weird tension about it, a kind of mild embarrassment that I actually felt drawn to. I think everyone has a little bit of that in them, and that friction between what’s “proper” and what’s “gross” is exactly what makes it funny.
As I got older, I started paying closer attention to the banter between her and her female coworkers. It wasn’t just quick jokes; it was this deep, descriptive humor that went on for a long time. There was this weird sense of admiration for the sheer audacity of it. That feeling from my childhood came back, but it shifted into an association with a very raw, unfiltered type of womanhood. I ended up developing my own reputation with my female friends because of it, and it became a strange, specific way of bonding with the women in my life.
The real shift happened during college. I spent a lot of time at a certain sorority house because my girlfriend at the time lived there, and the girls were surprisingly comfortable around me. One night, a group of them were drinking and started this “dares” game that spiraled into seeing who could be the most “disgusting.” It started with burping, but quickly moved to farting. Because they were all comfortable with each other, it turned into this weird, competitive thing where they were literally leaning in to see who “won” the round. Since I was the only guy there, they made me the “official judge.” I was drunk enough to lose my inhibitions, and when I actually leaned in to settle a dispute between two of them, the intensity of it hit me hard. I noticed that the room got quiet and the energy shifted—it was clear that even the straight girls were getting a charge out of the taboo of the moment. We never talked about it the next day, but it became a “safe space” where that kind of behavior was suddenly okay. Eventually, they’d have me be the one to do it while they judged me, and being the center of that attention was a massive turn-on.
It confirmed that this was a full-blown fetish for me. It felt surprisingly natural in that setting. It makes me wonder if there’s a much thinner line between “fart humor” and a fetish than most people are willing to admit. Sexuality is so much more complex than people give it credit for, and I don’t see why this is any different than any other physical act. For me, it’s always been about that psychological component that crosses the line from a joke into something intense.
With women, it usually plays out in two ways. I love the idea of a woman humiliating me for my own farts, which seems like a pretty easy dynamic to find. But on the flip side, I’d love a woman who actually worshipped that side of me, or who let me do the same for her. It’s about that raw power and breaking the “perfect girl” image. I remember a girl on the water polo team in high school farting right near me because my locker was under hers. She didn’t get embarrassed; she just laughed and called her friends over to brag about it. I was part of the joke, and it was a genuine bonding moment. It didn’t make me aroused then, but the memory certainly did later on. I’ve always found farts funny, and I can’t be close with someone who is too uptight to laugh at them. I keep my secret well-guarded, but if I’m with a woman who’s down to play along, it’s game on.
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