Fact: my husband has a lush physique. His body is lean and muscular with smooth skin the colour of caramel. Twenty-something hotties, middle aged flight attendants and even Bridge playing Nanas can’t help but sneak an amorous peak at my guy’s gorgeousness. He’s certain to get the stamp of approval from men and women, alike.
He’s fit and he’s manscaped—an Adonis of the DILFs, so to speak. But, sadly, my Don Juan Demarco has a trumpet for an asshole. And man, that thing loves to crank out tunes.
Yes, my hubby specializes in anal acoustics. He farts sporadically throughout the day (we both work from home) and he performs a full-on orchestra between 9:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. weeknights.
If you were to peer into our living room window, like a strange stalker in the night, you’d see, as with most couples, a predictable set-up. On the couch you’ll find me, cocooned, all cozy-like in my favourite blanket, eating frozen yoghurt out of the tub. House of Cards or Orange is the New Black might be on the TV. But then, if you turn your creeping eyes to the floor, you’ll find my husband, topless on a yoga mat implementing his nighttime exercises. Not quite as typical, huh?
The fact is, while I’m chilling on the couch, eating froyo in my kimono, my hubby is farting his way to a six pack. I’m not quite sure what’s causing him to gaseously hot box the living room each night. It’s probably the protein powder he puts in his smoothies or the dried apricots that he munches on daily or maybe it’s the repetition of forceful crunches and Pilates-inspired poses. It’s likely the combination of it all and, I fear, I’m slowly being gassed to death.
This is our life. Unless, of course, my hubby is away for work. Then the main difference can be found in the quality of my air supply and the fact that nobody is performing in PU (the yoga mat version of Cirque de Soleil).
I’ve got a lot of respect for my hubby’s vigilance with his weeknight routine. That’s why he’s so fit, after all. But, I can’t un-know the truth about what happens, behind closed curtains, in the homes of hot men around the globe. And I thought you should know it too. Because, behind every husband, with a sweet set of abs, is a wife gagging in a putrid cloud of his farts.