Tap dancing on grass

And I lay on your bed watching this okay movie and feeling utterly tortured — for two reasons.  The first, because I love you and you don’t love me back and here I am in your room and on your bed and aside from your legs draped across my legs just now you never even touch me.  The second, because for the hour and 45 minutes of which that film has been playing out on your Mac Pro screen I am so desperately trying to hold in a fart.  Rumbling, gurgling, as each wave is greeted with the possibility of relief and then denied that sweet release, doubling back and gurgling again upon itself like a riptide.  The pressure is enormous and I hope you don’t notice each time I wince, my buttocks clenching together beneath your legs, which are now draped across my backside ever since I shifted in an attempt to shake you off but instead you just moved your legs further up my body.  The weight of your legs pressing into my backside, thrusting my bubbling gut into the mattress.  If I farted on your legs while lying on your bed watching a movie in your room, well that wouldn’t even be the worst part (though in a way it would).  Even more would be that the humiliation would be so immense, I could never look you in the eye the same way again — and I think that would be the greater travesty, don’t you?  So for now, I clench.