The path towards the current state of my holy union was laid shortly after my wedding in 2010. My newly-minted husband and I set off for our long awaited and much yearned for trip to India.
Having wooed me with all sorts of chivalrous shenanigans during our two year ‘courting’ stage (you know; love letters, gifts, chocolates and watching reality TV with yours truly), I was hooked. I definitely saw myself as his delicate little flower. Little did I know what was just on the horizon.
Now, I’m going to be honest. I’m one of those girls who runs the tap when they have a doozie of a twosie to drop, in the vain hopes of masking the sound. Should a blast from my arse somehow manage to catch me off guard, I find it’s always best to have a contingency plan. My favourite go-to move is to squeak my chair and declare, “It was the furniture, I swear!” If a chair is not handy, then drumming up some squeaky friction between the floor and your shoe will usually do the trick.
So imagine my surprise when, shortly after our arrival and one prawn biryani later, I was hit with what my husband and I have since come to lovingly call the ‘Delhi Dung’. Our first night was the sort of situation you hope never to encounter, let alone with your own Prince Charming outside your door.
Somehow I devised the plan to claim back my lady-like dignity and decided that I would make up for this debacle with lots of mind-blowing sex. I was determined to lunge for my hubby as soon as my butthole would allow itself to pucker again. Yeah, you can pretty much guess how that went.
The funny thing is, it was a little bit of ‘baptism by fire’ (pun intended). Once you’ve popped, you really can’t stop. Now, I have no problem letting one rip in my marriage bed, and this delicate little flower has realised that basically a marriage can be summed up in two words: farting and fucking. I’ve Delhi to thank for this cathartic liberty.
published 26 April 2014