When I heard about the premiere of the new Spider-Man movie, I rushed to see it. I wanted to dress up in full costume for the occasion, so I searched everywhere I could until I found a good, nice, and cheap costume—or so I thought. I bought it on a whim and saved it until the day of the premiere. That day, when I went to put it on, I was in for a few surprises. First, I realized it was about two sizes smaller than mine, so naturally it was very tight, so tight that it perfectly outlined the tank top and shorts I was wearing, which distorted my silhouette and made me look like a clown. So I had no choice but to stick with just my boxers. My silhouette wasn’t distorted anymore, but as a result, nothing was left to the imagination. The good thing was that I had the body to show it off, and the outfit flattered my athletic figure; the bad thing was that the fabric was poor quality—very thin and see-through. If you stood in front of me, you could easily see the color of my boxers—which were yellow at the time—so I had to switch to blue boxers to blend in with the bottom part of the costume. From a distance, I looked pretty good, but up close, a little weird. Luckily, the mask wasn’t as see-through and covered my face very well, which—considering what happened next—was a huge help.
Well, now that you know what I looked like, I’ll tell you what I ate. That day I decided to have lunch before the show so my stomach would be full during those two hours of the movie and I wouldn’t give in to the overpriced movie theater popcorn. My gluttony got the better of my common sense, and instead of eating something light, I couldn’t think of anything better than to wolf down a huge plate of black beans with a couple of hard-boiled eggs. Why? Well, I’d had those black beans sitting in the fridge for a long time, and they were about to go bad, so I had to use them up. Plus, I was really eager to try them for the first time, so I made them into a soup the way I like it and served them with a couple of eggs that were also gathering dust in the fridge. That day I boiled the eggs because I was tired of always eating them fried and wanted to try something new; after all, it’s not like the cooking method affects how it digests. Anyway, I served myself all the beans (there weren’t many) and ate the whole thing in one sitting. When I finished, I let out a powerful, triumphant burp, full of beans and satisfaction. I rubbed my belly, put on my mask, and headed straight to the movie theater.
To no one’s surprise, my body digested that awful lunch, and before I even set foot in the movie theater, I had literally turned into a walking gas station—nothing out of the ordinary. I was on the bus, about to arrive at the mall, when my stomach swelled up and became hard as a rock. A deep, visceral gurgling echoed from the depths of my guts, and my butt was overcome by the sharp urge to fart. Naturally, I wanted to fart, but that day the bus was packed, and besides, I was absolutely certain of the impact it would have on my reputation if I gave in and let the putrid, loud gas fill the already cramped space. So I clenched my butt cheeks a little, and as soon as I reached my destination, I headed straight for the bathroom; there I could let one rip and get rid of the uncomfortable side effects that come with eating beans.
I opened the door cautiously and, fortunately, found the neat, empty, and sterile space; too bad it wasn’t going to stay that way for long. I pushed in until I reached the bottom, and that’s when the symphony began. First, a test fart; I relaxed my butt cheeks and sphincter, allowing the trapped gas is to be expelled in a long, hoarse sigh. A pleasant sensation of warmth spread through my ass, and I instantly felt better; my stomach felt a little relieved, but not quite enough. I let out a brief sigh and placed a hand on my belly to assess the situation. My stomach was still firm and bloated with gas; I’d made headway, but I hadn’t won yet. Before continuing my farting session, the foul smell of my fart abruptly filled my nostrils, and I must confess that the smell of my own fart truly surprised me with just how disgusting it was—something that’s not at all common for me. While it wasn’t the first time beans had caused me to pass atrocious farts, black beans clearly didn’t agree with me. Any man with common sense would have realized he had an upset stomach based on the farts he was letting out, but of course I didn’t notice. I assumed that black beans caused indigestion in people who aren’t used to them; therefore, it wouldn’t be unusual if I were gassier than usual or if the smell were drastically worse than that of food poisoning. Besides, given the absurd amount I decided to eat, I’d be surprised if it didn’t wreak havoc on my stomach or butt.
“A couple more should be enough,” I naively thought.
Getting back to me, I walked a little further, hoping to leave that horrible smell behind. When I breathed in fresh air again, my stomach growled, signaling the imminent arrival of another fart. This fart had traveled its entire path and was at the exit, about to see the world, but for some reason it wouldn’t come out. It was as if it were asking permission to leave. I granted the request by lifting my left leg up to chest height, and the gas began to move slowly, but I wanted to give it a little nudge. As a result, the fart shot out with a loud roar that echoed throughout the bathroom like a trumpet—it had even bitten me. The good thing was that I was alone. I knew the foul smell would return, and before I could even sense it, I took a few more steps and continued with this stinky business. Once again, the gas knocked on the door. This time, I stood up straight and, with my right hand, reached through the ugly spandex and the fart-prone boxers and spread my butt cheeks to keep the fart from biting my ass. I sighed again; a short, dry fart was expelled without fanfare. I kept finding relief but didn’t feel any better. Not only that, but I’d let out three stinky farts, thinking it would ease my indigestion, but even so, my stomach was far from settling down; instead, I was starting to feel worse. I was still bloated, and my stomach was starting to hurt; the farts I still had inside were starting to feel as heavy as rocks. Maybe it was the rotten air making me dizzy, or the tight suit cutting off my circulation, or perhaps it was the discomfort itself—but in any case, I was tired and a bit dazed. I leaned forward, slightly hunched over; I felt like I was going to fall, so I bent my legs and rested my hands on my knees, with my legs spread and my butt cheeks parted, and I let out more gas; a long but silent fart came out quite gently and slowly. I was starting to feel emptier inside—I thought I was getting better. Furthermore, I exhaled once more and composed myself; as I did, the fart rushed out and ended with a bubbly mini-burst that made me chuckle a little. I still had gas inside, but I figured I could let it out after the movie ended. Speaking of the movie, I patted my stomach a few times and checked the time; the show had already started—or at least the commercials were playing—so after bombarding the bathroom and leaving it reeking like a corpse, I left, praying that no one would walk in. Fortunately, there was no one there. Still, I thought about the little devil who might walk into the bathroom, but by then I had hurried into the movie theater.
While I was watching the movie, I started to notice that my stomach kept demanding that I let out some farts, but since I was at the movie theater, I couldn’t give in to that urge. I considered going back to the restroom, but I was honestly too lazy to do it; besides, I wasn’t going to miss the movie just to fart. The thing is, the urge to fart grew stronger as the minutes went by. I could feel the awful fart I was about to let out in my anus, and I clenched my butt cheeks so tightly that both my boxers and my costume were wedged between them. My stomach growled a little, but the sound of the movie managed to mask it very well, and that’s when I came up with the million-dollar idea: I could camouflage my farts with the noise from the movie! It was the perfect plan, except for the fact that my farts smelled nauseating—but it was still worth the risk. At the end of the day, there’s not a single human on the face of the earth who could tell who farted in a dark movie theater packed with Spider-Men. I apologized in advance to the Spider-Men sitting on either side of me, and for the first time since the movie started, I paid attention to it. Coincidentally, an action sequence involved Spider-Man fighting the villain of the moment, throwing explosive things around the city. I leaned to the right, resting my elbow on the armrest and pretending to scratch my head, and stretched out my legs so my boxers would slip out of my butt crack, but it didn’t work, Suddenly, I was startled by a loud bang; I looked up and saw a flurry of explosions happening on the screen, I grinned wickedly and lifted my left leg slightly—not too much, so it wouldn’t be noticeable—and when Spider-Man dodged the last explosion, I let it out: a “prrrt” that made my buttocks vibrate against the seat. Just as I’d predicted in my plan, the sound was drowned out by the explosion, leaving me in the clear. To no one’s surprise, the smell made itself known once again; it was just as putrid and disgusting as ever. I knew that if I started frantically looking around to see if anyone else could smell it, I’d give myself away, so I kept my eyes fixed on the screen, hoping no one would notice the smell that, coincidentally, had started emanating from me. I glanced out of the corner of my eye at my neighbor “Spider-Man” to my left, and the poor guy covered his nose with obvious disgust. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew exactly what his expression was. As expected, my neighbor turned toward me, and I turned toward him as well, only to realize the smell myself—and I, too, covered my nose, partly because it really did stink and partly because I had to stick to my cover story. My neighbor gestured to fan himself with his other hand, signaling the terrible smell to me. I responded by nodding and diverted attention away from myself by pointing at the other “Spider-Man” sitting in front of us. I shook my head, saying something like, “I can’t believe his nerve.” My neighbor did the same, and we both went back to watching the movie until the smell mingled with the smell of popcorn, and we stopped covering our noses.
I’d like to say that’s where it ended, but nothing could be further from the truth. Since my stomach was full of gas, it was only a matter of time before more of it wanted to come out. This time there weren’t any frantic scenes with explosions or anything like that, but it seemed like the movie was heading into a brief dramatic scene. You’d probably think the volume in the theater was still loud enough to drown me out, but no, the characters were speaking less and less, and it felt like someone was turning the music down to negative levels to the point where I could even hear the others munching on popcorn. I didn’t know how long it would be until the next action scene, and besides, the fart was already demanding to come out, so I had to take the risk. To get away with it, I had to let one rip—silent but deadly—which can go either really well or horribly. The first thing I did was lean back completely against the back of my seat; that way, my next move would look completely natural and not at all like that of a farting guy. I spread my legs wide open, making me look vulgar and ordinary. With my butt cheeks almost completely apart, my boxers and costume dug deeper into the crevice of my butt. I let out a deep sigh, and little by little, as I relaxed my sphincter, the fart came out in abundance with a discreet silence; the discomfort in my stomach was so severe that my body temperature dropped to such an extent that the fart felt very hot; it made me think that my skin beneath the costume had completely lost its color and I surely looked pale. I succeeded—I let one rip, and once again no one knew who it was. In exchange for no one hearing a word from my ass, a powerful and truly dreadful stench began to invade my nose—a smell worse than the previous ones. This time, I didn’t care if I looked suspicious, and I covered my nose, even though it was a futile effort. Since I was the first to cover up, I ran the risk of them thinking I’d let one rip and was now feigning madness—that is, if I had actually done it, but as for the rest of the Spider-Men—except for the guy to my left—they didn’t know what I was smelling to react that way. I didn’t mention it before, but the fart took about five seconds to come out completely. During that time, I made the mistake of not directing it anywhere, and consequently, it spread everywhere. It’s likely that my seat still stinks to this day; my neighbors on both sides reacted with disdain (and rightly so) and covered their noses under their masks. The fart also spread to the rows behind and in front of me, and I witnessed the commotion it caused. Apparently, we were all wearing the same crappy masks that don’t block bad smells. I tried to act like just another poor victim of that anonymous “Farting Spider-Man”—who was definitely not me—but I have to admit I was dying of embarrassment, and under my mask, my face was burning with humiliation. I’m definitely dead inside. Other people’s farts must be one of the stinkiest things to smell. After all, we’re not used to other people’s bodily odors, which is why it always smells worse when someone else lets one rip—but even when my own farts were worse because of my upset stomach, it seemed like a total overreaction to me that some guys were leaving the movie theater because of the smell. I thought they were just going out for some fresh air, but no—they weren’t coming back at all. Maybe it’s just me, because I’m biased by my own farts, but they didn’t seem so disgusting to me that I’d miss the new movie and flush my money down the toilet—never has a saying been more fitting.
During the first half of the movie, I was farting away, using the same techniques over and over again. By that point, my neighbors already knew—or were beginning to suspect—who was farting, and they were most likely accusing me in their minds, but I was still playing the innocent victim who didn’t even know where he was. So I wasn’t giving them enough evidence to accuse me out loud. As for the other Spider-Men—especially those sitting farther away from me—they, too, were starting to flee in terror from the horrendous smell. I had practically turned the movie theater into a gas chamber—the more farts, the fewer people; the fewer people, the more confidence and ease I had to let one rip—but it still wasn’t enough. My stomach kept getting worse; the cramps and twinges were killing me, and I started to lose control. My sphincter, under constant stress, began to give way unpredictably. I’ll give a special mention to the moment a painful cramp made me hunch over in my seat, and before I could clench my buttocks and sphincter, a mischievous fart slipped out of my butt cheeks, making them vibrate and causing the seat material to amplify the sound in the already silent theater. Immediately afterward, the remaining Spider-Men turned to look at me, glaring at me in their decent—or even better—quality suits. I was drenched in sweat to the point that my suit and skin had become one, reeking of shit and eggs, and with both hands clutching my aching stomach, I had the nerve to blame the chair for the noise. To do so, I had to shift my hips slightly so the chair would make a sound similar to a fart, thereby justifying my lame excuse; incredibly, the sound the chair made managed to convince some of the Spider-Men, and what finally convinced the rest was the other fart I let out when I let my guard down to make the move; the other Spider-Men took that as good enough and stopped paying attention to me.
By this point, I wasn’t even watching the movie; I was just writhing in pain in my seat while farting uncontrollably. Small, bubbling farts—They weren't making too much noise, but I had basically turned into a stinky, traveling orchestra, even though I had my butt cheeks clenched tight to block the gas, my ass kept expelling it, and every so often I’d suffer spasms that made my sphincter relax involuntarily; my butt cheeks would spread involuntarily, causing shit to peek out of my ass, and before it could all come out in one go, I’d clench even harder, my butt cheeks contracted again, forcing the shit back into my anus, but it demanded to come out once more. I had a fart stuck between my butt cheeks that, between each spasm, slid closer to the exit. I couldn’t stop it, so I had another spasm—a brutal cramp made my anus relax involuntarily, my butt cheeks parted, and with nothing to stop it, they expelled the unwelcome guest lodged between them, “Hsss” was what I heard and felt, but I knew it wouldn’t be an innocent fart, so I acted quickly and clenched again—but I think doing that was the mistake that doomed me, because just as I felt my butt cheeks come back together, a loud “brrrpt” flooded my rear with surprise, I kept my ass clenched but a viscous, abundant liquid soaked my buttocks and spilled out the back. A warm, panicked sensation took hold of me, and I headed for the exit before the smell could be detected—something I should have done from the start.
My goal was the bathroom; with trembling legs and my butt clenched in desperation, I hurried to the lobby, which was packed with people. A sea of red and blue suits was waiting for me, and they were arguing among themselves, outraged by the stench. I made my way through them, waddling like a penguin, my legs stiff, clenching my buttocks to hold back the brown tide, and as I walked, my body kept betraying me. Small farts escaped with every step, leaving a stinking trail; luckily, they got lost in the commotion and the collective outrage—or so I thought—because I heard someone say,
“Yo! That guy just soiled himself!”
I froze; I could feel all eyes on me, panic washed over me, and I started walking faster. Since we all looked the same, the stain was the only way to tell me apart. All the Spider-Men started looking for the one who’d pooped himself, but amid all the commotion, I managed to slip away and go unnoticed. No one knew who it was, but they’d remember me for what I did to them, so once I’d escaped the crowd that had spotted me—but not caught me—I opened the bathroom door without looking back.
I locked myself in the first cubicle I saw, pulled my suit down so hard I almost tore it—just what I needed—and when I looked down, I was met with an apocalyptic scene: my boxers were entirely ruined, flooded with a defiant, brown, foul-smelling mess. I gagged and let them slide down my legs until they hit the floor, then I let myself fall hard onto the toilet seat. Likewise, I had to wait a couple of seconds until a loud, long, and thick fart confirmed the slippery sensation on my buttocks, followed by a cathartic and painful cascade that shot out of my body with the force of a hose. Anyone could say it was the strongest stream of urine that could echo off the toilet water; the smell was so pungent it burned my nostrils. After the purge, I picked up my shit-stained boxers, wrapped them in toilet paper, and threw them in the trash, praying no one would find them. I finished cleaning myself and wiped down the suit as best I could. I slipped into the suit naked, feeling the cold, stained, low-quality spandex directly against my skin. Not only could you see the outline of my dick, but also its color. Before leaving the bathroom, I took a deep breath, covered my crotch, and walked out quickly with my head down, avoiding eye contact. To my surprise, the Spider-Man crowd had dispersed, and I was alone in the theater again. I left the mall and hailed a taxi. Before getting in, another fart escaped me, but I couldn’t take it anymore—I was fed up. The toilet at my house would be the next to witness my discomfort. I asked the driver to hurry, and as I clenched my buttocks, I rolled down the window so the smell wouldn’t get trapped inside.
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