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Women Are Writing Honestly About Farting -- It's About Time.

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As the first edit of my Courting Me(n) book is nearly complete, I've had only a few issues with my brilliant editor. There is a piece on farting, a delicious man and my mother that she hated. She edited it out. I asked why. She had definite reasons why she felt adversely about the subject, and claimed that they were her personal reasons and encouraged me to put it back in if I felt strongly enough about it. It took me about 20 minutes to expand the piece to include a story about my mother and the truly deep reasons why this subject is so endearing to me. I insisted it was an important piece and had to be kept in.

My mother was literally punished as a child if she ever farted in public. She is still horrified if one slips out accidentally. I'm sure I inherited that need for having control over cutting them in public.

In my book, I write about a man who loved my farts. I'm leaving it in because, well, it's about time more women write more honestly about sex, gratification, their needs for both receiving and giving, and yes, even about farting.

From our very first interaction, when I let one out by accident, he was ecstatic about it. Every time we were together during out thirty months together he would verbally applaud me for having one, and in fact, beg me to have them and not hide them. After awhile, it became second nature to me. If I didn't fart, he felt I was withholding. It became part of what we laughed about and our laughter was also what I couldn't release. My life, the life in my head is often serious. I worry about my mother's cancer, my own cancer, my father's health issues, my anger at the government, the health care system, believe me this list goes on and on. With him, someone my age, we laughed a lot. It was healthy for me and laughing with him lifted my soul for those moments. I looked forward to them. I missed them.

To have someone want so much, something you've hidden your whole life, is a revelation. That kind of intimate sharing shifts the present moment, and the longer you can have that kind of intimacy, the more it shifts who you really are. Instead of that constant repression just to be polite and appropriate, there is ease with breathing and being. There is a forgiving understanding that nature is nature. We are natural and a fart is part of that nature. It became such a fascination of mine, that I applauded my mother whenever she apologetically farted with absolute horror in her face. Soon, my father clapped right along beside me. The humor about it that started in private with this man, carried over to my interaction with my folks.

I never reciprocated his love of my farts. I never begged him to fart for me. I don't want a world where everyone lets them out without any regard for their intrusion into others' close personal spaces. But to receive that level of adoration, which is so constant, and seemingly unconditional, was enlightening to me.

In fact, at the end, he asked me to put them in jars because he wanted to build a shelf, in his cave, for those jars. He wanted to make a mold of my feet as well, because he could never get to hold my toes enough. No one had loved me as much as he had. To be that loved, in those moments, shifted at that time the way I looked at myself. My father always told my mother, if only you could see yourself the way that I see you. This man was so verbal and demonstrative about the way he loved me. His desire for every single intimate moment with me changed me.

I had appreciation for potty humor previously. I laughed at Blazing Saddles. With him, it was potty applause more than humor. That's a different story. My mother is still horrified and hated last year's highly acclaimed Bridesmaids movie, but I laughed out loud, all the way through the entire flick.

I never laughed with a man more than I laughed when with this one. I'd never been as comfortable naked with any other human being in my entire life. He couldn't hug me or squeeze me tight enough or often enough. I couldn't believe how safe I felt in his arms. If only I could stay there and never leave. That was the problem. Since that very first week, we were fine if we were in bed. But the minute I had to leave my bed, because I had a life outside of his arms, at my desk and with my words, he couldn't handle it.

While I may have spoiled the joy of reading the only farting story in my book, I thought it was an important follow-up to the piece I wrote last week, "Women are honestly writing about sex. It's about time." What's happening in the media about women right now, while certain rigid factors want to return us to chastity belts and back alley abortions, the rest of humanity is asking what's next, what's possible, what's truly best for a healthy future and our spiritual evolution? How can we get along better? How can we find more joy while we're alive? How can we truly live the hours we have left, and not just keep repeating old patterns passed down from generation to generation? Can we have love and satisfaction without conflict? Can we tell the truth and will it lead us to a better place?

One of the main theories of my book is that, as we evolve, we attract those who are also evolving. I believe as people evolve, they give off a centered certainty of calm contentment that lifts those with whom they interact on a daily basis. I myself might be exploding with loved ones because of the incredible stress and tension of finally putting this book to bed and turning it over to others, but then again maybe it's the beans I had yesterday.