#2 The Sex Fart. I was in bed with this same lucky gent mentioned above, and he went down on me and … actually, no: He was going down on me, and I ripped it. Loud. Loud enough to foster the illogical hope that maybe – just maybe! – he’d be momentarily confused and think some third party had snuck into my room and smashed her fist down on some massive piece of bubble wrap. Alas, this did not happen. In the short term: We both stopped what we were doing. In the long term: We found it hard to look each other in the eye. Which, of course, did not help us stay together. A variation on this theme has happened more times than I care to count. And in the broadest sense, the situation’s left me with the impression that I am but a Fart Cinderella seeking her Prince. “Where is he?” I ask. “The one who won’t mind?”