You're Not Disgusting | Preview | You x Male
Here you were, backstage at your boyfriends’ gig. His band was up and coming and had just hit 3’000 listeners, but their manager seemed to secure spots left and right. You and Harris had been together since you were teens. All of your firsts were together; losing your virginities in his car after sneaking out; your first kiss at the movies before you were official; as well as the first time you realized you were attracted to his farts. It came about when his mom was on a shopping trip with her friends, and thought it was a good idea to leave her 16 year old son at home where he could sneak you in. She was what was considered a cool mom but didn’t let you in his room without the door open.
Regardless of what most teenagers were getting into at that age, it was generally innocent besides making out and touching each other through clothes. Harris was worried that his mom would catch him in the act. At least in a car, his mom wouldn’t walk in on you both. As a joke, he decided to sit on your lap and let out the hottest, most thunderous gas you heard from a person. You gasped, and acted repulsed but your blush betrayed you. He did it all the time after that. It was like he always found excuses to fart close to you.
Harris recognized your affinity for his farts before you did. The way you would squirm in your seat, suck in your bottom lip, straighten your clothes. You believed that since he was your boyfriend, it was hot. Like how others would find their partner's natural scent hot, but nobody else’s. Harris would fart in a lighthearted way, but when it came to doing it for intimate reasons. He was shy. You knew he enjoyed farting for you, but face farting and doing it naked always embarrassed him. He liked that you got off to it, and how visibly aroused you became. To you; it was proof that he loved you. If you were dating anyone other than Harris; they wouldn’t indulge you. You were convinced. Most would laugh, shame, break it off when they found a fart porn tab on your phone. Not Harris. Sure, he snickered when he saw how flustered you were, but it didn’t take a minute for him to realize how serious it was.
Once you stood backstage, admiring Harris as he jammed out armed with his guitar while backing for Steven. Steven was picked to be the lead singer largely out of desperation. After all, you couldn’t choose just anyone to sing for their punk rock band. They searched all over the Internet for anyone that wanted to be a front man for them, but they all sucked at singing. Everyone that would perform in the audition sucked. Even Steven wasn’t great, but he was far superior than the others before him. It helped that he embodied the lifestyle of a punk rocker; carousing at underground clubs where they beat the shit out of each other; drinking until he was anchored to the ground like a mouse in a glue trap. He was a sloppy drunk, and everyone hated it. What was there to do? Downgrade the singer?
The stuff they did didn’t concern you, just annoyed at times when you wanted to be close to Harris while he practiced. Your boyfriend has had a lot of part time jobs since he was old enough to work; always saving it for one thing but then changing it to another. First, it was a car. However, he changed it to a guitar when the band formed. Specifically an ebony Les Paul Supreme Gibson. You were angry at first, $4000 was missing from your joint account that you didn’t expect to be gone. Then right there, right in Harris's arms was a guitar that he named Rumi. Out of all the names he decided on Rumi. Every name would have been stupid in the moment, but it fizzled out when you saw him practicing every morning and every night. He looked up the guitar tabs to the songs he was learning, and it became a habit.
When the show wrapped up, the small crowd erupted in cheers. A few drunks tripped over their own feet grasping to touch one of the guys. It was often women, but tonight numerous men in the audience were attempting to get a piece of the action. Luckily, no ankle grabbing happened. Harris shot you a grin while trailing behind the drummer. The stocky, bald man named Evan. He was the life at any party; mostly because he could pick up anyone and hold them up in the air. I mean anyone. Even someone his own size could be picked up like a toddler. Forget playing the guitar to impress anyone, they were too interested in doing ice skating poses while Evan held them up.
You held your hand out for Harris, letting him pull you into a hug. The scent of alcohol infused lemonade still hung on his t-shirt from when it got spilled on him; Steven had a pattern of getting drinks handed to him when a hangover would hit. Harris, being the klutz he is, had some spilled on him. As you leaned in to kiss his shoulder, you could smell the sweat that came from being under the spotlights in the summer. He was summer to you. Everything good about summer derived from him. The music, the way he touched you in the right places, and especially the meals he would make after you dealt with the worst drama in your family. It didn’t need to be mentioned, but his farts were a bonus. Whenever he passed gas, your brain would melt. In your notes app, you recounted the experience as the pinnacle of your existence after a while of him farting around you.
In high school, Harris had a curly undercut, and only wore oversized shirts with identically oversized jeans. Initially it was comical to you. How his baggy jeans could almost swallow his skinny self whole when he sat down. You saw Harris day-to-day with his group of goofy friends; the ones that were noisy and obnoxious. That was what kept you away from him, never being able to be alone with him. Until he approached you while his friends were in the middle of seeing who could drink the most milk from the little cartons they gave out at lunch. Harris was not a confident type, it was clear when he could only make conversation about the keychains on your backpack. He was stuttering, and rubbing the back of his neck. The white color of his Blink-182 shirt brought out the honey colored tone of his skin. Even as you rambled about redundant things to get his attention, you stared at the mole under his right eye instead of his pupils.
The pretexts to come to you became frequent. The conversations grew longer, lasting after school and in text messages. Now, he was wearing tighter clothes and rocking a mullet. You thought he wouldn’t be able to pull it off; that it would look silly. However, it didn’t take you long to realize anything on him looked sexy, everything he did was sexy to you. He was attempting to stick his tongue in your mouth in front of his band mates; something he knew made you embarrassed. You pulled your head away, shaking your head as if he was a dog trying to lick you on the mouth.
“What? I’m not allowed to kiss you now?” Harris asked with that classic shit eating grin of his.
“Not like that!” You exclaimed, impishly pushing him away. “You’re just trying to embarrass me.”
“No I’m not.” He replied, not even trying to sound innocent. “I just missed you…”
“You can miss me without trying to floss my teeth with your tongue.”
Harris cracked up, putting his arm around your shoulder to guide you out of the club with him. He made sure that his prized guitar, Rumi, was strapped on him before leaving. The band was loitering around and drinking their beers, used to how you both played around after a gig. But they would never imagine what you two did after shows, or perhaps they did. Most couples would fuck in the success of the night, which did sometimes happen when it came to you and Harris, but they would never guess that farting was the foreplay. Your mind thought about the fun the night would bring, but your mind was interrupted by your boyfriend as he leaned into your ear. His lips brushing your ear as he whispered.
“I loaded the hell up on sliders at the bar before going on stage. They were slathered in melted butter and shit.” Your eyebrows perked up at the quiet announcement, looking at him with a look that could only be described as a mix of lust and surprise.
Harris didn’t usually gas himself up. His normal diet was enough, unless he decided to eat less on a certain day. You never wanted him to overdo it to the point it was painful for him, and he agreed to not do it unless it was a special occasion. He must have thought tonight was special enough to please you with this; farting for you and him. You had no words, just suppressed giggles at the image of how it would all happen. The tension in your stomach coiled tight as you walked to your car. Just the anticipation was enough to make your heart rate spike.
Once your asses hit the seats of the car and Rumi was in the backseat, Harris let out a relieved sigh, laying his hands on his stomach. “I thought I was going to fucking explode.”
“Oh no, poor baby.” You tease, reaching over to put a hand on his shoulder.
“Shush, you think this is hot.” He points out, looking at you with a slight smirk. “I would make you wait till we got home, but I think I’ll die.”
You thought about how tight his stomach must feel. Harris was terrible at holding in his farts, so it wasn’t a surprise that he couldn’t wait until you both were alone to enjoy it in private. He rubbed his own stomach, groaned as he used his other hand to recline the passenger seat. With a slight grunt, a huge crackling fart shot out of him. He really was holding it in for you. Your toes curled in your shoes, hands clasping the other into a ball as you resisted the urge to reach out and touch his thigh. Harris groaned, his hand remaining in the same spot on his lower stomach.
“You’re so fucking tempting when you push like that.” You venerated, feeling your heart thump in your ears.
“You’re so gross.” He teases, his lips twitching into a simper.
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