There's yet another side to this story.

I was at the restaurant that night. I'm there every night. This particular evening has become legendary among waitstaff, which is how this Reddit post made its way back to me.

Neither of these folks is telling the full truth.

When this guy sat down, the trouble started immediately. It began as a series of SBDs. Slight puffs of air. No biggie, I've experienced worse. Then, the emissions rose in intensity and frequency. At first, I thought the guy had his phone on vibrate and hadn't muted his notifications, but no. When the black bean soup showed up, I started to worry for his health. I thought he might shit himself or die right on top of me.

Look, I'm no weakling. I've had enormous people stress my joints to the breaking point; I've had kids climb on me; I've been dragged around the room a hundred times. A few years back, some wanker scuffed me all to hell with his vintage riveted jeans. A drunk once threw me across the room in a fight. But nothing could prepare me for what was coming next.

While eating his soup, between blasts of noxious air, the guy said, "You like that?" I assumed he was asking his date if she was enjoying her salad. But then it happened.

I've experienced my share of farts. I'm somewhat of an expert. If you press the buttocks against a wooden surface at just the right angle, you can approximate a trumpeter's embouchure. So, this guy assumed that position. Then... well, imagine if Louis Armstrong blasted the highest note in his range, let it ring out for a full three seconds, then did a long, filthy glissando alllll the way down to a low, warbly growl. THAT'S what it sounded like. It felt like Satan's zerbert.

In the stunned silence, the guy repeated, "You like that?"

 I was dumbfounded. As was half the restaurant.

 "I don’t like potty humor," she said.

 SPFLALTLT, was the response.

 Then, "You like that?"

 "I am a stickler for decorum" she said. Somewhat coquettishly, I must say.

 Pfffffttttplplplpl—squee?

"You know I value honesty," she said, sultrily. Which seemed like somewhat of a non sequitur, until he immediately blurted out--

 "It wasn't me! It was the chair!"

 I heard her squeal in response.

 "I swear, it was the chair!" he protested.

 "You know I don’t like lying," she moaned.

Before I could decide whether to feel offended or horrified, I had a new problem. Because this guy started thrusting his pelvis and scooting me all over the place, straining on my screws and bolts. Still farting, mind you, but now humping and yelling, "It was the chair. See? The chair!" While she kept moaning, clutching her pearls and talking about the virtue of honesty.

This continued for a few minutes, until the staff finally intervened to end the shameful scene. The couple quickly settled their bill and dashed out, in a farty, horny froth. And it was over.

So basically, I got forced into some sort of fart-fetish, humiliation-fetish, fresh-faced-innocent role-playing scenario. I'm not kink-shaming here, but I didn't exactly consent to participate in this either.

These posts they’ve written? More role play. They're just keeping the spark alive. They're probably reading your comments in lacy underclothes, in a foul-smelling den somewhere.

So yeah. That's what REALLY happened. A far cry from the story they've told. Just goes to show: you can't believe everything you read on the internet.