Just not a B'n'B kind of guy

 

(610 words)

My disdain for the Bed & Breakfast option nearly surfaced when the sweet West Virginia proprietor told us she’d had some guests from Pittsburgh the previous week.

I almost blurted out, “Oh, and how did they taste?”

But I bit my tongue, unnerved by the prospect that our hosts might be biting it later on.

I’m not going to contend all B&B operators are cannibals (well, they are in the slasher movies) but I’ve never stayed in a single one where I didn’t move all the furniture in front of the door.

What kind of people would want a bunch of towel-stealing strangers roaming their halls day and night?

It’s just weird.

Besides the fear of being eaten and served to the other guests, staying in a B&B prevents me from doing two activities I enjoy in my own home.

That would be farting and having sex.

What? You thought I was going to say Yahtzee?

Farting and screwing are two reliable home pastimes.

I say farting and having sex like the frequency of the two are neck-and-neck. Alas, the count is lopsided. I do a whole lot of the one and comparatively little of the other.

I won’t keep you in suspense: for every 15 or so farts, I probably get lucky once or twice.

Those of you with a nose for statistics may sense that all that farting is to blame for the romantic tally coming in a distant second. To you I say, you’d be wise to keep your nose out of my business, especially when the topic is flatulence.

But let’s stipulate I fart. A lot.

Just not when I’m in stranger’s home, which is the essence of your average B&B. Farting in the dining room after a big meal is considered rude. So is farting on the back porch even when frogs from the nearby pond can camouflage the offense.

Heck, you don’t even feel comfortable farting in the bathroom. And even in the fanciest B&Bs, the bathroom is where they always put all the toilets.

I know. Go figure.

Yes, I’m even reluctant to make any typical bathroom noises in a typical bathroom.

So, in the end, I wind up succumbing to a sort of self-imposed constipation. 

Sex? Forget about it.

Sure, you can have polite sex, but what fun is that?

Polite sex is when a stealthy hand signals the foreplay has begun and it’s time to whisper what kind of condiment you want poured onto your tummy.

Me, I usually go for the spicy brown mustard so I can imagine we’re doin’ it during a rain delay at the Bucco game, which I recommend every couple try at least once. PNC Park is a great place for quiet intimacy because there’s never anybody in the stands — especially if the Pirates are playing a home game.

I prefer really rowdy sex. Roof-rattling sex. Cat. 4 sex. Sex so tumultuous that when the cops kick down the door you just know they’ve brought folding chairs and the bargain bags of kettle korn.

You just can’t get away with that in a B&B.

I feel sheepish mentioning all this because we wound up having a lovely time at our secluded little B&B. It was relaxing, scenic and we weren’t hoodwinked into dining on the remains of the tubby Clevelanders who’d stayed there the previous week.

We got home safe and sound and full of memories and, of course, full of the accumulated compounds from a weekend’s worth of captive gas.

It mattered not because there’s no place like home.

Even when it’s full of fart.

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