You farted in the elevator. I know it was you. You played it off like it was that Asian guy who got off at the 13th floor, but I’m sure it was you. When you first got on, I was totally stripping you down, with my eyes. Your beauty filled the space of our love box on a cable. The little delivery guy was holding some flowers, but your perfume made them smell like old diapers filled with indian food, by comparison. I was enchanted by your presence, imagining you rolling back my lengthy foreskin and smiling at the image of my perfect schlong. The swollen helmet shining due to being fully engorged with arousal. You can almost see your reflection in the slick, violet flesh.  I was about to say something to you when I smelled it. A rank, musty air filled the elevator. My eyes burned and my nose wanted to hide under my balls. Your reaction was delayed as you thought about how to cover up your wrong-doing. Your face flushed with embarrassment as you finally made post-detonation eye contact with your victim, me. It was subtle, you may not have noticed, but the Asian flower guy shifted his vase of roses to be between you and him, just before the blast crossed the lift, to my face. My face melted like that scene where the Nazis open the Ark of the Covenant, in Indiana Jones. My nose carried your air-shit to my brain, my tongue held back a wet gag and a little bit of throw up in my mouth. My mind refused to handle the situation that my senses were trapped in. I wanted to pull my head off and beat you with it. You couldn’t wait one more, fucking minute to fire off that air-deuce. I guess the endless nights of unprotected, anal with multiple partners has loosened the purse strings on your hind port. I thought I heard someone blow over the top of a bottle, just before the reek of putrification reached my soul, was that your ass? The Asian guy glanced back at me like he was leaving someone in a burning building, as he got off. I returned his concerned look with a solid stare of confidence… It said,”I can survive this… Save yourself, Yung Chung!” The door opening had cut the percentage of sour air in the room and, in turn, saved both of our lives.
You attempted to play it off like it was the Asian, flower guy, but I knew. His farts probably are far more stinky, he probably eats some pretty fucked up shit.
I still think you’re hot, you just need a charcoal buttplug. Respond if you promise not to eat cabbage ever again.