The Guidance Counselor - Chapter 14 (Patreon)

I never understood the appeal of Taco Bell. My parents always took me to real Mexican restaurants, so if I ever bit into a Taco Bell taco all I tasted was a facsimile, a rubbery plastic dummy. The very thought of biting into anything they cooked made me cringe. I hadn’t been to a Taco Bell since I was like 12 years old. I would have loved to forget about it entirely were it not for all the jokes and pop culture surrounding it. “Tacoshits” my classmates called it. I grimaced whenever they joked about it.

Tom Rizzo farted in my presence a few times. I hate thinking about it. I hate thinking about his obnoxious laughter and high-fiving another dude saying “Good one!” or “Dude, that was awesome!” In one of these instances, he blamed it on the Taco Bell he ate the previous night.

Male farts obviously happened a lot in an all-boys school. I pretended not to look and hear them. In my head I plugged my ears with my fingers going “LALALALALA I CAN’’T HEAR YOUUUU!”. Anything that I associated with the male farts I saw I very much hated. There’s a niche attraction to women wearing men’s clothing with neckties and dress shirts, that tomboyish look crossed with business clothes. While Ms. Johnson obviously wore business clothes, the style was catered to the gender norm for women. As long as she dressed like that, I comfortably remained in my lane. If she were to wear a necktie with a dress shirt, I would instantly be reminded of Tom Rizzo farting. Thoughts of Taco Bell also killed my mood – because it was something brought up by all these “manly” boys in a frat boy culture setting, and joking about “bombing the toilet”.

Much to my chagrin, I stared blankly when I walked into Ms. Johnson’s office and she was in the middle of eating a full meal from Taco Bell. Already I could imagine the terrible wafts rising from the toilet….

“Mmm! Hello, Jason. Sit down. I’ll give you a few minutes alone as usual.”

I stared glumly at a large smelly burrito after she stepped out. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Already I envisioned ungodly sights and sounds behind a stall. Yuck.

Ms. Johnson returned; the session began.

I relaxed and tried not to think about unpleasant gross thoughts. I didn’t even realize until then that Ms. Johnson had let her hair down. Jesus Christ, what a woman. Her hair fell perfectly on both sides of her shoulders. She appeared womanlier than ever before. I felt like I was looking at the real her this time around.

By God, she ate a lot, maybe even more than the time she ate Chinese food. It was fast food after all. I do remember inhaling like five Taco Bell tacos when I was in middle school. Something about the way they were made was easy to eat. Every time she bit into a chemical-laden mesh of meat, I both cringed and became aroused. I didn’t yet have a boner – I was still thinking about it. Horniness was buffering…pending…making sure it was safe to be horny.

Her burps after guzzling down a large Pepsi brought me back into it. I completely forgot what the ultimate result might be from eating so much Taco Bell. Watching her burp with her hair down felt like entering a whole new dimension. That’s the interesting thing about sexual desire. Watching something one way isn’t enough – you want to switch it up, watch the same thing but wearing jeans, yoga leggings, skirts, glasses, sunglasses—

The food rested heavily in Ms. Johnson’s stomach. She straight up unbuckled and unbuttoned everything; she was desperate to free herself from feeling so bloated. She sat back and appeared so distraught that she couldn’t even pretend to be working anymore. But I don’t think she was pretending at any point in these sessions. She really had done work and she really did feel so full she couldn’t focus.

She had a bit of cheese at the corner of her mouth. This gave her an image of being gluttonous. It conjured up images of cartoon characters - mostly all male because of course they would never show a woman eating too much in the media - sitting down with a bloated gut unable to sit up, with bits of food at the corner of their mouth.

Ms. Johnson became that image. The transference of male-dominated behavior to a female was something I slowly started to realize drove my gas fetishes. This didn’t mean something as simple as a tomboy. In fact, most tomboys didn’t really turn me on by the premise alone. Specifically, it was a woman maintaining the stereotypical female image but internally exhibiting male behaviors. A woman who belches without a second thought of excusing herself. A woman who isn’t afraid to overeat. A woman comfortable with her body even when it has rolls of fat. I never actively thought of things like the patriarchy or double-standards at that age, but I internally questioned the things I saw and wanted to see the roles swap.

Her stomach grumbled audibly. Her eyes widened and for the first time I saw something akin to fear in them. A bit of an “Uh-oh”. Before I could wonder what exactly she was feeling, she farted aloud. The trumpet blast sounded as though she wasn’t expecting its force. She even jumped a little in her seat. Her stomach grumbled again, louder even, and she had to lean to one side in her seat, lifting a butt cheek, to let it rip.

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!

Half of the fart sounded muffled against her leather chair. That deep, bassy sound indicated how satisfying it must have been. By this time, I had completely forgotten about Taco Bell and Tom Rizzo and shitting and was totally absorbed by how overwhelmed she was by the sudden gas.

“Uff,” she said. That was the first time she had ever uttered a grunt in any of those sessions. Ms. Johnson had been so stoic and handled the ridiculous amount of food and drink with such professionalism but now she had met her match. Her stomach must have been in knots, especially since she wasn’t finishing her meal and looked down at it like it was becoming torture.

Another audible stomach grumble…

“Ohhhh,” she moaned aloud, hugging her stomach and keeling over her seat.

She farted again….and this time it sounded wet. It sputtered towards the end and sounded unreal, like someone just spitting into their arm purposely trying to make it sound gross.

Ms. Johnson shot to her feet, blushing fiercely. Straight as an arrow, she put her hands on her butt and said, “I have to go to the bathroom. I’m sorry. Stop the experiment.”

She was clenching those buttcheeks like she was doing yoga, I knew it.

As she swept past me, I caught a whiff of the most god-awful fart in the entire world. It had been ages since I smelled a fart. I was so avoidant of the smell of farts that I didn’t even want to acknowledge any smell my own farts gave off. The smell made me gag. The first thing I thought was diarrhea. Grade A nuclear waste diarrhea. The image of watery stool instantly popped into my head.

“Ugh…” I grimaced in my seat.

Just like that – my mood was ruined.

I removed the circumferential transducer, turned off the machine, and sat there hearing the wall clock tick away. After about ten minutes of nothing, I felt my chest swell. I tapped my foot, not out of impatience but something else….something that was making me restless.

Was I…feeling left out?

I didn’t WANT to see that shit…

But I still thought about her in the bathroom destroying a toilet and wondering if anyone else was in there. Well, these were after-school hours. All the female teachers would have gone home by now. The janitor would be making rounds but he would always knock on the women’s bathroom before going in to clean.

Ms. Johnson was in a vulnerable position. That much enticed me. The helplessness of a woman reduced to her basest, grossest bodily functions was something that turned me on. Poor Ms. Johnson, always so poised and professional, now suffering a bout of diarrhea from too much Taco Bell. This experience marred her otherwise dignified appearance. Everyone farts, burps, and shits. I’m sure most people had suffered diarrhea at least once in their lifetime. If not, lucky for them, I guess. It was odd to think of the most fearsome figures in history chained to the toilet. Genghis Khan. Hitler. But what about somebody like Audrey Hepburn? Or…I dunno…Nicole Kidman? Someone you only saw one side of in the media but also you knew they had to have suffered daily mundane indignities like bloating and gas.

Nobody else in my school had witnessed what I had witnessed. Nobody else knew the Ms. Johnson that I knew.

I couldn’t believe I stood up.

Reached for the door.

Opened it.

And looked for the bathroom that Ms. Johnson must be in.

The other end of the hallway had the chemistry labs. There was a bathroom there by windows overlooking the lacrosse field. The late afternoon sun shone a beam directly towards the bathroom doors, showing me the way.

I checked the chemistry labs to make sure nobody was lurking around. The hallways were dead quiet and void of activity. You could have heard a pencil roll.

I stepped into the women’s bathroom. I made sure to quiet my footsteps. There were five stalls, and an unruly stench emanated from the furthest one. I kept a safe distance, barely catching a whiff of the scent of shit.

Silence…

Broken by the unholy sound of a fart vibrating the toilet bowl.

PPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!

A deep splatter in water.

And then a long, pained grunt.

I leaned on the stall door next to me, listening and thinking.

Ms. Johnson sounded like her body was literally breaking down with farts. They came out of her in obnoxious bursts. Each of them was inconsistent in their length and depth, but each of them loud enough to hear from my end.

I imagined Ms. Johnson sitting there leaning forward holding her painfully bloated gut, moaning, sweating even, toes clenching and unable to feel a final wave of relief.

PPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHT!

The violence of her next fart made me jump. The sound of diarrhea sloshing into the toilet bowl echoed with bass.

“Ah…ahhh…”

If I closed my eyes, I could have mistaken her for orgasming.

More violent eruptions echoed reverberated. How could she have so much in her? That Taco Bell affected her rather quickly. She must have had a sensitive stomach. What were the odds that the most attractive women I had ever known then also had the power to blast ass like that?

The disgusting sound of shit hitting the water took some getting used to. I had one foot headed in the direction of the door, but the other half of me remained standing there fixated on wanting to hear more.

The farting stopped. She said, “Whew…” and pulled on the toilet paper roll.

I quietly stepped out of the bathroom…only to peer my head ever so slightly over the side to catch a glimpse of her stepping out of the stall. I just had to see what her immediate reaction was after letting all of that out.

She stepped out poised as ever, leaving behind a toilet flushing the most unimaginable filth. Her ass poked out nicely in those pants from my side view of her. She pulled down her blazer and sighed looking into the mirror. She washed her hands, dried them, and continued to gussy herself up in the mirror to appear more composed. Putting away strands of hair, straightening her clothes once again. Another sigh told me that she knew the worst of it had passed. She was ready.

I hurried over to her office.

“Jason?”

Fuck. Too late. Too late. Too late! Much too late! What was I thinking?

I swerved around to face her. Sheepish, I looked down and rubbed my neck.

“Ummmmm.”

I never imagined her to get mad. Even so, I avoided her gaze expecting some sort of chastisement. Instead, she calmly asked, “What did you think of that?”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Then, she gasped a little. “Oh. Right. We should talk about this in my office. Of course. Slipped my mind.”

We went back there, and I couldn’t sit still because I was thinking about the fact that I fucking eavesdropped on Ms. Johnson taking a deuce and she knew about it. I wondered what Tom Rizzo would have thought about that. It would have ruined his image of her. But I would grin and laugh and say that I still liked her. More for me.

“First of all…I’m sorry,” I said.

“No need to apologize,” she said, nonchalantly and opening her notebook.

“Yeah, but, that was…I mean…you told me to stay here and end it.”

“Every experiment has unexpected events. This would be one of them. There’s no such thing as a good or bad result – only more information. Now tell me – what made you want to eavesdrop on me in the bathroom?”
 I clasped my hands together so tight they already started to feel sweaty. I braced through the cringe and told her truth.

“And did this please you?”

“Yeah? I mean…not the smell. No. But. The fact that you, as they say, 'destroyed' a toilet…well…it’s like how guys…I mean…you know the guys here they always…um…” I really had trouble speaking. She read through the lines though, and also remembered my notes, so she finished for me.

“You find something intriguing about a woman defecating very loudly like a man?”

After a long sigh, “Yeah…that’s the gist of it.”

“Interesting.” After a long pause of her tapping her pen on her open notebook, she said, “I wonder if this isn’t so much a fetish centered around gas and the body.”

“What?”

She looked right at me. “I’m starting to wonder if this whole thing, even the bloated belly fetish from the very beginning, is something about women breaking taboo. The norm. Was your mother very strict about gender roles?”

“Yes.” Right off the bat. Easy answer.

“How so?”

“Boys wore blue. Girls wore pink. Boys played with trucks. Girls played with dolls. Boys wore pants. Girls were dresses. Everything was very strictly gendered.”

“Have you felt a certain way about the gender you were assigned?”

“No, not at all. I feel very…averagely male. I'm a guy and I love girls. That's it really."

“I didn’t think you would have thought otherwise but I wanted to check anyway. Was there any crush you had when you were little?”

I bit my lip. I may have forgotten to tell her awkward moments when I was little and “aroused” by bloated bellies from my own mom and aunt. That little itty bit felt just too darn embarrassing to pry open. A death sentence, practically. One that stamped the ugly word “I N C E S T” on my forehead.

Any moment’s hesitation and Ms. Johnson already knew that something was there. Thankfully, as always, she didn’t poke or prod or try to goad me too much to say it. She waited patiently, looking away and letting me take my time.

“Ummmm…”

“Yes?”

“Okay, don’t…this doesn’t mean anything now. But when you asked that the very first thing that I remembered was…uh….”

I clenched my thighs. Saying it was like pulling out a tooth without novocaine.

“ITWASMYMOMANDMYAUNTOKAY?BUTIDON’TTHINKTHATWAYANYMOREIT’SNOTWEIRDNOW.”

Ms. Johnson considered this, and made a note in her book. “Mhm. Interesting. I think we’re finally getting somewhere. Is there any particular memory you can recall about that?”

“No! Well, yes, but not like THE memory that set it off. I remember the time my mom wanted to lose weight. She was talking to one of those vendors in the mall about a deal on a treadmill. I was like five or four at the time and I very angrily tugged her arm and kept saying like ‘Mommy, mommy! Don’t get it! Don’t get it!’. And to this day she wonders why I said that and I hate that she remembers because she forgets everything else but that ONE thing she still remembers. And only I know the truth of it and it annoys me to no end.”

“Why didn’t you want her to buy the treadmill?”

“BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANT HER TO LOSE WEIGHT!”

“And why’s that?”

“BECAUSE I LIKED THAT SHE WAS FAT!”

“And why’s that?”

“I don’t know! It’s the biggest mystery going that far back. I knew my mom had a gut and had trouble with weight and often ate to the point of undoing her pants. At some point my memory only goes so far.”

Ms. Johnson rubbed her chin, thinking of what to write next. “Maybe your mother unknowingly broke her own taboos that she enforced. She enforced strict gender roles on you and tried to follow those roles herself. Correct?”

“Yeah. All of it. She made sure to look pretty whenever she went out. Always had to dress nice, do her makeup. Loreal. Clinique. Estee Lauder. Chanel. You name it, she had it.”

“And you mentioned your aunt. What do you remember about her?”

“Same thing. She was much younger than my mom. From my dad’s side. That was HELLA awkward because she was younger so, in retrospect, I feel really weird about the fact that I actively sought to be around her as a kid when she ate too much and openly complained about it.”

She dressed even nicer than my mom and I cringed thinking about how I liked the way she looked as a kid.

I dug my head into my hands. I wanted to cry. This was weird. So fucking weird. I couldn’t believe I said that aloud to someone.

“Jason,” Ms. Johnson began, “I hate using this phrase but that was, as they say, a phase. At some point, virtually every person who has ever lived has had awkward thoughts growing up about a family member. It’s when these thoughts continue into adulthood that it becomes a problem. Your mind wasn’t yet fully formed and you were attracted to them simply because you were around them so often and had so few other women and girls to compare them to. That’s all.”

I leaned back into my chair. “I guess…”

Ms. Johnson smiled at her notebook. “I think we made plenty of progress today. We really dug deep into things. How do you feel?”

I was still embarrassed to look at her in the eyes. I propped my chin on my hand and stared towards her bookshelf. “I’m…alright, I guess. I dunno. I do feel like I took something off my chest.”

“Denial holds back so many things.”