A Tufted Banquette Speaks Out: “Stop Farting at Gay Brunch!”

To all the farts I’ve endured before, enough is enough!


On a typical weekend, you can find me cozied up in the back corner of Shövel, a shabby-chic eatery in SoFaLa (South of Fordham Law School) quietly preparing myself to be sat on by a group of 2 to 6 men. That’s right, I’m a tufted banquette at gay brunch.


Hey, it’s a living. My cousin is a Barcalounger in Connecticut. But lately, my pride has been shaken, quite literally, underneath an onslaught of toots, poots, and silent-but-deadlies.


Look, I get it—as much as a sentient bench can understand anything—it’s gay brunch! Things get loosey-goosey. And I am fully aware that my main job is to act as the buffer between a soft butt and a hard place. But today I ask you to see me as more than just an overpriced cushion.


Here’s a tiny taste of my life. An amuse douche, if you will:

Andrew, Party of 6 arrives. The boys, sweating out last night’s vodka-sodas, smoosh their damp chinos against my face. Then, after the first round of mimosas was ordered: Brrrrrip. No amount of French press or fresh baked scones in the air can save me from that familiar smell: 3AM McDonald’s Dollar Menu. To this day, certain sounds still trigger me—the screeching of a chair against the floor, the rumbling of the subway below, a tenor’s laugh.


I know what you’re thinking, “I don’t fart at gay brunch.” Well, those who sit idly by and say nothing while others let ‘er rip are just as guilty. I refer you to the landmark case of Smelt It v. Dealt It.


That said, let’s not play the blame game. This is a public health crisis. My ex, who is the backseat of a Hyundai Elantra, knows all too well. Things got so bad after a string of gassy Lyft Pools, his upholstery had to be stripped and burned.


So how can we stop farting at gay brunch, if not for me, for the next generation of tufted banquettes? Here’s my simple three-pronged solution to a fart-free future:

First, avoid ordering trendy menu items like “breakfast Brussels sprouts,” “thirty-bean frittata” or “Cauliflower Your Girlfriend burger.” The secret ingredient is usually farts.


Second, if the idea of brunch with your gaggle gives you a runny tummy, it’s time to get new friends. It’s not your fault. Homosexual men tend to somaticize their generalized anxiety through the lower digestive system, which causes inflammation and flatulence. I’m not just a tufted banquette. I also put myself through medical school.


Third, and possibly craziest, excuse yourself and head to the bathroom. Farts are actually welcome there; it’s why Meyer’s soap was invented! Of course, getting up and leaving the table for even one minute will give everyone else the chance to talk about you behind your back. But honestly, maybe you shouldn’t have been such a dick last night, Andrew.


So please, stop the farting. Do it for my sake. Now would you please scootch over a bit? You’re sitting on my face.

Body & Self-Care, Opinion, Slider, Thriving