23 – The Asparagus Effect

Freshly showered, shaved, powdered, and perfumed—in short, ready for anything.

Only problem?

I had no idea where I was going.

I checked our messages again—and then it hit me like a ton of grammar books: beginner English mistake, third-grade level! I’d mixed up Thursday and Tuesday. Which meant I had no address. Because no one was expecting me—except, perhaps, my English dictionary. So instead of going out, I made myself a fancy asparagus-strawberry salad with arugula for dinner. Spring makes you crave something fresh—in more ways than one.

Afterward: kid in bed, husband at the computer, and me, undecided about how to spend the evening. Desperate enough to ask my phone for advice, or let's say opportunities. I’d had a rather entertaining date recently with a Colombian guy in the castle park—and he was still waiting for his test results. You know… the “Play Me the Song of Safe Sex” kind.

He lived just around the corner and had already asked a few times when we’d see each other again. So I texted him and asked if I could come over for a sex-free date—just to avoid any misunderstandings. His reply: “Sure! Come over for a movie.” I gave him half an hour’s notice and grabbed a bottle of wine—I wasn’t about to risk drinking some random lukewarm bottle from his bachelor fridge. His apartment was precisely what you’d expect: minimalist male chic. One table. One chair. One bed. Done. Functional living for men with no decorative ambitions. As a fully furnished mother, my first innocent thought was: “But… how are we supposed to watch a movie like this?”

You can already guess the answer. By lying directly on the bed, of course—which gleamed before me in a state of clean chic (translation: no bedsheets). Maybe that was his way of signaling hygiene?

Who knows. We settled in, chatted, had a glass of wine, and he put on some random action flick with the Matrix guy. Then he lay back and said, “Don’t be shy,” pulling me onto his chest. For a while, we traded dumb jokes about the bad movie, cuddled up, and — you can probably guess where this is going.

You’re wondering when something exciting finally happens?

Now.

We start kissing, clothes come off, and then he disappears below deck—fully focused on his mission. And then… it happens. A sudden warm rush down my thighs. Squirting isn’t exactly part of my standard program—it sometimes happens, but more in the ‘oops, spilled a shot glass’ category. This, however, felt more like the contents of a teapot. Aside from the fact that I’d just freshly desecrated his unmade bed, I suddenly noticed a distinct smell.

Oh. Fuck. The asparagus.

I don’t know if you’re one of those lucky people with the enzyme that turns asparagus acid into sulfur compounds, but I, unfortunately, am certified odor-active after asparagus consumption. Not the superpower I would’ve chosen. And since squirting is, let’s say, not entirely unrelated to urine, I had just christened this man’s bare mattress with a generous dose of asparagus-scented bodily fluids — on our first intimate date. I wanted to sink through the floor — or at least under a freshly made bed. But he just pulled my head back onto his chest. I elegantly repositioned my legs to avoid the giant wet patch, and we finished the movie as if nothing had happened.

I doubt he chalked my squirting up as a triumph of his technique —and I didn’t have the heart to explain that the smell was, well, vegetable-related. They say you always meet twice in life. Luckily, this was number two in life — and not on his bed.