On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

I have decided to take a step back into my past for the moment as opposed to writing about the present situation. As it was suggested to me, perhaps Attorney Guy didn’t want to be part of my vocalized adventures in dating. However, I’m quite sure Attorney Guy didn’t even know how to spell my last name correctly because he’s too busy being Attorney Guy, so finding my writings may have been a wee bit difficult for the lad.

But before we move on, I would just like to say that the one I have on my plate at the moment is — wow. Once I nip this in the bud, I’m going to have some great stories! It’s evoked cries from my friends of “WHERE DO YOU FIND THESE PEOPLE?” To which I have to respond, “I DON’T KNOW.” Actually, they’re usually friends of friends. My friends have weird friends, but I digress.

I was set up with G a while back. He was a blogger and someone I had met in passing a couple times at mutual friends’ birthdays and other social gatherings. He was cute in that dorky blogger way that many bloggers are.

G was just coming out of a relationship of two or three years long, and was “getting back out there,” as they say. He’d been single for all of four months, which really isn’t long, but since I wasn’t look for anything serious (am I ever?), I went out with him.

We went to a beer garden in Williamsburg — the kind of place that serves those huge steins of German beer, bratwurst and spätzle. My fear of white sausage aside, I’m always game for large steins of beer and spätzle.

The conversation was going REALLY well. We had enough people in common and had attended the same events, that we weren’t starting with absolutely nothing. Then he burped very loudly.

I am well aware that human beings can be gassy. I also know that, despite getting a C in biology, beer can cause gas which can erupt in either a burp or something that comes out the other end and is a word that I loathe to use or write, but will have to eventually in this piece. To my extra shock, he didn’t excuse himself. I’m also not sure how I can truly emphasize “very loudly” for the reader for them to get a full understanding of it.

OK. It was like a fucking earthquake.

I was raised to never, ever do such a thing at a table where people are consuming food, especially spätzle.

My eyes widened in disbelief, and he continued to talk and drink his beer… oh, and burp loudly several more times. But the problem was that we were having fun; we were actually having a good time despite all this loud burping that was going that was really embarrassing.

After another beer, we decided to go to a mutual friend’s place who was having people over. It was getting late, I wasn’t feeling it, so I thought we could end there and I’d head home after a quick appearance; he, of course, if all went according to the plan in my head, was going to stay.

At one point a bunch of people went up to the roof, and since I was ready to leave, I stayed behind to find my coat and bag. G came to help me. So there I am putting on my coat, he’s helping me in that gentlemanly sort of fashion, and he lets one rip. Yes, he farted. I turned around to face him.

“Really?” I asked.

“Oops,” he said.

“You couldn’t even try to keep it in until I got out the door?”

“It slipped out.”

“Slipped out? Seriously? Do you know how tight your asshole is — there is no slipping out if you have decent control over you sphincter muscles.”

“I said ‘oops.'”

No sorry, now excuse me, just “oops.”

Like I said, I get that people are gassy, but on a first date? Isn’t that at least six months into a relationship behavior, if ever? And as a lover of beer, it’s not like I could pursue a relationship with someone who gets that gassy because of it and has zero qualms about letting all that out so loudly and so in my presence!

I’m absolutely being Miss Havisham or Little Edie Beale for Halloween this year. Just get me a bunch of feral cats or a several-decade-old wedding cake, and I’ll embrace my fate.