Two bad dates in one

I once went against the better angels of my diet by taking chili with lunch. 
Afterwards, I decided to visit a prospective girlfriend.
She opened her door and I stepped into her hearty embrace.
I was then squired into her living room, to have a seat. 
Did I want some juice, she asked. 
So she sashayed to the kitchen to fetch me some passion in a glass.
After giving me a glass and a coaster, she watched me curiously as I gulped down all that impassioned sweetness.
About five minutes later, I heard something that seemed like a tremor.
Then, I heard a rumble. 
And another!
So I grabbed my unruly stomach, as I looked at my host to see if she noticed that convulsion.
She just sat there, smiling at me.
Again, a continuously low yet heavy sound thundered through my belly.
Then, swashingly, there was a splash in my gut like somebody was swimming inside of me.
I abruptly stood up.
“May I use your toilet, please?” I asked with the urgency of an emergency.
She motioned to a room adjacent to the living room, clearly within earshot and smelling distance. Yet I didn’t want her to smell or hear what I was about to do in her toilet. 
As I entered the toilet, I locked the door behind me. Then sat down and unloaded my bowels, gently.
That way, she wouldn’t hear me.
However, I soon found that I had a tractor trying to get out of my behind as my rear roared, hummed and purred with a SCREEEECH RUUURRRUMP PA-LUMP!
Oh No. I was in trouble.
Then, I got an idea: I should turn on the shower and the sound of falling water would drown out the explosions coming out of my posterior.
“Why’s the shower on?” I heard her shout from the living room.
“No, I’m just, er, washing my hands kidogo,” I replied.
“Use the sink,” she commanded.
“Okay,” I replied.
Boom, Bang, POP!!
My stomach roared to life again as soon as the shower was off.
This time, I just closed my eyes and sweat dripped down my face as I went about my business. 
Vrooooom, Boom! Boom! Crash! Bang! Clash! Wham! Smack, Whomp, Whomp WHOMP!
After five minutes of that, I flushed the toilet, then opened the door with my head held low.
“I better…” I started.
“Yes, you better leave,” she completed my sentence.
Swathed in a dodger blue Polo shirt, black Adidas tracksuit bottoms while my feet were kept mobile by urine-yellow Adidas sneakers, I walked home as the sun warmed up the cloudless sky. 
Then, I received a call. 
“Hello Phil, I have seen you in my area…can you pass by home?”
The caller, who owned a breathless voice, was a female university student doing her PhD. 
After I said “Hell yeah!” she gave me directions to her place. 
About 20 minutes later, I was walking through her front door. 
It was a cozily appointed apartment made comfier by her relaxed manner and soft smile. 
She wore a filmy gown barely concealing the soft contours of a body that perfected the art of putting the cherry on top of a red-hot moment. 
I liked the fact that she rarely wore make-up, so there was an earthiness to her full-figured appeal. 
To stay cool, and not look like I was awed by her beauty, I calmly raised a quizzical left brow. 
Then, I took a seat and expanded my arms across the length of the couch. 
As a gentleman, I didn’t battle for the remote control as she put on the TV and reclined on the couch beside me. 
“I like you…but I have a boyfriend,” she spontaneously said. 
“And he is coming here in an hour.”
Confused, I wondered aloud why I was even there. 
“Because I like you a lot,” she purred. 
Beneath a knitted brow, my eyes could make out that this lady had the body which started wars in fact and fable. 
So I struck a compromise.
We could proceed with our potential love scene, then I would leave her to her loverboy. 
“But what if he finds us, he will be here in less than an hour,” she said shyly.
“Well, I’m a ‘one minute man’. So I will be gone way before he arrives,” I quipped. 
When she agreed, we embraced. But then, I quickly defected from her arms.
“So who am I in this equation? The side dish?” I asked. 
“Yes, I think so…” she replied innocently.
“What? I think I deserve to be the main dish,” I protested, with wounded pride.
“But you’re a ‘One Minute Man’…and I need more than that,” she quietly objected.
“Actually, I meant I’m a ‘One Minute More than your man’ Man,” I clarified. 
“Okay, still…he’s my boyfriend and he even pays my university tuition,” she added with a slow hand tapping her thick thatch of hair. 
“You don’t have parents or what? Then let’s not even call him a dish, he’s more like a collection plate,” I said triumphantly. 
I’m still wondering why she asked me to leave.