My Queef Confession

I started seeing a man, and after only two weeks of dating, he took me away for the weekend as a birthday gift. It was all adventure and romance. Waterfalls, nice dinners, a hot tub. We were really getting to know each other, and the sex was great.

That is, until our middle-aged sex went so wrong I wanted to die. By that I mean I queefed right in his face. If you’re wondering how that can happen, let me enlighten you.

We’d just had an afternoon delight, doggie style with my bum in the air and lots of pulling all the way and pushing back in, which was great and all, but I didn't finish. So he was in position to please me orally, which was going really well until out of nowhere my vagina betrayed me. What came out of my, um, Whispering Cave not only made him jump so high he almost hit his head on the ceiling, it scared the hell out of me. My Party Balloon deflated with a vengeance just as he was about to dive into my buffet.

That’s the thing about queefing. You can’t feel it coming so there’s no warning. You also can’t hold it like you can with a fart as I’m sure you’re aware. Gotta love your labia.

So, after my Hoo-ha Harmonica played a little song, and I buried my face in the pillow, we had to talk about it. I couldn’t cover it with a cough. I couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. I couldn’t blame it on him. I couldn’t exactly run out of there naked into the street, but that’s exactly what I wanted to do.

“You know what that was, right? It wasn’t my butt trumpet,” I said. My face was ablaze. I didn’t think I could ever look at him again.

It would’ve helped if he laughed, but he didn’t. He simply replied, “I know. Let’s take a shower and we can finish there?”

Fair enough. I mean, I queefed so loud it rattled the windows and I’d probably want to scrub that memory off my face, too.

But this is where things got worse. So much worse.

As soon as I sat up to head for the shower, another eruption occurred. My vagina had literally turned into a whoopie cushion at a kid’s birthday party. All I could do was go with it. Let the air out of my tire. Every movement, every step, was like a sound check for a middle school brass band. I was at the mercy of this wind instrument between my legs.

I marched to the shower with my own personal tuba section between my legs. I just wanted the humiliation to end. I had no idea my pearl chamber could hold so much air, but I tried to seductively walk my way out of it, but that’s impossible when there’s a balloon animal factory between your legs.

“This isn’t ideal,” I said as I queefed my way into the bathroom. “I think you should leave until I deflate, because I’m not qualified to handle this kind of humiliation any longer.”

To that, he said. “Well, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who put the air in there.”

“Very true,” I said as I practically kicked him out of the bathroom and shut the door. I was being held hostage by my very own vaginal air compressor.

I sat on the toilet, naked and alone, and let my bagpipes take over my body because there was no silencing them. This went on for several minutes and I vowed that day that there would be no more doggie style. No more allowing a man to pull all the way out then come at me again. Nothing was worth this kind of embarrassment.

When I called my best friend to tell about my newfound talent, I was looking for comfort and reassurance. She laughed so hard she went silent, the kind of laugh where she was trying to steal air and couldn’t catch her breath. When she was finally able to catch her breath, she shouted, “STOP, I can’t—” and then she literally peed in her pants. Like a full-on loss of bladder control.

So then we’re both traumatized, but for different reasons.

Some people have a signature laugh, some have a signature dance move. Apparently my thing is a vagina that can clear a room. Lucky me.

But hey, at least I didn’t pee my pants.

Diana Park is a writer who finds solitude in a good book, the ocean, and eating fast food with her kids.