After this piece is published (I should say IF it’s published -- I’m still waiting for the day Emily responds to one of my submissions saying “That’s enough out of you.”) we will all either laugh together in the joy of shared experience or I’ll run away.
Some feminists like to say that acceptance of female body hair is the final taboo -- the final frontier of body shaming if you will. Well, I take your armpit hair and raise you a queef.
A queef is the sound a vagina makes when it sucks in a bunch of air for no reason, and then blows it back out. This sound is loud, disruptive, and often vibrates. Unlike farts, queefs are irrepressible.
While I can hold in a fart until I want to throw up, I cannot suppress a queef. No vagina-baring woman can. In fact, like fairies, queefs almost always make an appearance when you least expect them to – after standing up too quickly, while inverted at any point during a yoga class, or (my favorite), during and after sex.
Whenever I queef a few thoughts run through my head like, “FUCK!!!” or “NO!!!” and maybe, “NOT AGAIN!!”
Vaginas are beautiful flowers and vessels of joy, so it only makes sense that they should possess some glaring flaw. I get it… but does it really have to be the curse of the queef? It freaks me out that vaginas make such a ratchet noise.
Even a gross heathen like myself feels completely mortified, horrified, disturbed, and betrayed when their vagina sounds off like a foghorn without permission. I can’t help but think that post-sex queefs are equivalent to my vagina shaming me, smugly scolding, “PPPFFTT!!! Yeah, that’s what you get you whore.”
I’m still trying to figure out whether it’s best to acknowledge a sex queef when it happens, or to ignore it. I texted a few of my friends to share their queef experiences with me (lol at boundaries), and to confess whether or not they gave a shit.
She went on to say that “even the softest sex can cause an air raid,” and she’s right. The sound is always so aggressive and unnecessary no matter what. It’s like okay, we get it. We heard it. Shh.
Occasionally a random article will pop up in my Facebook feed titled “Weird Things That Happen During Sex” or something stupid, and queefs always rank among the list. The subsequent advice is always to laugh it off and make a joke about it because body positivity, blah blah whatever.
That sounds great in theory, but no one actually queefs and goes “Hehehe! Woopsies! :P” unless they’re a murderer. In my experience most guys genuinely don’t care, and God bless them, because if dicks made a fart sound I would just stop having sex.
Now here’s something that completely blows (heh) my mind. This same exact anonymous person that wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear after queefing, openly farts in front of her current boyfriend.
With the entirety of this article in mind, I still think farts are waaaaay worse than queefs. I’m not talking about regular every day farts, I mean specifically farting around someone you’re hooking up with or dating.
When I start sleeping with someone, I spend the initial month feeling sick from holding in farts for too long. A friend who said she would sue me if I dropped her name described her first sleepovers feeling “sweaty and trapped and claustrophobic and miserable and terrified.”
The worst is when a little poot accidentally slips out and you just lay there paralyzed praying to God he won’t wake up and scream and throw you on the street.
Anyway, here are some important questions I need answered:
· What’s worse: a queef or a fart?
· Do you ignore queefs or address them? Also, is there any parallel between the length of a relationship and level of queef/fart-induced embarrassment?
· If a ho farts in the forest and no one was there to hear it, did the ho fart?
Oh, and BY THE WAY -- everyone loves to cite Girls as this groundbreaking exploration of realistic sex, but I have yet to see Hannah queef on Adam, or Marnie fart in front of Desi. You hear me Lena? Queef on HBO and I’ll be impressed.
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