IT HAPPENED TO ME: A Guy Puked On My Vagina

I'm over it. But it took years.
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Sophie Dean
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I'm over it. But it took years.
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When I was 21, a guy threw up on my vagina while giving me oral sex. It was Christmas Day. His mother, brother, and a lot of our mutual friends were in the next room.

I heard him cough between my thighs. I looked down.

"Everything okay?"

"Yep."

Then he gagged and spewed on to my vulva.

I don’t know how everyone found out. I probably told at least one friend in attendance, because as embarrassing as it was, it was also so shocking that it was kind of hard not to tell someone, you know what I mean? Like when you laugh and then pee a little. It’s about a shared human experience. I told my friend because maybe it had happened to her (it hadn't) and maybe this was just like peeing-when-laughing (it wasn't).

So why did he puke on my pussy? I asked myself that question for a long time.

Here are the facts:

One: He was really, really drunk. He’d been drinking all day, and he’s the type that really goes for it. He was kind of down and out like that, and I'm not being rude; I'm sure he’d say the same about me and he would be correct. So alcohol definitely played a big part.

Two: I was really high. 2009 was the year that I didn't go anywhere without blow, especially to something as fucked up as Christmas, so I’d been on it all day and that shit can really play havoc with your PH-whatever, as well as dry you out.

Three: I hadn't showered.

And that’s the thing. That’s thing that tortured me for years about the whole scenario. Even though I had no way of knowing when I woke up late on Christmas Day with a hangover that I was going to get eaten out that evening. I had no way of knowing, when I was rushing to my father’s house clutching a cake that was shaped like a Christmas Tree that I was going to end up leaving his house to go to a friend's and be receiving oral sex in approximately nine hours. I had no way of knowing when I was frantically pulling on tights without underwear because I couldn't find any that were clean, that someone was going to go down on me later. 

I was single. I was going to my father’s house. Cunnilingus was not on the horizon. So no, I didn't have a shower. And I spent four years beating myself up about it.

Some girls worry instinctively about how their pussy tastes and smells, and thus never let anyone go down on them; I was not one of these girls. I'd had a loving relationship with my vagina since I was a child. I had managed to get to adulthood with zero pussy hang-ups. Yes, I thought I was chubby. Yes, I hated my breasts. But I loved my pussy. My pussy was my friend.

Not anymore.

One of the first things that happened was that I stopped being able to cum. Never an issue beforehand, now every time I began to get close to an orgasm, a little voice would pop in to my head and start screaming, "Are you kidding me? Your pussy is literally vomit-inducing! That thing you’re imagining he’s doing to you — ha! He would have puked way before that! YOU DO NOT DESERVE ORGASMS, REPUGNANT-VAGINA WOMAN!"

I would stop and start and do deep breathing. I would watch porn endlessly, feverishly switching between channels trying to find something to take my mind off the image of vomit tumbling onto my labia, and the tsunami of shame that the memory evoked. But nothing soothed my anxiety.

I set about trying to un-vagina my vagina. I bought every product available for "feminine hygiene." My morning ritual became dedicated to a series of lotions, wipes, and brutal douching with the shower head. I was like an inept scientist, throwing in anything and everything that had "fresh," "rose," and "scented" written on it, just praying it would result in "Not Pussy." 

Of course what it actually resulted in was yeast infections. Painful, unyielding, recurring yeast infections. So in some ways I got what I wanted. My pussy never smelt like pussy. It smelled like a combination of chemicals and yeast infection cream.

Two years later, I got my first "proper" boyfriend. Like all good boyfriends, he desperately wanted to go down on me. He told me that he loved my pussy. He told me that he loved my scent. He told me that when we were apart he didn't change the sheets he loved the smell of me so much. 

But instead of being flattered, I was paranoid and scathing. I rejected all of his advances. I kneed him in the face when he tried to go down on me the shower. Eventually we stopped having sex completely. When we broke up after eight months, I was both heartbroken and relieved that I had avoided that kind of intimacy.

By the time it got to 2013 I was no longer douching every day (constant yeast infections are EXHAUSTING), but I remained just as paranoid about my genitals. On the rare occasions I found myself in a sexual scenario with someone, I would lock myself in the bathroom and panic-splash water on my vagina. I would manically, and without pleasure, stick my fingers up myself and then bring them to my lips, not for delight — or even healthy curiosity — but to be "ahead of the game," despite the fact I would still not let anyone go down on me.

So what changed? How come I'm so down with it now that I'm writing about it publicly and sharing it with the world?

I started talking about it. Just with close friends at first, and then in a weird case of anecdotal Tourette's I told pretty much everyone I came into contact with. I couldn't help it. I had kept it in for so long that it was making me ill. 

Sure, some people were horrified, but their reaction was nothing compared to the self-flagellation I had put myself through. Most people found it funny — and more people than you can imagine had a similar story. Every time I told it, I could feel myself get lighter. The shame just slid off me. 

The truth is that forty seconds after I told the story, people forgot about it because it wasn't actually earth-shattering or even that special. It was just kind of unfortunate.

This Christmas will mark five years since I let a really drunk guy go down on me and he couldn't handle it. It will also mark five years since I decided Christmas Day was an appropriate time to do a huge amount of blow and to not bother showering. 

Either way, half a decade has passed since there was vomit on my vagina for whatever reason, and I am happy to say that I can now reach orgasm, my pussy gets eaten with quite literally no hiccups, and I don’t douse myself in "vaginal hygiene" products six times a day. 

I'm over it. But it took years. And in hindsight, my biggest regret is that I wasn't kinder to myself. I wish I’d laughed sooner, instead of tying myself in knots. I wish I hadn't spent so much money on femfresh, and subsequently, Canesten. I wish I hadn't denied myself years of cunnilingus in a vain attempt to undo the undoable. I wish I’d let myself be human.

Because regardless of the why's and the who's, what happened was so completely, haplessly, ridiculously human, that the only way to reconcile it is to talk about it. And then move on.

Got a gross story to share? Email us at pitches@xojane.com with the subject line "Gross-Out Fridays."