It was a demoralizing and regretful night like any other. I was on my back, no wait, my knees…or did I start out on my side? I don’t remember the order. Let’s say it was my back. With my ankles smushed against my shoulders. First of all, ow. Guys, not every girl is a gymnast, okay? Some of us are regular, maybe slightly overweight girls who would rather eat a slice of cold pizza than do a sit-up. And 99% of the time, that’s the decision we make. So when you assume that we are capable of folding in half, you’re wrong buddy. I kind of thought he’d get the message when my “aaah”s transformed into “ow”s. Leave it to a guy to think that’s your way of saying, “Holy chick on a stick you are the best romancer I’ve ever had the pleasure of coming across. Please, bend me more.” Not to mention I had an amazing view of my gathering belly fat, which I guarantee is the biggest turn-off for any sane woman out there. So anyway, there I am in the middle of wishing I had done more sit-ups and less cold pizza, when he decides he’s done playing yoga master with my body that’s as flexible as a stale pretzel. He pulls out, and WWWWHHHOOOOOOSSSSHHHHH, the biggest goddamn queef you’ve ever heard comes speeding out of my vagina like seventy-six trombones leading a big parade. You could’ve heard this queef if you were deaf in one ear. Heck, deaf in both. Not to mention we’re at his mom’s house where his mom is sleeping, presumably awakening with a start and wondering who blew a fog horn at this hour of the night.
I hold my breath for a second, pondering the different directions I could take. I could blame the barking spiders, I could take a pillow and slowly suffocate myself to death, I could pretend it never happened and suggest he has onset schizophrenia if he brings it up…As tempting as that last one sounded, I instead went with the excruciating, “Excuse me.” And then I immediately worried that saying “Excuse me” would make him think the queef was a fart, and then I couldn’t decide which would be worse. And Prince Charming? Didn’t say a thing. Guess he went with the pretend-nothing-happened approach. And then there were the weeks plagued with random attacks of queef memory. QTSD. You know what I’m abbreviating here. Ladies, the moral of the story is: find a guy who can joke with you about an innocent queef (no matter how mind-blowingly loud it is) so you can laugh, move on, and feel self-conscious in peace.