The Genesis of this Blog: It all Started with a Queef

About a year ago, I was dating an asshole. I met him on a film set and we had absolutely nothing in common, but I thought he was kind of cute and he had this thing for me and before you knew it we were having sex (which I regret to this day). Some people say, “Only have sex with people who care about you,” which I always thought was lame, but now I know if you’re going to have sex with someone who doesn’t really care about you and who you don’t trust, at least make sure it’s fun and they have a decent-sized dick. Otherwise you’ll be left cringing to yourself a year later, wondering why you don’t respect your vagina enough to keep it away from guys like that. Sorry, vagina.

One particular sexing with this guy (we were at his mom’s house…I know, I know), I queefed so loud you’d think a part of my soul departed with it. I. Wanted. To. Die. I immediately thought how this would be at least number four on the list of “Top Ten Embarrassing Moments in Carly’s Life”, and for the next week I obsessed over every second of that moment and wished I could erase it from my memory. It got so bad I felt like I had to get it out of my brain through some means or another or else I would explode and my gravestone would read, “Died From An Embarrassing Queef”. So, I wrote about it. At the time, my blog existed, but only as one of those angsty pre-teens rants that people make fun and I only published about once a year. Plus, they were all shitty posts. With my essay reflecting on the queefing nightmare, I now had a couple paragraphs on my hand and a forum to release it into the wild. So, I published the post (The Night I Queefed) to my blog because…well, I don’t know why. Maybe I thought there was someone out there who could read it and assure me that they, too, had queefed and survived. Sure enough, a day later I had a comment from a reader about how they sympathized with my queefing PTSD. The rush of emotion that came from sharing a deeply embarrassing, personal connection with a faceless stranger was addicting. Not only that, I had tapped into what would fuel the content for the rest of my weekly posts.

I’m a fairly awkward person who does awkward things and to whom embarrassing things frequently happen. For example, a couple weeks ago Boyfriend and I were doing a crossword on his laptop together while eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch. In the middle of quiet contemplation over a particular clue, a chewed up, saliva-soaked piece of CT Crunch shot out of my mouth and landed on the keyboard. We sat there looking at it until I wiped it off with my finger, looked around for a place to put it, and then ate it when he wasn’t looking. When people laugh at embarrassing stories like these in my posts, or say, “This happened to me too!”, I feel in control of the embarrassment, which feels so much better than constantly worrying about it. Don’t get me wrong, these posts are hard to write (completing that masturbation post was one of the most difficult things I’ve done). It’s like willingly displaying your diary to your high school, and then going home to your Boyfriend knowing that he just read about how some guy once peed in your mouth (and then understanding why he avoids kissing you). But at the end of the day, people are (hopefully) laughing at what I wrote, and that’s pretty much all I ever wanted out of life.

P.S. Thanks to Beanie for nominating me for a Liebster Award!

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