…Accidentally, I hasten to add. Although fanny farts are typically, by nature, accidental. Saying that, I don’t doubt that if I exercised my pelvic floor a little more I’d be able to suck some air up and expel it at will; much like I do when I burp the alphabet (‘H’ being the hardest letter to burp). Same same but different.
Queefs – not to be confused with ‘quiche’ (one is a delectable, pastry-based, savoury item, the other is a wildly unsavoury extra) – are the philharmonic flat note of the romping rhapsody. Just as one, or both, of you are about to crescendo, an almighty howl of wet and woebegone air exits your vag and leaves you feeling like a deflating dunce. It sucks the sexy right out of the room.
Of course, the lack of allure isn’t really anyone’s fault. Air gets trapped inside us and the thrusting motion of a penis, or indeed simply the changing of position, sends a forceful parp emitting from our nether-region. They’re moist. They’re sloppy. They’re unappealing. They’re inevitable. And the other day, the powers that be decided that I should emit one directly into my boyfriends mouth. Molto mortificado. In fairness to my fanny and to myself, he had decided to rim me after dabbling in a bit of doggy. All conditions pointed towards a flatulent downpour. If vaginas had a moisture forecast, mine would have read: ‘Rather dry to start but wet spells should develop fairly rapidly. Wet spells will intensify at around 20:04 with a change of direction, and heavy winds are expected very shortly after that.’ So what did I do? Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I ignore, sometimes I get faux mad (“WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!”… as though he actively encouraged being on the tail-end of a blustery vag). Naturally, I laughed – I had just fanny farted directly into his mouth, after all – but I still felt as though some gentle and speedy berating wouldn’t do any harm: “For the love of Lucifer, STOP PUTTING AIR IN ME.” Just to, y’know, divert attention from the fact that I’d just fanny farted in his face.
But I’ve come to realise that all this bashfulness over the humble fanny fart is just wasted energy. Bodies are bodies and flatulence is flatulence! If any guy out there is illogical enough to be genuinely perturbed by vaginal parping (again, vaginas don’t produce their own gas so fanny farts are simply air from the outside that’s snuck in) then they potentially don’t deserve the opportunity to be close to one. Pull yaself together, fella! Fannies are feats of engineering – able to accommodate penises small and large (I’ve even seen some very questionable material in which one mighty pun accommodated three mighty porn penises; it was quite something) – and, as with all the wonders of the world, guys should just be thankful that they ever got to see one.
So instead of gently slapping your fella for his part in your involuntary expulsion, we should treat the fanny fart like a congratulatory clap. Our vaginas very own way of saying: “Bravo, big guy! It’s like a slip ‘n’ slide up in here! Don’t let me distract you! I’m just here to let you know that you’re A-OK on the fluid front, so much so that while you’ve been pumping I noticed a little bit of air creep in – so I’m just sorting that out for you. We cool? Cool. *pffffffup* All done. As you were! ENJOY, GUYS! YOU’RE BOTH DOING SO GREAT!”