Love Puff

Friends, I have a tale of woe to tell you… except it’s not really woeful, and more hilarious than sad, I think? It’s a tale of fun and frolicking… quickly followed by the motherfucker of all noises. Jock and I were happily doing our thing in the bedroom, and what came up? That’s right: the dreaded love puff. And let me tell you, it was fuckin’ loud.

I would like to publicly thank my body for fanny farting louder than I’ve ever ass-farted before in my life. I love that. No, really, I just love it. It wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of my life… ever. I’m sure that I’ll bounce back from it JUST FINE.

Listen, I’m putting this blog post in the ‘Sex Fails’ category, but love puffs are a perfectly normal, natural part of having sex. I’m fully aware of that. It’s physics and biology and whatever. Air and pressure and in-out and whatnot. I know that. But do they really have to be so embarrassing? Really? Is it really necessary?

Logistically I knew that it would only be a matter of time before air puffed outta somewhere. Jock loves fucking me from behind. I get super wet with him because you know, I’m very sexually attracted to him. The love puff, fanny fart, queef, or whatever you want to call it, was bound to happen and some point…  and it did. It roared, and I’m really not exaggerating when I say, it roared. ROAR. Louder, prouder, and with more gusto than pretty much any fart I’ve ever done, from any hole.

I wanted to die, of course. We were fully embroiled in this hot, sexy, passionate moment… and then ROAR. It ripped through the air like a fucking gunshot. I wanted so much to ignore it, but I looked around just in time to spot one of his raised eyebrows – and it was raised so high that it basically flew right off his head.

Was he going to laugh? Cry? Push me away? DUMP ME?!

Kill. Me. Immediately.

Jock did nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, aside from that one eyebrow raise, obviously. He just kept going, happily fucking away, clearly pretending harder than I was that nothing had happened. There had been no love puff. No queef. Nope, no fanny farts in here. Must’ve been a duck.

Afterwards, once he’d come and I’d worked hard, then eventually faked it because the embarrassment was still killin’ me, he lit a cigarette, then handed it to me. I thought he was going to mention it: the love puff. He always lit, then passed me a cigarette after sex, but I was convinced that that time was different. I was convinced that he was just about to bring up the love puff of all love puffs.

Not a word, folks. He complimented me just like he always did, then we laughed and joked just like we always do. Super cool. Super nonchalant. Super no-love-puff.

I might marry him for that.

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Drunken Love.