Since having children, I've noticed that my vagina has taken on a duel persona. Persona #1: a normal vagina. Persona #2: a flaccid balloon.
Let me explain. Making love with an attractive man is generally a pleasant experience, is it not, ladies (or gents)? Most of the time, the only noises emanating from the whole experience are the 'oos' and 'aahs' from the mouth hole, and some general slurping from the lady bottom area. The vagina is behaving as a vagina should, and all is marvellous.
Until of course your gentleman friend approaches from behind. And then vagina #2 takes over. As well as this, the man's gentleman stick takes on its own persona #2a - that of a balloon pump - and the inflating begins.
At first it's hardly noticeable. But soon, the uncomfortable bloating sensation starts and you know that the #2 flaccid balloon is being slowly inflated. At this point, you are hoping for a quick finish, because if it continues, the balloon soon gets to fully-stretched, and a rather unnerving 'I'm about to explode' feeling comes over you (no pun intended).
Which he does. Because you're screaming at him to GET THE F*CK OFF.
Now here, you have two post coital choices. 1: to tighten everything up in your nether regions and never relax, ever again. Even talking is out. And possibly breathing. Or 2: Let riiiiiiiiiiip with the initial queef*. And the minute it surfaces, you will laugh. And when you laugh, you've opened the flood gates. You've let the inflated balloon off, and it's metaphorically flying round the room with a very noisy PPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT. The fanny farts are loud, they're strong, and they seem never ending. You can kiss your love-making goodbye, because by this stage, the balloon pump will have shriveled to a piece of blu tac.
If there are funnier things in this world than a vaginal fart, I have yet to find them. It's something to do with their context, I think; love making is generally a serious exercise, particularly from behind. There's focused work to be done and you're both in the sexy zone. So when a massive, uncontrollable trump punctuates the Marvin Gayeness of it all, laughter (at yourself) is the only choice open to you. Which is a shame, because laughter promotes further, uncontrollable queefing (see above). Meaning more laughter, more farting...and so on.
The good news about fanny farts is that, although loud, they don't smell. The ejected air has only been in there for a few seconds, probably, and unlike your botty trumps, hasn't travelled through your colon, picking up poo smells en route. Presumably then, unlike proper farts, you can't set light to them either. So don't try that at home.
Whilst 'researching' this post I came across two amazing things. One is this article from the Telegraph published this January, in response to a poor woman whose noisy vagina was troubling her.
I started reading it 4 hours ago and have only just stopped laughing. (Not very grown up.)
But the best the -THE BEST THING - is this video. Put down your tea. Turn off the telly. Stop having family time.
Because, as a fitting end to this post, I give you three golden minutes of: The World Queefing Championships.
Altogether now: "Don't shit yourself, Debbie!"
Until the next time, then.
*Queef - a vaginal fart