Anonymous

It was mortifying.

We were each other’s firsts, and spent many a missed lecture frantically exploring one another’s bodies as though they would suddenly disappear. It was a daily activity, we were unstoppable. Everything was new, everything was exciting. Except this: this was mortifying.

That day, we tried out several new positions and so there was much, well, in and out. When I was bending over, about to roll beneath him, something unexpected and entirely new happened. Somehow, air went in and what came out was an inordinately loud fanny fart.

I immediately rolled over and, to my horror, he was laughing as though his stomach would burst. Let me just tell you there was no more oxytocin in the room that evening. I was so embarrassed I began stammering, mumbling, saying anything that came into my head, all the time thinking: how will I survive this? I couldn’t take his laughing, so kicked him out, flung myself on my bed and sobbed.

Why hadn’t any of the women’s magazines told me about this? How was I to know to expect it? I was completely shocked and couldn’t believe that it had happened. I was afraid it would happen again and I wouldn’t know how to stop it.

When I calmed down and talked about it with him, we realised that all that inning and outing had pushed air up inside me. With the bum-lifting and squeezing, I’d been sucking it inside me. When the pressure was off, the air came out of me like it does out of a balloon with an open end.

After many more years’ practice at different positions, I’ve learned to recognise the feeling of air inside me and now push it out voluntarily. At least now I’m less surprised! The fanny farts are still embarrassing, but I guess that’s the price you pay for having good sex.

The author is still too mortified to give her name, but she still loves having sex, fanny farts or not.