Passing Gas

The year was around seventy-nine or eighty, I was a naive young thing in the military and had a date with some bad boy I had a crush on. We had been out to dinner and were now back at his place and I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. We get to necking and fooling around, just kissing and touching mostly, when for no apparent reason, gas came out of the "wrong" place, noisily I'll add, and this poor fellow took it to mean I didn't want to be there. "Are we gonna do this or what?" he said. Well, I was so darn embarrassed and had no idea what or why that just happened, I snatched my clothes up and high-tailed it out of there as fast as my short little legs would carry me. I never saw that young man again, and that was alright with me. Years later someone taught me the meaning of the word queef, and that's when I realized what had happened that awful night. It may have been a natural occurrence, however, it was about the farthest thing from sexy there was and except for one time after with my husband, has never happened again.