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September 2021

Featuring Michelle Jean
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Featured Article

Don’t Fear the Queefer

Often maligned as the kissing cousin of flatulence, queefs are nothing to be ashamed of—and they might even be considered a compliment for a job well done.

The noisy beasts come on without any warning, and regardless of which region of the world they occur in, they all carry a tune that sounds a hell of a lot like PFFT, FRAAAP, POOT, and BLAT. We’re talking about the queef. That’s right, kids; pussy farts. Those unexpected wisps of air that erupt from the deepest depths of a woman’s crotch cavern, shaking her slit lips with such ferocity that it sounds like someone just humped a hole into their favorite inflatable love doll. 

The proverbial snatch blast has been known to either mortify the deliverer of the queef, startle everyone in the room or send them rolling off the bed in laughter. Some men, presumably the most uptight of the breed, are of the opinion that the queef is a foul, disgusting and rude gesture—tantamount to the rip-roaring butt gust one might let slip after 15 beers and a burrito. Others consider a queef to be a compliment, as if these breezy bellows from Beaverton are screaming, “Boy, you are fucking us right tonight!” Much like, in some cultures, a belch after a meal is regarded as praise for the cook.

The negative connotations associated with the queef—the most prominent being that these windy womb wafters are akin to intestinal fumes—are just a bunch of hoo-ha hooey. A queef is nothing more than the vagina releasing air during sex, and sometimes during exercise. Contrary to dipshit opinion, a queef is not the same gaseous expenditure that a woman might experience following an overly ambitious Taco Tuesday. Still, that hasn’t stopped a lot of men from getting grossed out by them over the years.

“You can fake an orgasm, but you can’t fake a queef. Personally, it’s embarrassing, but in the same aspect, it only happens when business is done right!”

Sarah

“I can’t even deal with the stupidity of men who don’t know the difference between trapped air in a vagina and flatulence,” Tori from Colorado tells HUSTLERMagazine.com. “Stop having sex. Pick up a book, for humanity’s sake.” Amber, a florist from Trussville, Alabama, echoes Tori’s frustration, taking it a step further and blaming the ding-a-ling slinger for this raucous ripping in the first place.

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