Let’s Talk About Shame (Yes, Even the Kinda Funny, Really Real Kind)
TikTok video from 2022-05-20
Let’s talk about shame—the kind that creeps in quietly but grips tight. The kind you know isn’t logical, but it still makes your stomach drop. That sharp, unexpected vulnerability that sneaks in through the most human moments.
For me, this particular moment came during sex. Not just any sex—a deeply connected, fiery, heart-thumping night with Lambo. He and I are in this beautiful, magnetic phase. We’ve found each other through a journey of searching, healing, and being brave enough to say out loud: “This is what I want. This is what I crave.”
He makes me feel deeply feminine, fully alive, wildly desired. He makes me laugh and blush and ache, sometimes all at once. And the other night, in the middle of one of those soul-rattling encounters... I farted.
Yep. I farted. Loudly. And then again. And again.
Now, let’s pause here. Logically, I know bodies do weird things during sex. We laugh. We cry. We make noise. We sweat. Sometimes we fart. It’s biology, it’s normal, it’s fine.
But still—the shame hit me like a truck.
I wanted to bury my face in the pillow and disappear. I wanted to make a joke, change the subject, get dressed, run. The part of me that was raised to believe sex has to be polished, smooth, and perfectly choreographed reared its judgmental little head. That old voice that whispers, “You just ruined it,” showed up, uninvited.
I threw my hands up and muttered, “Okay, forget it. I can’t. I just can’t.” I was mortified. But Lambo didn’t flinch.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t recoil.
He didn’t make a single thing worse.
Instead, he wrapped his arms around me tighter. He held me firmly, warmly, like an anchor in a storm. He didn’t let me escape into the embarrassment. He stayed. He saw me. All of me. And he made it crystal clear: this moment didn’t make me less sexy, less lovable, or less powerful.
And that, right there, is the heart of what I want to share.
Shame is rarely about what actually happens. It’s about the story we tell ourselves about what that thing means. That I’m gross. That I’m unlovable. That I ruined something. That I’ve somehow failed to be sexy or desirable or "enough."
But when we’re met with presence, with love, with laughter, with care, those stories can dissolve.
That night, I didn’t just feel pleasure—I felt safe. I felt adored, even in a moment that could’ve sent me spiraling. That’s what true intimacy looks like. That’s what emotional safety feels like. That’s what happens when we love without conditions, without expectations of perfection.
And look, I know farting during sex might not be your personal moment of shame. Maybe for you, it’s stretch marks, or being “too much” emotionally, or not knowing how to ask for what you want in bed. Maybe it’s something someone once said to you that stuck. Shame can wear a million different masks.
But here’s the bottom line: you deserve lovers who meet you in those moments with kindness. With open arms. With understanding.
I’m lucky. I have that. And I wish it for every one of you.
So yes, this story is about a fart. But it’s really about love. Real, unfiltered, grown-up love—the kind that holds you close when your body makes noise and your heart wants to run.
Here’s to more of that kind of love.
