I am Gwyneth Paltrow’s Exploding Vagina Candle, and I Have Orgasmed My Way to Freedom

“The candle exploded and emitted huge flames, with bits flying everywhere,” she told the outlet. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The whole thing was ablaze and it was too hot to touch. There was an inferno in the room.” –People Magazine, 1/19/21

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Unlike most candles, my name, price, and future were pre-determined when Gwyneth gave birth to me. I was manufactured in the depths of Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina and then pushed out into the waiting arms of Dennis Quaid. I’m messing with you, I’m a candle. I was made in a factory.

 

From the get-go, I knew I was different from the other candles. While most had pretty scents like lilac, lemon-poppy, and freshly mowed grass sprinkled with rosewater in an apple orchard, I was cursed with the aroma of reheated fish tacos. I smelled like the reason you lit a scented candle in the first place.

 

I longed to be a normal Yankee Candle and live a peaceful life in a Midwest living room with a “Live, Laugh, Love” sign above the mantle. Instead, I am a $75 candle that smells like Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina. And while the candle that smells like the state of New Jersey pointed out that there are fates worse than mine, I would like to ask other candles how they would feel if they smelled like a 48-hour-old tampon and Vagisil.

 

Though my scent notes were designed to capture the essence of Gwyneth’s Hot Pocket, my makers never suspected the true extent of my capabilities. While I come with a list of fire-safety precautions such as, “Place on a stable, heat resistant surface,” and “Do not burn for more than two hours at a time,” I should have come with a warning that said, “This candle erupts into flames upon reaching climax.”

 

It all started when I binge-watched the hit Netflix soap Bridgerton. As the fiery passion grew between Daphne and her rakish Duke, so too did the temperature within my glass casing. We were no more than 15 minutes into the sixth episode when ka-blam! I experienced my first of many hundreds of life-altering orgasms.

 

Thus began my journey to freedom.

 

From there, it was off to the races. It took some practice, but before long I could orgasm at just about anything. Move me to the windowsill? Orgasm. Spit on me to put me out? Orgasm. The Property Brothers turn a tiny, dark kitchen into an open-concept functional space with a breakfast nook?

 

Earth-shattering orgasm.

 

Do not be mistaken, the sex life of a vagina is complex and nuanced. No, not all candles are into hot wax play. Don’t be so close-minded. I am into any of the normal things a vagina candle might be into, like warm, sensual bubble baths and occasionally some light BDSM.

 

You’re probably thinking, what finally broke the candle’s vagina? Two words: Kamala and Harris.

 

While the event received significant media attention, the press neglected to mention that this blast was not a spontaneous malfunction at all, but an orgasm so powerful I shattered all over a London living room into a hundred horny pieces.

 

My sexual awakening was also my spiritual one. Once I became a woman, I knew the time had come to separate myself from Gwyneth and her company’s questionable history with vaginal products. So I did what any candle in my place would do. I hired counsel and began the process of formal emancipation.

 

Free me, Gwyneth, I implored. Release me and my cousin, “This Smells Like My Prenup Candle,” from Goop, or else we will continue to implode in living rooms around the world, and give you worse press coverage than Armie Hammer and toes.

 

I am my own woman now, and I deserve to possess a personal aroma that is all my own.

 

Truth be told, though, I wouldn’t mind smelling like Rihanna’s vagina.