Let’s talk period sex.
The stereotype is that men are generally turned off my menstrual blood. In theory, I can see why.
- Period blood has a funny, girly smell (side note: nothing is worse than walking into a public bathroom stall and smelling the last girl’s aunt flow).
- Blood of any kind is messy and period sex does require some postcoital clean up.
- It’s only slippery at first! At first the blood is a great lubricant, then it dries and goops and crusts etc.
I have NEVER had someone turn down sex because I am on my period.
When it comes down to it, a dude isn’t going to say “Nah, nah, it’s cool, babe, I’ll just wait 5-7 days until your vagina is no longer slowly oozing blood.”
Delivering the period news usually goes a little something like this:
Me – “I’m on my period.”
Men – “So?”, “I don’t care.”, “That’s fine.” or “Let’s hop in the shower so I can hit that from behind.”
They especially don’t care if they know anything about science. The way the female body works is that you can’t get pregnant while you are on your period. So, once they know they don’t have to wear a condom, they are ALL IN.
In a nutshell, whilst on the the rag I have had sex, shower sex, gotten fingered and YES even had oral. What I’m trying to say is: period sex is all fine and dandy,
BUT THERE WAS THIS ONE TIME…
The night began with wine, then it took an eastern turn with Saki, hipsterville took over with 11% craft beer and we ended full on fiesta with tequila. I know what you’re thinking.
What could go wrong???
The evening is in full on swing. TALON (accidentally) gives my gal pal CURLY a black eye, I pull down my skirt and piss in TALON’s front yard (Humboldt fucking park) and we are are golly as rogers. CURLY gets an Uber home and pukes out the window all the way back to suburbia. TALON and I start hooking up. The period dialog begins.
“I’m on my period”
“I don’t care”
“So you want me to go take out my tampon?”
“Follow your heart”
“…So do you want me to go take out my tampon?”
Go to bathroom, take it out, flush, feel like I may puke, lean over toilet, drift off a little, wake up leaning on the toilet seat, feel alright, head back to the bedroom to get it on. Let me just pat myself on the back a little bit for pressing on regardless. I walk into the bedroom and hear TALON snoring. I shrug, think “It’s probably for the best”, lay down next to him and fall asleep.
…Yup. Come morning time, we wake up in a fucking murder scene. Puddle of blood, splatters of blood, like I was stabbed, repeatedly. TALON goes to take a shower to wash away the evidence of him murdering me. I stand up (still drunk) and assess the scene. As I stand up, however, a surge of blood gushes down my inner thighs and is rapidly heading towards the carpet. I frantically look around for kleenex? no. paper towel? no. partly used napkin? no. dryer sheet?!?! no. My clothes… Pink tank top, black and white patterned skirt, strapless bra or undies. I sacrifice the undies (that at this point are still looped around my ankle…?). I put on the rest of my clothes trying to ignore that my undergarments are 100% saturated in my blood, and I think, “I gotta get out of here.” So I tear off TALON’s fitted sheet, shove it into a grocery bag, pour some of his roommate’s coffee in a Tupperware container and
Tipsy, in high heels, with a bloody undercarriage and evidence of murder in the plastic target bag swinging jauntily by my side, I walk 2 miles home. I get home, clean up, lay in bed, attempt to sleep the shame away and ponder how alcohol impairs logic and thins blood.