An Old Nemesis

Little ones,

I’m busy but my life amuses me, so I must share.

My topic today is around lust. Class, we are all familiar with lust, are we not? I assume we’ve all managed at least one delicious episode thus far in life, one juicy epic fuckathon we can dress up in veils and flowers all we like but still know it for what it is: raw mindless carnality that might not have occurred had we not been on vacation/done that extra couple of shots/invited that stranger to our room and well he’s here now so let’s goddamn go.

Might I suggest that if you have not had such an encounter, stop reading immediately and go get one. There’s nothing quite like it. If executed with the right mix of zeal, gravity and recklessness it will bring a dirty little smile to your face for years to come.

However, today (a bit ruefully) I’m staying away from the lurid in favour of exploring the comedic/prosaic aspects of managing lust.

When one gets to a certain age, with certain obligations, lust management is as much a science of logistics as it is the art of desire. This is especially true when there is the challenge of distance to overcome.

As well as I can plan—plane tickets and hotels and per diem—I have eyed my calendar with distrust. The. Period. Cometh. This is a throwback to earlier times out of keeping with my mature, project management approach to planning an encounter. It vexes me.

Notoriously, reliably, throughout my sexual past the period has intruded. It has squelched and cramped away innocent desire, led to generally opaque and embarrassed behaviour, and stained at least one ex-boyfriend’s mattress during a house-sitting episode (which led to the cowardly mattress flip. Years later, when moving, did you ponder the bloodspot? I’m sorry, Stephen, we were young.)

My options have been to deal with it drug-free, or go on pills that bloat my body and upset my stomach and play havoc with my skin. We all know vanity trumps all, in the end.

Not being on any form of birth control means I cede control over my period. I chart it like Magellan mapping constellations, but still it mocks me—you were so chugging along so predictable and then July? Whadafuh?

One friend, a doctor, recommends taking Advil every four hours. Then she tells me to look on the internet. There, I find recipes for parsley tea and recommended dosages of Vitamin C; swears-by hot baths and exercise and exhortations to have sex with oneself/itself. I do all these things—short of sticking a sprig of parsley into my vagina, nestling it against my cervix for 12 hours, remove and repeat. No thank you. I might lose it, and it would appear during an inconvenient time and even I could not successfully spin oh-the-garnish-is-a-breath-freshener—I do these things, the tea and the C and the baths and workouts and diligent masturbation, all to no avail.

I grow predictably anxious, which according to the internet, is not conducive to spitting forth one’s period on command. I read forums filled with careful, false forms of the Question (Hi I’m going on a Caribbean cruise next week and don’t want to have my period…) answered by unhelpful and even spiteful comments like “Nothing U can do!!! 2 bad 4 U:( don’t wear white bikini but yer on a cruise, lucky bitch“. LOL.

Let’s be honest. The real question is: I’m expecting my period to coincide with wanting to fuck my brains out. I need to get said brains fucked out, badly, and this looks like my best shot for 2009. Short of ingesting several old birth control pills to try and blast that sucker out, any ideas?

The answers may still be unhelpful or envious, but please ladies, let’s not pussyfoot about the “inconveniences” of the matter. There’s nothing to be ashamed of for wanting a good old free-for-all lickety good time, unmarred by the “Can we have a discussion about how squeamish you are?” talk. For Pete’s sake, the first encounter with someone should not have to involve that talk. That talk comes after the romance starts to peel away from the corners, once the farting and sharing of bathrooms and belching and nose-blowing begins in earnest. I’m sure you understand, Dear Reader.

One friend hands me a box of Instead. I spend several minutes trying to jam what looks like a small dog Frisbee into my vagina. Once inserted, it is supposed to unfurl magically into a protective cervical cup that enables all sorts of freedoms. My Frisbee is uncooperative. It lodges there, wrestling sullenly with my Kegels. I take it out and look at it. I visualize it fitting like a snug little tea cosy. I poke it around some more. Well. Anyone have a Pomeranian who likes to fetch?

As the date of my departure grows nearer, I am resigned. I hope it shall appear, as scheduled, tomorrow. Hope I have not scared it back into the nooks and crannies, to lurk an extra couple of days before bawling out of me at 35,000 ft like one of those vindictive Snakes On A Plane. Ready to drive it out within 3-4 days versus 5-6 once it makes an appearance through a militaristic campaign of Advil, exercise and masturbation.

Wish me luck!

--Gretchen