Epilogue: I sat down tonight to pontificate on the topic of friendship. Instead, I have written about sex during menstruation. The scatalogical wins over the abstract, once again.
I've been charting my period the last several months, mainly for sexplanning purposes. My reproductive organs are flattered by the ongoing scrutiny, as their response seems to be a) prolong the bloodshed and b) shorten the bloodfree intervals.
My typical period now lasts a full week. I was bemused to find this entry scrawled in my day-timer from a couple of months ago: "9 fucking days?!!" Two days heavy, two days moderate, followed by one-two days light, and then another two-plus days of spotty not-quite bleeding. More like a pinch-flat leak versus a hemorrhage.
The conventional wisdom for period-tracking is to count from Day 1 of your last period to Day 1 of your next. For most women, this is 28 days. For myself, it varies from 21-26. From the last day of Period A to the first day of Period B, however, the interval is more like 14-19 days. Jeesh. So I don't "get" my period every 28 days. I "have" my period (in some measure) half the month.
This leads me to two conclusions: one, this blog should be sponsored by Always and Tampax; two, it is little wonder I have such a raging libido when I only have two weeks a month to Make It Happen.
Let me qualify Make It Happen. This refers to sex without a colourful mess. Though at times inconveniently moist and sticky, ejaculate doesn't really count; indeed, it is a badge of honour for work well done.
Menstrual blood, on the other hand, stains vindictively. Also, at its onset it may be attended by black clots of cervical material. Yum! In addition to the sloughing of one's womb, there's the distinct scent of the abattoir to contend with. Cunnilingus is not desired at such times by either party, which is a sorrowful state of affairs in general. (When encouraged to paint a sign at a recent event celebrating love & positivity & good vibes, I daubed "Eat More Pie" on a piece of bright corex board. I then added a clumsily drawn pastry, replete with steam curls and a piece cut out of it. In my defense, I was a) uncharacteristically drunk in public and b) it was an event attended by nice, middle-class hippies. I'd just come from watching the UFC fights at the local redneck bar, so was discombobulated. But I digress.)
On the plus side, menstruation provides excellent lubrication. There's also the getting-to-know-you factor. The determination and grace with which a mate pursues a bloodfuck speaks volumes about his character and ability to plan.
Some defer the hard-on, or politely request a blow-job. This is usually fine by me, as I may be feeling self-conscious and sexually disabled.
Others push on, but are silently squeamish or distracted. Some are impractical or helpless to contend with it. Faced with a dismayed or frankly grossed-out man after the fact, it's tempting to make like the oozycoozy swamp creature you now resemble in his eyes and slither back to the slough, thanks.
However, if a man suggests the shower stall as an alternative bedroom (easy clean-up!), or procures a dark towel or voluminous, seldom-worn sweatshirt for the bed like it ain't no big thang, chances are he's a Keeper. And if he admires the post-coital swathes across his groin and hips and abdomen, and laughs at your observation that he resembles the Joker from the Dark Knight film, then chances are you and I are dating the same man. He's a peach, isn't he?
Regardless, the prow and stern of a SuperLong maxi-pad jutting from either end of one's granny/period panties is an offputting visual. As is the mysteriously long string of a tampon snaking forth down one's inner thigh like some lost dental floss.
I try to arrange things with more discretion, but am limited in my menstrual aids. Sadly, I didn't have any success with the Instead option, which I was told by a friend could be left in during sex. I've concluded my kegels are too argumentative to even admit this weird little dog frisbee-like object. And though I like the idea, the DivaCup is messy to insert and remove. If I can somehow assume the right lunge position to stuff the thing inside, it insists on poking me to remind me it's still there. Yes, I know. Christ, you're a pain. Plus you leak. The DivaCup now resides permanently under my bathroom sink.
No, there's not much to be done about the blood catchment options available, nor the fact that I appear to have sprung a semi-permanent gush as I approach the cusp of my late 30's. (At this rate, I'll be completely anemic by 40.) Growing philosophical in my dotage, I've finally accepted it, even shrugged off the injustice of not having feminine hygiene products paid for by our fine medicare system (well, why not?).
I'm just happy to be with a man who doesn't give a shit if I've got my period, as long as I don't. I repeat myself from a couple of posts back: it is gratifying to date a man with long-term relationship experience, versus a manchild with little to none. The latter fears the unknown mysteries of the female form, while the former knows it all too well and is just grateful for occasional attempts at delicacy. Amen to that, sisters. He agrees that the ideal couples' house is one with separate bathrooms; I'm one step closer to love. So it goes.
May your periods be short and pain-free,
Gretchen "Gusher" Rutte
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