When I was younger I didn’t know how tampons worked. For some reason I was under the impression they were under pressure… maybe because I played with aviation flares….
(You know you’ve had a responsible upbringing when you can begin a sentence with, “Because I played with aviation flares…”) ….but I had this image in my head that you stuck them up inside you and then just pulled that little rip cord and they went POOF! and released.
When I told this to my girlfriend at the time, she just started shaking her head and said, “It’s not a fucking parachute, moron!” This led to nightmares of tampons that exploded into some terrifying sort of inflatable life raft when triggered.
Imagine trying to apply a feminine napkin……. (who the fuck comes up with these names? Napkin makes it sound like it’s got the Wendy’s logo embossed on it)….. That’s the feminine napkin… The masculine napkin’s from Burger King….
But imagine trying to apply a tampon and being torn in half by a giant yellow dinghy…..
If you were going to get torn in half by any kind of dinghy, you’d expect it to be black.
Honestly, the whole concept of menstruating is rather mortifying to me. Not like it is for many men. I’ve never been rendered queasy by the sight of menstrual blood or left shaken by period talk. And after suffering a few urinary stones and urethral abrasions, I’ve a moderate understanding of the inconvenience of routinely bleeding through your pants while at work. Or gasping paroxysms of pain and profanity when trying to simply urinate.
But if I had to regularly buy gauze and absorptive inserts because I began haemorrhaging every month, I’d be driven fairly beyond the realm of benign, frustrated resignation. I’d be up there with a goddamn endoscope or at least some sort of mirror and a Mag light, trying to suss out just what the hell was damaged or torn.
I’d be seeking out doctors and specialists and getting second opinions from experts in their field, even though they all assured me that it was a perfectly normal, healthy part of being a woman-man-I-dunno-thing……
And after I’d exhausted my anger and explored all medical avenues bargaining, owing to an aversion to the thought of having my manlady parts surgically yanked out, I’d probably settle on getting pregnant, which I guess is really what nature designed the human female (really, every female, and a few males of some species) body to do. Perhaps menstruation is nature’s way of irritating the fuck out of women until they get pregnant.
So I’d have to get pregnant. So I’d have to find a guy to impregnate me (How, dear God, did it come to this?) which wouldn’t, at first glance, seem to be a problem, as I’ve never had a shortage of guys wanting to fuck me. Of course they were all gay or bi and in this increasingly deranged hypothetical scenario, I apparently now have a full compliment of girl gadgets (or at least a vag and a uterothinger), and they are primed and ready for takeoff.
Or some other appropriate aviation metaphor.
So maybe I’d have to seek a somewhat different market. If I was going to have a child, I’d want someone intent on penetrating my manlady parts, and possessed of good genetics. And some brains that run in the family. And he’d have to be cute, cuz babies are already hideous little mush-covered slugs when they’re born and remain so for the first 6 months of life and I don’t want one that stays fugly that I’ll be tempted to chuck into a pond and start over.
Cute babies only.
I guess the guy needs to be kind and sensitive too. And a talented horseman, a skilled farrier, a competent trainer. And a good cook. And adventurous. And have a great sense of humour.
And I just described myself.
My ideal man, should I one day grow lady parts and need to be impregnated to keep from bleeding to death, would be me. I’d need a clone or something. So I could literally go fuck myself.
Likewise, the whole thought of being impregnated is, in itself, the very definition of a science fiction horror plot. Another being spears you with its proboscis, (this is the enjoyable part, the spearing), and injects you with its own DNA, which mingles with yours and soon begins growing in your gut.
It tricks your body into not only accepting its presence, but nourishing it at your own expense. Manipulative little bastard.
Then it enlarges to a comically incredible size, like a fucking tumour, all the while leeching off your blood, shitting in your veins, and lounging on your bladder like a bean bag chair. And when it’s quite had its fill and becomes fucking sentient! it begins kicking and tearing its way out of your gut, through the first available exit, your formerly tight little hooha.
A hooha, it should be noted, which only 9 months ago balked at the thought of fitting around the phallus of that quiet, nerdy guy from accounting, the one with the long, girlish fingers who always brings brownies for everyone on Mondays because god, you need them and sometimes wears a ridiculous Pikachu hat with a Metallica t-shirt…
The one you got drunk with after you broke up with that pretty little asshat who wasted 3 years of your life and suddenly you’ve got Quiet Nerdy Guy’s pants off and he’s running those long fingers down your inner thigh and heading toward your little pecan pie with the same glowing expression you get when mesmerized by a cheesecake and you think, “Awwww, he’s a giver” but then you look past his open maw and writhing tongue heading into your shuttle bay and catch sight of what must be a 20 lb northern pike dangling from where his genitals should be and you’re like, Is that a cock or an arm?!
Seriously, you think, in between gasps as he sucks on your clitoris and those fingers seem to be tickling your kidneys, Seriously! What am I supposed to do with that?! Put it in a headlock?
But you don’t think much more of it, because he soon has you on the verge of orgasm, keeps you there, dangling on the precipice, positively gushing to be set loose and barely able to move your legs and before you know, he’s between them, gripping your ass, sliding inside you and you feel full.
No. Really full. Fuller than you’ve ever imagined you could be and there’s stretching and a little pain but it’s a good pain and in your mind he’s so far inside you, your internal organs are moving over to let that big boy on by, and you’re like a cock puppet but you don’t care because oh, sweet, glorious, bloody jesus! he’s sucking on your nipples and thrusting oh so softly at first, and now he’s kissing your- no, biting your neck and playing with your bum and thrusting harder and harder, and christ! he is sooooo long, he’s right there! Right in that spot nobody that didn’t run on batteries has ever hit, and he’s pounding it, and you can feel your cervix, writhing and spasming, and then you were writhing and spasming and clawing into his back, and your legs are stiff and trembling….
And you can’t move, can’t breathe, have no control of your body anymore, he’s in command, punching buttons and shifting gears you didn’t even know you had. You’re starting to see stars form around the frame of your vision and he keeps you there, keeps pounding into you, moving you in waves closer to the edge of the bed and you can see the ceiling moving past and you can’t stop cumming, can’t let go, and suddenly this little whimper escapes your throat and then – right then – he explodes inside you and it’s like a dam bursting.
Like the fucking Hoover dam let go and the full brunt of the untamed Colorado is surging through the open arms of your gaping cervix and racing down your birth canal to the fertile lands beyond. And it feels soooo, sooo good.
Even after, when you still can’t move, and you know that you should get up soon and go pee, but he’s laying on top of you, his chin against your shoulder, gently cradling your head and caressing your side, and as you drift off into a sex coma you think, I’ve never wanted kids, but I want his kids.
And you got ‘em.
And now one of them is clawing and burrowing its way out of your body and any moment, the little demonic fucker is going to burst out of your abdomen like a parasitic fucking alien and you’re grabbing hands, somebody’s hands, screaming, “CUT THIS MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF ME! NOW! NOW! RIGHT GODDAMN NOW!!!” And to make matters worse, the parasite has turned your body to its own evil purposes and is making you have contractions, kind of like a dog trying to puke, but from belly button down.
Your body is trying to puke a watermelon-sized slug out of your vagina.
And then, something lets go, and you’re like “Dear god, please don’t let that be my vagina splitting open to my asshole.” Cuz that does happen. A lot.
But instead, there’s this sudden release, and you feel yourself lose volume, like a really big fart. And the pain subsides just a little, and you’re like, I’m really sorry if I just shit on someone down there. But you’re not really sorry. Not even a little.
And then, the shit starts screaming. And the first cries of a baby are supposed to be this wonderful, beautiful thing to a mother’s ears, but you’re listening to this flat, bawling, awful wail that sounds like a long, sustained dry-heave, and you’re like, “Oh shit, is it ok? Did I snap it in half with all the pushing???”
But then something supposedly miraculous, but really insidious happens. The exhaustion, the pain, and the hormones with which the little parasite himself has been flooding your system, combine to induce your brain to release oxytocin, a neurotransmitter that makes you all warm and tingly and loving and clinically impaired enough that you remain laying there, crying tears of joy, when any sane, rational person would be running for the hills.
You lay there and they clean the shit and blood and gunk off this wrinkly, purplish-looking, parasitic gut pug and hand it to you and instead of the logical response, which would be to recoil and go, “EW!” and maybe fling it, you hold it, and cuddle it, give it a name as if it’s a puppy, and then stick it to your boob (formerly perky little sunflowers in your cheerleading days, now tender and swollen to the size of cantaloupes – another side effect of the hormones the parasite has been exuding) and you let it literally suck the life out of you for several more months.
And then, once it gets big enough to walk and learn our human language, you teach it to do tricks, like algebra and dish washing and prepare it for life on earth, and then you lay awake at night worrying about its well-being. Because you’re still hopped up on oxytocin, the same drug that makes people feel good for cooperating and working as a team, whether they’re raising a barn or gangraping a hobo.
That’s a baby. A parasite that makes you love it to the exclusion of all good sense.
And if I had a vagina, I’d probably prefer that over menstruation. Cuz I don’t like cramps and I hate chocolate. But if I could make babies, I’d build an army of them. And we’d conquer the galaxy.
Or at least the Arctic ocean. Because I like sailing and that shit seems the least heavily fortified.