I used to have period sex.
I also used to eat chicken that I’d left out for 48 hours at room temperature. I’d grab half full beers at 4 am after a party off a crusty mantle covered with solo cups and pound them. Half the time there would be a cigarette in it. I used to jerk off while taking shits. There are a lot of disgusting things I used to do. No more, and period sex is one of them. I am no longer so desperate to get my dick into absolutely any kind of pussy anywhere that I will plunge it into this scabrous and foul smelling residue.
Because periods are fucking disgusting. Completely natural of course, but, shit is completely natural. Puke is completely natural. Natural things we rightly shun and abhor. This is why Hasids can’t touch a strange woman, in case she’s menstruating. Why ancient Hebrews would make menstruating women squat in red tents. Why Native Americans would send them to an isolated lodge on stilts to run the impurity out of them. It’s just gross. And it attracts bears.
I bring this up because I had a date last night who was cute, whom I liked, whom I took back to my apartment. With whom it got physical. Whom I clearly would have fucked. Clearly, except she was on her period.
Which—for Christ’s fucking sake. It is hard enough to get laid in this world. To go on OKCupid, find an attractive woman, come up with a clever email, then fire back at her inevitably banal response with a second clever but not-trying-too-hard email to get the phone number. To leave a voicemail that is creative enough to seem cool but not so much so that it scares her off, where your voice doesn’t nervously falter even one tiny little bit. To sustain a one-sided phone conversation that does not blow it in any way for even one second. To get the date, be charming on the date, seamlessly and confidently guide her back to your squalid apartment as a sleazy-seeming stranger on this, the first night of your acquaintance in a world of rape paranoia. To get her inside, never falling off the precarious unicycle-on-a-tightrope of charm that you must maintain for the conversational rock to not come rolling all the way back down the hill. To have her drink a little bit more but not so much more that she becomes sketchy or incoherent. To have you drink enough to relax enough to make the appropriate moves but not so much that you slur or can’t get a boner. To make every single one of a thousand tiny decisions perfectly correctly and without seeming to try. To accomplish all of these labors and be at what appears to be the finish line until you reach a hand into her tights and get the sheepish… “I can’t, I’m on my period,” is like—it’s like in 50’s TV ads where the grocer is stacking a giant pyramid of cans and right before he finishes someone grabs one can and the whole thing comes crashing down. Like getting to the last level in a Nintendo game on your last continue, and the power goes out. It’s just fucking maddening.
So let’s establish something. Dating is for fucking. You go out on a date, you better be in shape to fuck. It doesn’t have to happen, but you have taken your womanly self-deception too far when you refuse to even acknowledge the possibility that it might.
If you are not in shape to fuck, do not go on a date. Just like you don’t suit up for the big game when your leg is broken. Or whatever the female equivalent is—don’t go…. quilting when your quilting finger is broken. Don’t do…. that thing with horses, when the horse… is broken. I wouldn’t go out with you if my dick had fallen off that morning.
Or at least, don’t go out on your period and then not suck my dick.