Friday, January 2, 2009

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Tampon

She stands in my living room, pupils dilated, nostrils flared, rosaciaed cheeks extra rosy, holding a diaphragm in the palm of her small hand, showing me her blood clot. Probably in response to some unsympathetic asshole-type thing I'd said about how she's always bitching about her period but she's had them for years now and shouldn't she be used to them by now?

"See?" she snarls, shoving the filled diaphragm towards me. I can see the clump of red in the center and I don't want to see the clump of red in the center so I shut my eyes and avert my face with the expression of a ten year old who has just had his first foray into an abattoir. "See? This is what WE have to put up with!"

In her passion, her hand shakes a tad and the clot drops on to my plush, white carpet. She bursts into tears, apologizes and runs for the Fabreeze, the soap, and the scrubby brush she uses when her cats have their accidents.

I light a cigarette and watch her scrub my carpet like some feverish maid who has just been threatened with I.N.S.

Time. Stops.

It does that sometimes.

I start thinking about shit. Weird shit. I usually do this after sex, before sex, when I'm trying to find someone to have sex with, and when I'm viewing porn. It pisses me off, because it's usually ill-timed, but not today. Today, the timing couldn't be better.

Men experience blood as the potential for death. Our only history with blood is being wounded. Losing blood is losing life is draining energy until we're cold and in the ground. Blood=bad thing.

For women it's more complex. (Isn't it always?) Women have the same experience with blood, PLUS the potential for life. Each uterine lining shed is another opportunity passed, another moment where they could've conceived, but didn't, and therefore are failures.

Time. Re-starts.

By now, she's finished scrubbing and I'm not saying a Goddamn word, despite the fact that I can still see a pink aura around the spot. I'll probably forget about it, but she won't. She'll feel ashamed about it every time she passes by until we finally call a professional cleaner or get a new carpet.

The important thing is I can take advantage of her guilt and have some rocking good sex for awhile. She might be a little more willing to go down on me or she might let me finally do her doggy-style. Either way, until her shame lifts or until I piss her off again (which is why I have to take it while I can get it), I'm looking to be a lucky boy.

Now, which is worse in your experience? Being sick in the hospital or having to visit a loved one who's sick in the hospital. I'd rather be wearing a thin, backless paper gown and having my guts laundered than to have to make small talk with someone who's managed to get past my defenses and make me care about them. It's just easier. I'd much rather piss blood for five to seven days than to have to listen to someone whine about it.

Every month, your girlfriend, sister, daughter and mother become mental patients. I'm not complaining. One out of those four give me a good occasional fuck (two if you live in Alabama or Mississippi; three if you live in Arkansas). And I'm just horny enough to plow through even during the violent march of the Crimson Crusade. If she's willing; I'm willing. I've had blood on my dick and on my hands and I've found that it all comes out with some soap and water. To some men, this idea is abhorrent. That's their business, but it's one less fuck for them and one more for me, and I've found when I show no disdain for Little Red Riding Blood, I score a lot more Brownie points. If she can put up with the mess and the stink (which I rarely notice anyway), I sure as Hell can. And I'm just horny enough to not care about the conditions (with the following exceptions: 1. whores in Mexico 2. transsexuals in transition and 3. common prostitutes).

Now, she's curled up in my lap, weeping, apologizing and ignoring my hand which has somehow snaked its way up under her shirt and wire-framed bra and planted itself on her breast. Maybe I'm a bastard, but I like her when she's like this, vulnerable, needy, wanty, soft and sweet. It's like an ice cream that's begun to melt. If your hand ain't a little sticky before it's all over, you're not doing it right.

Aaron Diaz Hoal
Originally published 1/27/08

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