SHORT STORIES: PERIOD PIECE 1
LOST IN VAGINA (Spring 2012)
You know how in every hs health class one cautious teenage girl asks on behalf of a roomful of careless teenage girls whether it is possible to lose something in one’s vagina? (Asking for a friend!) IT HAPPENED TO ME! One night I got super duper stoned with my classmates in Vermont. When they left my apt, it was time to masturbate. But I was getting my period, so I sat in my bathtub as to not bleed all over my apartment. Also, manhub (or maybe rockettube) only worked in my bathroom for some inexplicable reason. All other porn sites worked everyplace in my apartment. Which I had tested, because science! Being restricted to my bathroom seemed like as good of a reason as any other to delight in some man-on-man action. To be clear, I did not have a detachable showerhead. (True story: I survived 10 months in the wilderness with nary a detachable showerhead in sight.) In this instance, I thought of my bathtub exclusively as a receptacle for blood. Instead of my typical pants-around-the-ankles period scenario, I went all out and took all my clothings off! Decadent! And even removed my menstrual cup! Was super stoked that I could masturbate all night and that blood makes excellent lube and that I didn’t even have to worry about getting bloody handprints on my pants or dripping bloody cum all over my socks as I squatted over them—because I was completely naked! Let freedom ring! So I masturbated all night. Or maybe not. But high times, who knows. Then I showered a lovely sensual shower and was genuinely in love with the world. Because hormones. And automatic cleanup—hooray!
Eventually I was ready to rejoin society. I mean, crawl into bed and gobble handfuls of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and pass out and drool on myself. So I pulled back my pink, flamingo shower curtain (not to be confused with a pink flamingo shower curtain) and reached for the ledge where I had left my menstrual cup, but it was gone! I searched every corner of the shower multiple times. That’s a lot of times when you are high. Then I gave up and tore up the rest of the bathroom. Guys, I knew I hadn’t left the bathroom. And I couldn’t figure out why it would be in any of the nooks and crannies where I looked. Bandaid box? Nope. Nailpolish box? Nope. But I was absolutely baffled as to where it could have disappeared in such a small, contained space. Almost wished I had gotten all Hansel and Gretel and left a trail of blood across my crème brulee and caffe latte plaid floor.
Defeat: I accepted it, and opened the cabinet where my spare menstrual cup and emergency box of tampons were dormant. I licked the rim of the spare cup, reached into my relaxed and easy vagina, and there it was: the original! Fancy to run into you here! Durr. Leaving a trail of breadcrumbs from my vagina to my vagina would have proved fairly useless. Unless I needed a snack.
Well, kids, today we’ve learned that silicone cannot disappear into thin air, but it can disappear into my not-so-cavernous, sex-numb vagina. Abracadabra! Obviously I had put the cup back in directly after getting off, taking advantage of the extra elasticity and lubrication. So, there you have it: the cup was not lost, but forgotten. Let’s say misplaced. Er, properly placed.
THIS IS YOUR VAGINA ON DRUGS! ANY QUESTIONS?
FUCK SELF SILLY (March 2014)
It happened to me—again. Except in reverse!
Friday night I stayed out all night doing coke. Which I never ever do. Except like once every three years. My friends didn’t leave ‘til 10 in the mornin’. 10 in the mornin’. So whatcha wanna do? Sheeet, I got a pocket full of rubbers… No. I lay in bed wide awake and restless, slept soundly for an eternity, and woke up at like 8pm then proceeded to be completely stationary. I was like, me so horny but me so useless. So I pulled out my vibrator and tried to get off without moving and without removing my menstrual cup. My greatest accomplishment of the day: making my clit as numb as my nose had been the previous evening. But, hey, one day last week my greatest accomplishment was watching the music video for Sonic Youth’s Bull In The Heather 30+ times! 10. 20. 30. 40. Fuck. This. Shit. I need penetration.
I relocated to the bathroom, where I peed (bowels empty! cocaine purity!), removed my period underwear with 3-inch-thick overnight pad, and hopped into my shower. And by ‘shower,’ I mean ‘sanctuary of pleasure a relief.’ Leaning back on my step stool, I aimed the shower spray at my clit and inserted my silicone husband, Tom. Felt a little dry, which wasn’t a huge shock. Figured my period was nearly over, so spat on Tom directly then squirted a few drops of liquid lube on his head. Sliding right in, he fucked me silly. As he pounded against my cervix, I experienced more pain than normal. That’s to be expected, though, between the bleeding heart tenderness and downright cervical position. NBD: it hurt sooo good!!! I gripped harder and pulled him in closer. As my body met his, I contracted then relaxed like a cockroach going into rigor mortis (literally, “rigidity of death”). By the time I came to, all the life had seeped out of me. I was at peace. Absentminded, I stuck in a thumb and pulled out a plum. No, I slid an errant finger in, examined it, and was delighted but bemused to find only wetness, no blood. My period had begun a day late so I wasn’t sure how I felt about it drying up a day early. Should I be concerned? Upon further inspection, AHA! I had left my menstrual cup inside me. Neglected to remove it. In a fit of passion. Drug daze. These are the glory days.
Tracing my finger around the rim, it didn’t budge. Practically fused with my cervix. Effectively turned into a diaphragm—a barrier method. Protecting me from my wildest dreams—of ejaculating dildos, semen seepage. If it weren’t for the little holes around the rim designed for breaking suction, it would be a legit method of birth control. Jammed in, does not dislodge. A friend once told me about how when she got fitted for a diaphragm, the presentation of samples, itself, was the most effective form of birth control. Diaphragms ranged in diameter from that of a menstrual cup to that of a BABY’S HEAD! The good news is that my vagina ain’t no longer a midget. When expanded, it could accommodate a cup and a dildo, though thankfully not a human head.
Never fear. My period was not over. Game onnn.
The next day, when I emptied out my cup and nothing spilled out, I encountered the longest strand of mucusy blood I’ve ever seen. Had to play tug-of-war with it to detach it from me. It was like an endless string of spaghetti or one of those continuous rainbow ribbons that clowns pull out of their mouths. Freed, it was the menstrual version of the cervical mucus I get when ovulating, just as high in spinnbarkeit and even more fun to play with. Wish I had had a camera with me. Contemplated preserving the red rope and hobbling to my bedroom with my pants around my ankles to grab my phone, but didn’t want to leave a Hansel and Gretel trail. Someday…
HUMAN IN PUBLIC (July 2009, March 2010)
I have a policy against wanking in public places, obviously. First of all, public restrooms are gross. Second, you know how it takes people longer to pee if there is someone in the stall next to them? Well, the thought of someone listening and wondering what you are doing in there for so long, or surprising you in the middle, is enough to leave me panic stricken. Lastly, getting off sitting on any toilet is gross for girls because our body parts are in between our legs. If you wanna finger yourself, you have to reach down into to the toilet bowl to get all up in there.
Sometimes I get my period, however, and all bets are off. I used to do editing work and light writing for this guy in his East Village apartment. He trusted me to work on my own time—sometimes at home and sometimes at his place. His landlord had won awards for being the worst ever (I think he had made the Village Voice). They were in the midst of a legal dispute on account of adjusted rent commensurate with health hazardous living conditions. There was some issue with construction that was causing questionable dust (asbestos?) to come up through his floorboards and permeate his air. My boss’s temporary remedy was to cover his entire floor with butcher paper. Bathroom included. I admired his aim and that of everyone else who worked at his place. There was not a single drop splattered.
On one fateful, bloodletting day he asked me if I could stay an hour later than planned. Yes, but I could not imagine making it through another minute without relief. I had sort of been counting down the minutes until I could go home and get off. When he told me he was running to the post office across the street, he’d be back in five, I had no choice but to dismiss myself to the bathroom. So tightly wound, I knew I wouldn’t take long. Thirty seconds after the front door shut, I had already unzipped and begun wanking on the toilet. Wrong angle. Bad position. Not fast enough. I kneeled down in front of the toilet, hovering over my pants, so in the event of any blood or bloody cum drippage, his minimalist floor decorations would not turn into a canvas of kids’ doodles—a slapdash Jackson Pollack. On my knees with my thighs pressed together, I came quickly enough so I didn’t look like a flushed mess by the time my boss got back. Sweet, sweet relief.
It’s a slippery slope, that illicit masturbation racket. Fast forward 8 months to the 2010 Eastern Psychological Association conference at the Marriott Brooklyn Bridge. My grad school classmates and I were supposed to congregate at the conclusion of the second day and enjoy a comped dinner in Downtown BK. The first night I got there late to catch Sarah Barton’s Untold Desires (1994), a documentary about people with disabilities who struggle to be recognized as sexual beings. So late there was no one at the registration desk to accept my money; I slipped into the screening room unnoticed. By the time the movie was over, the hotel was desolate. There were few conference attendees who lingered, nevertheless anyone I recognized. And that’s when it happened. I’m not sure if I went to the bathroom with explicit intention or I ended up there, surveyed the scene, and thought ‘scot-freeeee!’ Once I had it in my mind set on it, it didn’t seem like there was any alternative. I couldn’t imagine taking the subway home in my state. I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO BE HUMAN IN PUBLIC! All signs pointed to my vagina. The bathroom was nice—luxurious even. Single stalls with slatted doors all the way from floor to ceiling. Private. I leaned back on the toilet, thought of one of my friends, rocked my hips back and forth, squeezed my legs together, and rolled into an orgasm. Whew. Done. Didn’t even have to take my cup out or anything. Just sorta jostled it around inside me. Cleaned up; scanned my blank reflection in the mirror; counted myself bright, shiny, and new; emerged gracefully—all tension gone. Felt a little bold, like I could be this calm and composed always. If only all public bathrooms were so lovely.
To be clear, it wasn’t a sexy movie. Certainly not intended to arouse. I mean, there was one MILF I was kinda into; her legs didn’t work and she spoke about how she and her husband accommodated by arranging her in different positions. Which of course led to me picturing her all arranged, spread open—ready. That’s not what got me all worked up, though. I had been stricken by period madness. Seriously, sometimes it just seems like all the blood pools in your pants and all your thoughts cluster there. If you could just have onnne orgasm, the energy would dissipate and you could move on with the rest of your life. Power to the people! Blood to the brain!
A few months prior, my friend Libby and I had seen Beeswax at the Reel Abilities Film Festival (Hey there, Alex Karpovsky).
March 4, 2010
Genie: i think i’m seeing another film about disabled sex tomorrow night. this one probably not quite as hip.
Libby: HAH, how do you find out about these things? Is there a disabled sex mailing list I should join?
Genie: i found out about disabled sex flick #1 from the gender studies listserve, and disabled sex flick #2 is playing at the eastern psychological association convention. so, total coincidence. but if i keep attending these events, people are going to think i have a disability fetish. disabled sex seems to be the topic du jour of indie movies. i don’t tell hipsters what to do with their art.
Guys, I swear I’m not into disabled sex! Though once upon a time I was accused of fucking like a cripple.