My Bed of Blood: Earn Your Red Wings


I have one towel. It’s tattered but beautiful. It’s almost as heavy as a thick slab or rubber; but I need it to be that way. It wears a shade of orange so perfect that it magically exudes a comfort and sexual energy I cannot ignore. I lie it down on my bed. I take off my panties. I pull out my soiled tampon (or, ideally, menstrual cup) and toss it in a small trash can. Then, I go to bed.

The next morning, my thighs are decorated in blood. My towel wears my femininity proudly, soulfully deep red blotches appear next to browned ones that (after many a wash) still fight the remain present.

My menstruation, and yours as well, is one of the most beautiful gifts that mother nature can give us. It’s what sets us apart from other men, makes us unique. In our race to equality (whatever that means) and our progression onward to become the women that our formerly fighting sisters want us to become, I’m surprised that we haven’t placed more celebratory praise upon our red rivers. Instead, we clean it out, we stuff ourselves with cotton, and we take medication to make it go away.

My period gives me power. And I know it from the inside out. I’ve played with the soft and smooth clumps of uteral lining that attach themselves to my pubic hair. Being a pussy-sniffing enthusiast, it is during the crimson wave that I sit on the toilet longer than one needs to and  adoringly inhale that strong iron fragrance. I also lick my fingers or vibrator after masturbation! The delicious flavor of vagina mixed in with the tart taste of menstrual blood is overwhelming and unique… hmm.

Freaked out? As Germaine Greer said, if we can’t even taste our own menstruation, then we still have a long way to go towards emancipation… doesn’t that make sense? Although I would like to extend this to tasting our vaginal secretions in general!

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