There’s a moment in every relationship, whether it’s the first date or a year later, when the question of period sex comes up. And a man’s answer tells me everything I need to know about him. A man who says no to sticking it in Aunty Flo hardly warrants the title of man.
Once a month, blood comes out of my vagina. This is totally normal and absolutely not gross. That blood is part of a process that is responsible for those little things called babies that eventually grow up to be you and me. That blood is as vital to our species' survival as the little sperms that wiggle their way out peen holes every day. And yet, that blood, the very lining of my life-giving uterus, is somehow considered dirtier than the gooey pre-smegma that proceeds forth from the tips of dicks every day. But then again, men are generally afforded more leeway in terms of their bodies than women, so why should I be surprised.
I want nothing to do with a man who refuses to fuck me while I’m on the rag. I bleed, therefore I am. And if you want my vagina, you have to accept her as she is, which is sometimes with chunks of clot and other uterus crap coming out of her.
I’ve found that most women agree with me—refusing period sex is deal breaker. Given that a penis isn’t exactly a romp in a field of roses (have you ever smelled one of those things after a day in the pants? It’s that really skin-y smell, like flesh that’s just got too warm and too sweaty, a bit like feet but with a faint aroma of urine), it seems hypocritical for a man to shun a bloodied vagina.
My body and its various functions are no more or less wonderful or awkward than a man’s. And just to be clear, I have a giant dildo in my bedside table that isn’t going to kick up a fuss about a drop of blood so think before you begrudge me menstrual sex.
Turning down my rouged vag is a serious mistake. When I’m on my period I have a permanent femme-boner, and my vagina hole is pre-lubricated and ready to do some really awful things that non-hormonal pre-blood me probably wouldn’t do unless she had a glass of wine or two.
In conversation with a friend the other night, and contemplating unleashing my red river on a new boy, she empathized with me on the expectation that period sex should be had, but qualified her contention.
“Look, I don’t know about you, but for about two days of my period, my vagina smells like beef.”
“Yeah, I know that smell,” I said, “but so what?” I threw in an argument about pungent penises.
“Well I guess I just don’t feel all that sexy when my vag smells like a butcher shop.”
Which is fair enough—it’s her vagina, she can do what she wants with it. Your vagina, your choice, etc. Basically, it’s a man’s responsibly to ensure that he doesn’t do anything to make a woman feel like a second-class citizen simply because of her unchangeable, ancient, perfect biology.
I was once sleeping with a wonderful man, who, upon ripping off all my clothes and throwing me on his bed, for the first time found me warning him that there could be blood. He lay down next to me and propped himself up on one elbow. He looked me directly in the eye and said in his very beautiful, very serious European accent, “Kat, who am I to tell a women when she can and cannot have sex.”
I smiled and made to leave the bed. He grabbed my hand, “Where are you going?” he asked.
“To the bathroom to take my tampon out.”
He pulled me back down onto the bed. “That’s OK, just pull it out and throw it in the corner over there.”
What a guy. What. A. Guy.