Why Are Periods Still So Embarrassing?

Today was the day of all days. I started my trillionth period, or so it felt. I went to the restroom, just to… you know… handle my business? Once my body stopped spewing waste through its natural process, I proceeded to wipe my twat clean. To my surprise, there she was, shedding from the inner layers of my love button; Mother Nature. As vibrantly red as she could be, arriving every month at any time she felt convenient, just to remind me that I am not pregnant (as if I could be). With all her glory, politely tearing my insides apart as she flows down my slit onto my panties. No matter how many times she has paid me a visit, I continuously feel the utmost amount of embarrassment, equivalent to my first visit. Now I started to become distressed. With my undies and jeans wrapped tightly around my ankles, I began to question my next move. Conveniently, I was in a restroom that contained a sink to my left. As I stared violently at my cunt, I told her, “Melinda, we are going to take off these bottom layers and walk to the sink to clean the panties that protect you. I swear on everything, if you drip blood on this floor or on my leg, you will not be receiving pleasure for a week, so be a good little girl and do as you're told.” Once we agreed, I slowly removed my shoes, then each pant leg slid off my bare feet, and finally my drenched panties slipped off as carefully as can be. I walked to the sink, soaked my panties with cold water and soap, and vigorously rubbed both sides of my panties together to remove the socially stigmatized blood that my inner loins created (without my want, permission, or control). I began to wonder, how will I now clog my hole to prevent more blood from escaping? I walked back to the john and rapidly put my clothes back on, in hopes that when I walked back into my last class, I would have some form of Mother Nature protection. As I desperately searched my bag, it became evident that I did not have any protection for this unexpected visit. I only had two choices. One, I go back to the bathroom and stuff an enormous amount of toilet paper in my trim, in hope that it will clog my hole long enough to provide protection. Second, share my embarrassing, current experience with another female by asking for a tampon. I went with the second option, as stuffing my twat with toilet paper like a turkey on Thanksgiving wasn’t appealing. I looked over to my classmate next to me and asked her for a tampon. She glanced over to me and secretly handed me a tampon under the classroom table, so no other student would notice. I nervously hid the tampon in my back pocket prior to racing out of the classroom to the restroom. I was able to confidently fill Melinda with the protection she deserves when Mother Nature occurs.

But once all the stress subsided, I wondered, why do women feel obligated to hide or shame their body's natural process? Why was I so worried of other people realizing my misfortune? Why did my classmate find it necessary to hide the exchange of a tampon under the table, as if it was a drug exchange? Why do women endure the natural disasters of Mother Nature with an add on of social stigma? Why is there social stigma?

Once all these questions had flooded my mind, I began to feel aggravated. It becomes aggravating when personal, incorrect, societal norms become the hierarchy of your behaviors. As if it is my fault my fish mitten vomits clumps of uterus lining as if it was recovering from a rager. Or my utmost enjoyment for the iron stench escaping my cunt every time I open my legs. We particularly enjoy the continuous stabbing occurring in our lower abdomen while we try to accomplish our already stressful everyday activities. But our most favorite part is the uncontrollable war happening within our hormones, in an attempt to concur the privilege of controlling our emotions in that precise moment. And that moment can transpire during the most inconvenient times, like at work, in class, at church, while taking a shit, during a foot massage, tied up while being fucked from behind, on the search for Big Foot, during an important speech, staring at a wall for too long, petting a cat, talking about leprechauns, twiddling your thumbs, during an interesting masturbation session with your anus … I think you get my point.

Women need to no longer hide behind the curtains of societal norms. It is not our fault that our furry pink minks bleed once a month, whenever they want, however they want. It is not our fault men feel uncomfortable when the hole they enjoy sticking their cocks in bleeds once a month. It is sure as hell not our faults when Mother Nature stains our new panties because she successfully escaped our wet seals after we attempted to confine her.

There is nothing wrong with a period. There is nothing wrong with period blood. There is nothing wrong with period smells. There is nothing wrong with period stains. Men need to embrace the natural female reproductive system and its consequences, just as much as they crave our pussy lips to be wrapped around their shafts. Men and women need to not be disgusted or terrified of fucking when Mother Nature is home. You get over it and fuck the period out of that deep pink! And if they can’t, that’s fine, but don’t fuck them. Why would you want to fuck a man or woman with an IQ equivalent to a prepubescent child? The sex is going to suck anyway!