I hate my period. I hate that I feel like I could eat my children every day for an entire week leading up to it. I hate that the flow is so heavy I need to pop iron supplements like they’re tic tacs so my anemia doesn’t kick in from rapid blood loss causing my vision to blur. But what I hate the most is that when Mr. K visits, eight times out of ten, we have a messy threesome with ol’ Auntie Flo. Her presence is annoying and inconvenient, and to be honest, I don’t feel as dominant when she’s in town. I don’t feel confident enough to sit on Mr. K’s face as he worships my ass, which is something I absolutely adore, and I don’t immediately collapse on top of him in post orgasmic bliss after using him. Instead we clean each other up, rearrange the towels on the bed, and make remarks about hotel housekeeping calling the cops. The red stained sheets are usually one blood splatter away from a full-blown crime scene.
Fortunately my periods aren’t painful. Fibroid tumors, endometriosis, or ovarian cysts aren’t the cause of my monthly deluge. Altered hormones from pregnancies and my body changing with age are. I assumed there was no solution to my problem and actually began to look forward to menopause so the situation would rectify itself. Last month was particularly brutal, so I started asking questions. My Nurse Practitioner said that up until now, healthy women our age (“our age” meaning perimenopausal) with problematic periods tend to get shafted. I don’t need a hysterectomy because my lady parts are in good shape, and I don’t need birth control pills because my tubes have been cut, burned and tied. And an endometrial ablation isn’t an option because according to the research I’ve done, good results aren’t the norm. What I do need is a period that doesn’t control what I wear or the time between bathroom visits. These days women have more options, and after reading positive reviews about a particular non-hormonal treatment, I walked away with a prescription whose price tag damn near gave me heart failure.
Almost a week later and $109 poorer, I was preparing for my getaway with Mr. K when my period made an unexpected appearance. My first instinct was to curl into a fetal position and sob hysterically. The second was to ask Google for a magic spell that would make it disappear, because supposedly, Google knows everything. The third, and most irrational by far, was to call my pastor for an emergency prayer circle. Don’t laugh, I’m Southern Baptist. It’s what we do. But then I remembered the whole restraining order thing and quickly shelved that idea. I came to terms with the fact that once again, there would be our definition of blood play and I eventually climbed out of my self-made pit of despair. I popped two of the pills as prescribed and hoped for the best. It was really my only option.
We didn’t notice much difference the first day. There was still blood and messed up sheets despite the carefully laid beach towels. It was then that I began to worry I was the exception and the pills wouldn’t work for me, but I continued to take them as directed. The next morning, however, there was very little blood evidence on Mr. K, and by late afternoon, there was even less. And when we got naked again that night, my period went missing. It had vanished along with my anxieties of ruined bed linens. To say that we were thrilled is a massive understatement. Mr. K exclaimed the pills were pure genius and we shared a Julie Andrews moment, but with less singing and more orgasms.
I’m incredibly lucky that Mr. K has no qualms about the state of my vagina during my period. He earned his red wings over a year ago during our first weekend together and he continues to amaze me with how much he loves everything about my body. And now, thanks to modern medicine, I no longer have to arm wrestle Auntie Flo to prove who is more dominant. I am, and I’ll win every fucking time.
