Angel Boy and the Purity Ball

Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby
Just call me angel of the morning angel
Then slowly turn away from me
~Angel of the Morning, Olivia Newton John


We are all impatiently waiting to fuck. Whether it’s getting the fuck out of here, or getting the fuck in there, there is almost no time to waste. I told Angel Boy he was too young and I didn’t believe in fairy tales. He asked me if I harbored resentment toward my mother, came on my bed sheets, and was out the door.

Every time I see Angel Boy, he handles me like I am hot metal, cautiously, like he is trying to avoid injury. He knows I am a hunter, I carry a sharp spear. But still, he stands next to the fire/flame and cums almost instantly before he even touches me.

Part of the reason Angel Boy cums so quickly is because he has been seriously deprived of the sex he wants and deserves. His ex-girlfriend viewed sex as an annoying chore. Angel is not an alpha who scores with a babe every Saturday night, so I recognize his need for release. In fact, I empathize whole-heartedly with his lack of lusty fucking. Yet, he holds back each time we are together and I cannot understand. I work diligently to draw out the fuck. I am like Vulcan with my hammer and blow torch laboriously shifting and shaping the fuck. I am desire’s faithful servant, chipping away at his stone.

Still, he never fully consciously releases, it’s like a wet dream, with my tits and ass playing the role of young starlet. If he is at all engaged in my personhood, it almost certainly is only an idea/ideal, which after years of developing alter egos and secret double-lives, I suppose it’s logical the only Sally he sees is a cartoon character. Yet, there are foreign territories to transverse, like my pussy. He has not yet heard the diving bell, so I wait.

Angel Boy is not a pussy-eating type of man. He is albino fresh, white as white can be, and his body is perfumed with the same steady scent each time. His crisp starched clothes and clear blue eyes indicate he would’ve been an excellent boy scout. If Angel eats pussy at all, it’s probably done out of drunk half-unconscious obligation. I know I am no special exception, but still, I don’t stop waiting.

Angel said he would fuck me in two weeks, after the purity ball. I can’t decide if he waits to fuck because he is a brainwashed Catholic who believes women are dirty, or he has a demanding work schedule. Either way, my Virgo does not fuck. I wonder if the robot was assembled incorrectly. If there is a malfunction, it happened during production (childhood) at the factory.

In this cryptic mess of gobbledy- goop, I wait for Angel to dole out some clarity. I want a clean fuck, a break from the past and a super-cosmic orgasm. But, Angel is just a boy, and his offer is subject to limitations. I understand. I do not hold his immaturity against him; he could be any man on any day.

Angel traces the lines around my face at night, and I am close to him. He doesn’t realize there is a microscope in the corner and I am closest to myself when I reach for it. I crack the code and look for signals in the dark with my magnifying glass and little note pad.

Girls, when you look at your attachments and see yourself you know you are almost home. When your sex life no longer resembles the Slaughter of the Innocents, you have almost made your way back to yourself safely. You are moving beyond the polarizing situations, male versus female, good versus evil, and innocence versus guilt. If you can see your truth, you hold the mirror, not him.

Look at the men standing next to you, girls, and consider yourself informed.

Straight from the shark’s mouth,

this is Sally Sunshine signing off.

Blowing a load on the face of misogynists.

A friend sent this email to Sally S. today: Read Below:

I just heard this song again and it reminded me how important it is to do what you are passionate about and be surrounded by people who love and support you. My family and friends are my foundation and I am grateful everyday for them.

A big house and fancy cars mean nothing if you don't have people around you to share it with. Whether it is with your family, your friends or your significant other, make that your foundation and you will excel in everything you do.

Material things bring
temporary and short-term happiness...family and friends are priceless. That is the definition of success...not the passionless love for material things.

Be grateful everyday, have integrity, love and support those around you and it will all come back ten folds.

Measure Your Success:

* Rich in friends—A person who cultivates friendships and who is a joy to be around can have hundreds of good friends and can be rich beyond the wildest dreams of others.


* Rich in health—A person who spends time eating and drinking right, exercising and relaxing from stress can be extremely healthy, and this health can be far more valuable than any amount of money.


* Rich in strength—A person who works out with weights every day, runs, swims, etc. can be rich in strength and will have an attractive body.


* Rich in family—A person who devotes time to his or her spouse and children will have a strong and happy family that is rewarding throughout life.


* Rich in knowledge—A person who reads and studies will become rich in knowledge.


* Rich in skill—A person who practices anything daily (a skill, a sport, prayer, whatever) will become excellent in that skill area. Excellence has its own rewards.


* Rich in character— A person who works hard at being honest and truthful in all situations will become rich in character and will be trusted by everyone.

See my response below:

It is possible to do what you are passionate about AND have money- and lots of it, actually. I realize there is an obsession in our society with the material. Possessions are pursued at the expense of other important things- there is no balance, for some.

On the other hand, I vehemently disagree with an overly humble attitude toward money, possessions, and material success. Ambition, especially in women, is shunned.

Shouldn't we just be satisfied with good friends, a gym membership, and family?

Maybe. If it pleases you.

Yet, there are some of us, women included, who are tenaciously pursuing our material goals- because we want to make a difference in the world, professionally, and be able to support ourselves, AND make boat loads of money if our ambitious little hearts desire. We are not any less "evolved" or "spiritual" than one for who those values don't apply.

There is a rather sexist imprint in this philosophy. For example, I may feel, as a woman, the need to justify my ambition with statements like, "I just really want to help people, and that's why success is important to me." Very few men are called upon to justify their ambition in this manner.

It is considered poor form for a woman to be restlessly driven- just for ambition's sake. Even in today's society, it's relatively rare to hear a woman openly admit to being a capitalist of the highest order, that is, placing ambition/success (of which material items are a natural extension of success) at the top of their list.

Parting Observation:

Oddly, it was not a stay-at-home mom who posted the article above; in fact, it was a young female entrepreneur at the prime of her earning potential- (30-35 years old).

How intriguing.

~S.S.

O' Cum All Ye' Faithful

Has your birth control method ever failed? Or, maybe you had unprotected sex with your lover. If so, what did you do to stop his seed from finding a permanent home in the soft lining of your uterus?

Did you fall to your knees and pray for a miracle? Please God, Please. No children. No baby. I'll be a good girl, I promise!

Or, what if, in a moment of proactive self-protection, you participated in the holiest of all sacraments, the Eucharist.

I traveled the winding road to Mecca (i.e. Planned Parenthood) on Monday to renew my faith. And, when I walked through those Golden Doors of Heaven I heard the angels singing God's praises. After I made my contribution to the offering plate ($44), I felt the Holy Spirit descend upon me. Before receiving Holy Communion, I passionately sermonized (sperminized):

"Take this, all of you, and eat it:
this is my body which will be given up for you.
When supper was ended, he took the cup.
Again he gave you thanks and praise,
gave the cup to his disciples, and said:
Take this, all of you, and drink from it:
this is the cup of my blood,
the blood of the new and everlasting covenant.
It will be shed for you and for all
so that sins may be forgiven.
Do this in memory of me."



Thank you Lord. You truly are a kind and benevolent God.

Peace be with you.

Amen.

Ocean City

Here’s the whole bloody story with its guts emptied out.

Venus goes diving.



Love,

The girl on the hill with the grass growing around her eyes.

Survival Tips for the Hungry Love Struck

This is the House of Sally Sun. The house music pounds hard. The needle jumps off the record and skips a beat. Confusion follows a moment of silence, and then, a startling thud when the loud speakers are whipped into the wall.

Welcome.

Hang your hat next to the half-assed flute playing riddlers.

Tape their fucking mouths shut.

Place your shoes on top of Billy’s pathetic fifth grade crayola homework.

Smear dirt across the page.

Sit down.

Wait.

Sex in the Soil

Autumn in Moldova

“When it’s missing then you want it more
It isn’t right
Turning out the door
And back to this
Leave it like it was before
And let me out”
-Warrior: Yeah Yeah Yeahs

We've all been subjected to abuse in some way, shape, or form. Whether it's a broken heart, a parent's abandonment, death, disease, poverty of the soul, or poverty of the mind- it's all there. We've walked down our quiet roads of desperation, swallowing anger, resentment, guilt, and toxic shame. And mostly, the grief is contained in our own private hell. It is in this hell, that we divide from other people and dive deep into our own cosmic experience.

There is an inner division too. Splits occur. Fragmentation sets in. We cannot see the truth in someone else’s experience because we are locked down in our own pain. We cannot gain any benefits from their experience because of our stubborn refusal to examine another’s journey outside of ours. We need open recognition of what our wounds are and the wounds of those around us, before we can embrace an enemy with compassion, or hell, even ourselves.

To make matters more difficult, we forget, the Earth is our greatest healer. We spend an obscene amount of time chasing plastic, only to forget the dirt under our feet and what it feels like. We disconnect and then make excuses for our collective sickness.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord”

I am not a devoted religious scholar, or even a “believer” in the fucked up sense believing entails in modern day society. However, this old hymn runs through my brain every time I ponder the meaning of healing through the Earth. After we come to terms with our own wounds, and can clearly see and put into perspective the wounds of others, we may wonder how to proceed next with the process of, as one of my favorite writers would say, “Getting over thyself.”

Healing requires we get intimate with the Earth. Traveling, then, in a larger sense, represents a quest for release and the movement toward passion and love, as we acquaint ourselves with the Earth. For the thrill of letting go and for a sweet moment of peace, we move, with authority, out into the world.

When I started to realize what my eyes had seen, and how damaged my vision was (literally 2400/20, legally blind eyes!), I knew I had to learn to “see” differently, in order to heal. To see the world and myself differently, I flooded my psyche with imagery in brand new landscapes and sat with it. In essence, I went straight to the Earth for healing.

This naughty little sex writer, then, is taking a few moments from her ass-pounding, fist-fucking world to share, in orgasmic delight, my favorite places. These are the places I must go. I must see them with my eyes open so wide they pop from my head. I must sit on the Earth at each place and run my fingers over the soil and breathe. I must, belly to the ground, lay my ear down and listen.

Vintgar Gorge, Gorjie, Slovenia



Krka National Park, Croatia




Machu Picchu, Peru



The Blue Church- Chisinau, Moldova



Bran Castle, Romania




Lucerne, Switzerland



Travel it all away.

Love,

Sally.

Rectal Ruminations

Today, someone alerted me that the tail light on my car is out. So, in this strange and often synchronous universe, I’ve also begun to suspect something is wrong with my ass. It’s been a little itchy and well, to put it plainly, bloody. That’s right, folks, Sally’s got a bad case of rectal bleeding. Now, I should make it clear, it’s not a lot of blood, but it’s enough to cause a re-evaluation of the joys of anal sex.

Sally has been a supporter and willing participant of ass play since day one. However, over the years, I have determined there are simply some men who should not fuck anyone in the ass, ever. Men who aren’t trained in Assology 101 should not run around sticking it where the sun don’t shine. Butt *ahem* But, the problem is, I run into ass novices with starling frequency. And unfortunately, with ass play, it’s often a “learn as you go” experience. Parents don’t sit down with their curious teenagers to discuss ass. It just doesn’t happen. In fact, I don’t remember talking about the “how to” aspect of anal sex once with friends either, which is odd because we talked about everything else.

Thus, when I started experimenting with anal sex with my boyfriend when I was twenty, I was still pretty ignorant. We both wanted to go that route, but were unsure of how to proceed with it. We never used lube, sex toys, and god forbid the day we’d be forced to say the word “anal” to each other. Yet, there were days when his hard cock pushed up against my ass for hours teasing it slightly and grazing it ever so lightly. My boyfriend, a naughty Libra/Scorpio cusp-er, was too nice to admit it, but I knew he wanted to fuck me there. Hell, even I had grown tired of the grazing game. I knew it was time. But sadly, we parted ways without fully experiencing the intensity of our longing.

My most memorable experience with anal sex happened only a few years ago. Ron* was a sexy farmer with a body from hell and the face of a god. Still, to this day, when I see him my pussy buzzes with yummy. Farmer Ron also had a healthy scattering of planets in the 8th house and a lovely uncircumcised penis. I was sold. Anal sex it was. So, one fateful evening after a long night of drinking and debauchery, he grabbed my ass and told me to spread ‘em. Having been educated on the virtues of lube during my lesbian days, I reached for the KY and my favorite vibrator immediately.

Fuck me, Farmer boy, please fuck me.

Because of the massive quantity of lube I applied, he slid in effortlessly. Also, the steady vibration on my clit had increased my pleasure tenfold to the point where I had to stop. I didn’t want to cum that soon. After about ten minutes of ass heaven, he switched holes- without so much as a warning. Readers, I was livid. Farmer Ron had just violated the first rule of Ass Fucking Courtesy. Do not, under any circumstance, switch holes without washing the cock in question or applying a new condom. Two days later, I had the worst yeast infection ever and was formulating a plan to terminate his life. Ladies, mark my words, men who do not honor or understand this simple Hole Rule should be avoided at all costs. Farmer Ron lost all future rights to my ass after that night.

My anal experiences after Farmer Ron were, thankfully, quite pleasing until recently. Last week, another naughty Scorpio fucked my ass with no lube. Now, keep in mind, I could’ve stopped him and asked for the lube, so it’s partly my fault. But, I was horny and wanted to feel some pain. I told him to pull back on my hair, wrap it around his fist, and slam my head into the headboard. Scorpio boy eagerly pulled my hair at the root and slammed his cock into me. I was, in that moment, enjoying the inherent forbidden quality of ass fucking while gobbling up the pain in large doses. My pleasure receptors were flashing off the map. Eventually, and much too quickly, in my opinion, he came. His warm liquid stained my back and sheets beneath us as we both moaned in release.

Scorpio boy gave me a good run for my money in the pleasure department, but I was unprepared for the consequences that followed. My ass ached for days afterward, plus, the bleeding. But, it’s a little late to cry over spilled milk (torn assholes), so I will accept my ass bleeding fate like a champ. I did, after all, have anal sex with no lube and even asked him to “fuck my ass harder”, which, in retrospect, was probably not the wisest request.

The reality is, when anal sex is performed correctly, it should not be intensely painful and your ass should not bleed. Anal sex can be very enjoyable, if these basic rules are followed:

Rule 1: No ass fucking without lubrication. Please apply generously.

Rule 2: Toys aren’t required for the job, but extra pleasure is double the fun.

Rule 3: Hole Switching is not permitted unless all hygiene interests are protected.

Evidently, Sally Sunshine failed Assology 101 and could probably use a refresher course, along with a new tail light.

Yours in unified pursuit of healthy ass, Sally S.

**artist: Thinking Nude, State I: by Roy Lichtenstein

Speaking of artists: The lovely talented Eric Francis of Planet Waves had this to say about the recent strike of the Writers Guild of America.

"A note of solidarity: As a member of two writers' unions (the National Union of Journalists of the UK and the National Writers Union of the United States) I would like to express my solidarity with the Writers Guild of America, whose members are on strike. Writers work hard, and most of us have to work longer than it takes to go to medical school followed by law school before we earn a living wage. In particular, the writers want a bigger piece of new media: iPods, the Internet, and whatever is to come. I am all for that. Writers are the people who make you laugh, the people who make you think, and the ones who show you the world beyond your mother's garden."

Eric is a 100% correct. Writers work incredibly hard to produce meaningful inspiring content for their readers with, in most cases, very little appreciation, monetarily or otherwise. Eric is a writer and astrologer who has tirelessly shared his gift with the world over and over again. If you have not subscribed to Planet Waves yet, you are missing out. Do so today.

Love you all, Sally S.

Throw away your tampons today!

Poison Skull: Camille Rose Garcia

Attention: Tampons are associated with Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS). TSS is a rare but serious disease that may cause death. Read and save the enclosed information.

This was the message found on the generic box of tampons I bought last week. I looked through the box for the “enclosed information" on TSS, but could not find it. I probably threw it away without realizing it. In fact, in the fourteen years I’ve been menstruating, I’ve never read that damn insert. But really, who has?

I’m not sure how I first heard about TSS. It certainly wasn’t during sex ed or from some other authority on the matter. But, I do remember as a teenager how terrified I was upon discovering I had accidentally left two super absorbency tampons in my pussy overnight. TSS was somewhat of a urban legend in the early 90’s, most young women had “heard of it”, but were far removed from it, as in “that’ll never happen to me.” Yet, in the early 80’s, it was reality women faced.

In 1975, Procter & Gamble introduced a tampon brand called Rely. The tampon brand was made from compressed polyester beads and was supposed to “catch” more blood than the average tampon by gradually forming to the vagina’s natural shape. The tampon could absorb more than twenty times its own weight in menstrual blood. However, upon removal of the tampon, it was said to dry out the vagina by eliminating its natural humidity AND creating microscopic tears in the lining of the uterus. TSS is a bacterial infection and thrives in this type of environment, thus, cases of TSS increased dramatically among women who used the Rely brand.

“It even absorbs the worry!”

Procter & Gamble chose to market their product with the slogan above for a reason. Since menstruation is a taboo topic and a source of shame for women, psychologically, they played on our fear. The message society sends women is, “Ladies, lock it up (plug it up), keep your bloody twats out of our sanitized world.”

Harsh, no?

But anyone who’s spent the night at their boyfriend’s apartment while menstruating knows what I’m talking about. Have you ever sprinted to the bathroom in the morning because blood was seeping through your underwear only to bleed all over his toilet seat, bathroom floor, and your fingers? Did you thoroughly check each tiny crevice to make sure you wiped up every spec of blood? Did you wash your finger nails meticulously so all signs of “the red” were gone? And finally, did you wrap your cardboard applicator up in a piece of tissue paper and hide it in your purse, mentally noting to remove it before work?

Been there, done that.

Although super absorbency tampons are evil, I must say, they allow me to experience my period relatively hassle free. There’s nothing worse than walking out of your office to meet a client while warm gooey Niagara Falls runs down your leg because your heavy flow is not suited for a “lite day” pad or tampon. The problem is, however, TSS has been associated with the use of super absorbent tampons. Yet, some days I would prefer death to standing in a room filled with thirty college students while my panties and inner thigh are soaked with blood. Wouldn’t you?

But, ultimately, I would like to avoid death, at least until my first lunar return, so, what are my alternatives?

1) The Diva Cup- a silicone cup that catches blood in-flow, the cup can last for 10 years and it eliminates the risk of TSS!

2) Re-usable cloth (hemp) pads (aka: crunchy granola hippy method)

3) Sponges

Since I’ve only used regular old tampons, I asked a friend, who recently purchased a Diva Cup, to expound upon the virtues of The Cup. Thanks friend! ~ Sally S

I’ve always despised pads. I find it quite horrible to have a damp (large) lump of cotton wool stuck against your pussy and have to walk around like that for hours on end. I mean, OK, I’ll put up with having my period every Eff-ing month of my life, but please let it be as comfortable as possible. As you’re all probably very aware, it’s often quite painful so if I can avoid it being messy on top of that, I’ll sign up right away.

So, I quickly switched to tampons. But, honestly, I don’t really like those either. They have a tendency to absorb every soupcon of liquid, leaving your pussy feeling like a dried up prune and it takes days before your natural lubrication is back on track.

All in all, pads are out (even though, I’m back there – read on) and tampons… well, they seemed like the only alternative.

By the way, I saw a program on TV about “flushers”. Ha, what are flushers, I hear you inquire? They are men (yup, no ladies in that line of business) who shovel poo in the bowels of the city. Honestly, they do exist!! Their main problem seems to be women’s menstrual products. I’m sure most women flush their tampons down the loo, but it seems like quite a number of us also flush the cardboard inserters down there as well. I’ll spare you the details but the flushers aren’t happy about this situation… and I’m sure mama earth ain’t too happy either.

While I was living in the US, I discovered something reminiscent of the Diva Cup, “Instead Softcups”. Like the Diva Cup you can wear them for up to 12 hours, but the difference is that they aren’t very durable. In fact, they aren’t meant to be used over and over again, like the Diva Cup which can be kept, it seems, for up to 10 years!

So after some internet searching (What, Oh what would we do without the internet, I ask you?), I finally discovered the diva cup and even though I haven’t gotten the hang of it yet – which means I have to use the dreaded pad as a security measure – it is definitely a lot more sensible in all respects. If correctly inserted, (that’s where the getting-the-hang-of-it comes in) it really is as comfortable as a tampon. Now… bear with me… by correctly inserted, I mean, not leaking. Even if you don’t insert the thing properly, it’s still comfortable, despite it being rather huge. The problem is finding the right positioning. The leaflet explains exactly how it must be done and in theory it doesn’t seem very complicated. I have been using the diva cup for two cycles now and I think I’m slowly but surely starting to understand how it’s supposed to be done. I might still have to resort to pads for a few months to avoid having a bloodstained chair at the office, but I’m sure practice makes perfect.

The part which most if us fear, is the removal of the diva cup. You’re meant to empty it in the toilet, rinse and then reinsert. So, what do you do when you’re in a public toilet or at the office? I haven’t found this to be a problem because you can safely leave it where it is all day, so you insert in the morning and remove it in the evening. It can all be done in the safety of your own home! It isn’t half as messy as you would imagine, anyway. And if you really run into an emergency, you can wipe it with toilet paper and reinsert too.

The beauty of this thing is that you can keep yours for a long, long time. Reusing it over and over again… for years on end. It’s made of surgical grade silicone. Non-irritating and very durable.

Funny thing is, it seems like the concept has been around since the thirties!! It’s the pharmaceutical industry that aggressively pushed tampons/pads into the public realm and the diva cup, or whatever it was called at the time, simply lost the battle.

I’d like to recommend this clever little device. It’s good for you, your pussy, and mama earth.

One bit of advice though. Do not leave your diva cup lying around if you have cats. I had to order a second one after my cat got hold of the first one. He thought it was a great toy, chewed it to bits and I found its remains on the living room carpet.

The Miracle of Menstruation

“There is another kind of death that is pregnant with more viable meditations- if you’re a woman. It typically occurs once in every orbit of the moon around the Earth. When you menstruate, a specialized cell in your body, the only type of cell capable of spawning a new creature, begins a quest for a larger life- only to fail in its mission and disintegrate. This is a death that is more shocking to the body than digestion and oxidation, and therefore more palpable to your imagination. It even generates a symptom that in any other situation is a dramatic sign of rapidly ebbing vitality: loss of blood"
-The Televisionary Oracle, Rob Brezsny

Readers, today I got my period.

I feel buoyant, optimistic, and ready to take on the world. Really, I do! Every month I look forward to menstruating with the renewed excitement of a little girl on the first day of school. And, it’s not because I’ve been having unprotected anonymous sex with strange men, contrary to popular belief. I just enjoy reveling in womanhood, contemplating the strange efficiency with which our bodies operate, and yes, feeling about five pounds lighter after the fact.

For me, menstruation represents the connection to my innate femininity and trust in it. As women, we are often told by doctors, nutritionists, fertility specialists, gynecologists, and yes, society, how our bodies should look and what we should feed them. Yet, there is a simple truth vibrating in each one of us and that is our body’s own natural rhythm.

Over the years, I began notice the subtle patterns and fluctuations during my cycle. I usually follow a regular 27-28 day schedule, so on the twelfth day I start to feel the beginning stages of ovulation as my body prepares itself. My dreams intensify and my appetite increases. I also experience quite a few of the physical signs of ovulation. For instance, my body temperature rises a few degrees, which is usually accompanied by a hot flash or two. However, the most obvious sign of ovulation, and when the likelihood of a pregnancy is highest, is when vaginal mucous secretions resemble snot- sticky, rubbery, stretchy, and goopy. If you’ve ever pulled a long string of it out of your vagina during ovulation and let it slide between your fingers, you know what I’m talking about. This is the moment when fertility is at its peak. Cervical Mucous Monitoring is actually a pretty good way to keep track of the fertility “window of opportunity” if one is diligent.

Finally, about fourteen days after ovulation, my period arrives with fanfare, drums, and celebration. The few days right before my period are always interesting. Typically, I have dreams which are psychologically taxing but necessary. I’ve entered the shaman’s territory here. The dreams are vividly clear, lucid, in fact, and they hold the key to a problem or question I’ve been stuck on. Subconsciously, during dreamtime I receive, in abundance, the wisdom and direction I’m seeking. It’s at this time; I know I’ll shed the first few drops of blood soon.

One of the most beautiful experiences with a female lover I’ve ever had has been the times when cycles synch up. Our bodies have truly touched one another’s. Our chemistry has been altered and now our bodies move in unison. Ladies, even if you've never slept with a woman, you know how it goes. If you live with a group of women long enough cycles have a tendency to mirror each other. With my last lover we experienced this phenomenon, although we didn’t live together- we fucked- a lot. Juices mixed and mingled often, so it was no surprise when I got my period two weeks early on the same day she did. This is the magic chemistry of our bodies in action.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not all howling at the moon and tasting menstrual blood fun. Many women have indicated if given the choice they would gladly stop menstruating if it was medically possible. Now, I realize not every woman is in love with their body’s natural functions. In high school, I had a friend with a severe case of endometriosis. For her, menstruating was a “curse” and not a beautiful reflection of womanhood.

I’ve also had some not so nice experiences during my period as well. For example, when I accidentally inserted a second tampon in my vagina, forcing the first one so far up I had to claw it out with my free hand while I held my leg back with the other. It didn’t help I was only fourteen years old at the time. I had slept with both tampons in overnight and was positive I had toxic shock syndrome the next morning. You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson, but when I was sixteen, I had sex with tampon in. It’s not that I forgot I had my period or was drunk, I have no excuse. I was sober and can only claim that I was horny. I spent the next hour in the bathroom fishing for the string under a fluorescent light. Needless to say, I finally learned my lesson, take it out first.

Hey, Happy Friday.

Cheers! (raising a metaphorical glass of menstrual blood to my lips)

~Sally S.