Jenny v Menstrual Cup

Women are magical flower goddesses because we have a period. It’s our God-given right to bleed from the vagina and birth humans.

Yoni power!

But yeah, no.

It’s a beautiful blessing, but when that time of the month hits, all I want to do is plug. that. shit. up.

Because I’m ~eco-friendly~ and live a life of ~consciousness~, and also because of a messy battle with toxic shock syndrome, I switched from tampons to pads about four months ago.

But, IDK, something about sitting in a diaper of my own period kind of gives me the heebie jeebies.

So, this month, I tried… the cup.

I had high hopes. A coochie catcher for Shark Week? Yes plz.

Getting it in was easy enough. You fold it up like a cootie catcher (cootie catcher/coochie catcher… coincidence? I think not…) and give it a proper send-off straight into your canal. God speed, dear friend.

I wanted to test how reliable it was, so I did one hour of rigorous activity: watching the next episode of Too Hot to Handle season two and throwing a shoe at the screen every time Cam flirts with someone who isn’t Emily.

The cup didn’t budge and I saw no seepage. Praise!

The next test: sleeping with my cup in.

Similar to that time I showed up to a Tinder date, saw he was ugly, and left, I felt nothing.

Removing it the next morning, however, was another story. I’m pretty sure my body ate it. I went up there with a microscope and more lube than a porn set, and I still couldn’t find the little dingle-hopper that you pull on to excavate the cup from your Virginia.

I ended up having to call my sometimes-boyfriend, Roberto, and ask him to give me a hand. Literally. (Hah.) Roberto tells me I’m just a side piece. Damn right. A side of awesome.

Anyway. He came over and dug the thing out. Très humiliating.



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