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