Everyone knows that when I have my period, I get the worst cramps. They know that because when other people complain to me about their cramps, I say, “Actually, mine are way worse.” Because my cramps are so bad, however, and because I started dating a new guy and quickly realized I was too humble to keep buying Magnum condoms (I can’t high five all these cashiers!), I recently started taking the pill.
“The pill?” you’re probably thinking. “What is this — 1971?” No, it’s 2018, when old-fashioned girls like me with bad family histories of breast cancer are discouraged from getting fancy IUDs and convenient shots and told instead to take one little pill at the same exact time every goddamn day. I don’t mind taking the pill because I like routines and eating, even if it’s a tiny amount and I don’t get to chew.
The first month I was on the pill, everything was fine. I had a little spotting a couple of weeks in, but it was nothing more than a few rust-colored drops in my underwear. I felt fine, my titties got a little bigger but the rest of my body didn’t seem to swell or bloat any more than usual. When it came time for my first period, hardly anything came out and, better yet, I felt none of my usual symptoms. No bloating, no cramps, no hazy headache or feelings of utter despair. The pill was working! Or so I thought…
I began my second month of the pill with a positive attitude and a whole lot of cum, which was fine by me because I’d rather have clear, gooey liquid dripping out of my snatch than thick, viscous blood. I felt slim, mentally stable and completely in control of my reproductive health.
Then something terrible happened. It began as it had the month before: with a few rusty spots in my underwear. Then I realized I felt bloated, which I at first attributed to the three slices of (gluten-free!) pizza I’d eaten the night before, but soon realized was coming from a deeper, more nefarious place in my abdomen. Then came the cramps. At first, I barely noticed them, felt nothing but a dull ache in the lower part of my stomach. I thought I’d simply eated a few too many coconut-date rolls after dinner. I went to bed feeling unsettled but fine. I fell asleep quickly.
But I didn’t stay asleep. In the middle of the night, I awoke in pain and went to the bathroom. I saw that I was bleeding, took a handful of Advil and went back to bed. I fell asleep but woke up again hours later, probably. This time the pain was bad. I took another handful of Advil, but this time, I couldn’t fall back asleep. I tried everything I learned in the menstruation book my mom made me read as a pre-teen, which was written in the 1950s and was really just a manual for how to secure a sanitary belt. Nothing worked. I got my heating pad, cranked it up, and turned it onto vibrate, but then it just felt like my aching insides were being shaken and roasted at the same time.
As I lay there writhing in pain, thinking about how unfair it is to be a woman, I watched the sun come up. I thought about how strong I am for having lived through my period just a week and a half ago, even if it was just a few drops of rust in my (favorite) undies. I thought about how incredible I am, capable of surviving intermittent bleeding and pain every few weeks. I thought about how selfless I am, suffering so that my man may blow his load in my pussy. I thought about how amazing I am, sacrificing my body for a man’s pleasure and also so I don’t get pregnant. I thought how great I am, just in general. But mostly I thought, “ouch!”
Today, the pain is gone, but the bleeding (barely) continues. It’s unimaginable to think that, just over a week from now, I’ll probably be (lightly) bleeding all over again. If I must endure all this suffering to remain full of cum and free of children for the foreseeable future, so be it — I can take it. If I can survive two (light) periods a month, I can do anything.