Period Delay

In many ways I am very much a product of the 21st century. I understand why French women don’t get fat, I have 50 Cent on my iPod, I know the name of Brangelina’s new baby, I eke out a good work-life balance, my house has good fengshui and so on.

But there is a certain time in every month where all that gets thrown out of the window and I am reduced to being a hopelessly cranky, whingey, tetchy female. Like my generations of sisters before me.

The monthly curse, eumenorrhea, the menstrual period – call it what you will, its just one of these things that we women have to put up with on a regular basis. And spare us the scorn and pity guys, I’ve heard pattern baldness starts as early as 30, so why don’t you let that keep you busy.

Anyway, after mopping up more than 100 periods, I am thoroughly fed up with the concept. More pressingly, I am threatening to turn into a walking faucet right smack in the middle of one of my lover’s sponsored getaways (this time to Saigon), which is simply unacceptable.

I am not on the pill. And my half-hearted attempts at a few hokey old-wives’ methods to trigger / delay my period – from exercising violently in spurts to eating pineapples – predictably don’t work. Mars and Venus will not align. And I am fast approaching my 28 day deadline.

So I do what every self-respecting modern woman does. Stride into her GP’s office and offer herself up to the vagaries of medical science. I say I am ready to embed a microchip in my ovaries if it will solve the problem.

My GP assures me that my sacrifice, whilst noble, is a tad melodramatic and completely unnecessary. She is surprisingly sympathetic to my plight and calmly prescribes me a round of hormone pills (northisterone) to take 3 times a day, starting 3 days before my scheduled period.

And this is how I learn I can delay my period for restricted lengths of time. Just until after that much-anticipated birthday or that special holiday or that secret rendezvous or whatever. I feel incredibly liberated.

No more will I be a slave to plugs on strings, maxi pads with wings and extra-absorbent hydrogel! There is nothing sexy about having your man watch you waddle to the toilet once every few hours to stick a wad of cotton between your legs. Not to mention the little adjustments we have to constantly make to the offending pad with our legs crossed, our bums shifting imperceptibly on the seat, and the occasional hand down the back of our pants.

And no more will I swear violence on the fair-faced talent in tampon commercials that prance around in tight white shorts and wiggle their asses tauntingly at the camera. I’m sorry but one Vivienne Westwood skirt ruined, twice shy. Those innocent Tampex girls just annoy me.

Some of you profound types might scoff at using medical means to delay a period for the sole purpose of enjoying a holiday or more spontaneous sex with one’s lover, finding me both shallow and self-obsessed (and who am I to argue otherwise). And some of you traditionalists might think doing this subverts God’s master plan for a woman to bleed every month.

But it is now widely accepted that women don’t need to have monthly menstrual periods. In fact modern women endure up to nine times more periods than their great-grandmothers, who began menstruating later, married young and naturally suppressed periods for years while they were pregnant or breast-feeding.

Frankly, what this all means is that monthly periods are not necessarily by Nature's design. Rather it seems to be a means of punishing women of our evolutionary ilk for shirking our baby-making responsibilities - and we can get away with a lot fewer. And there is nothing to stop us from demanding 'period holidays' from our bodies. This is what has partially driven the popularity of contraceptive pills like the newly-FDA approved Seasonale.

So I am happy to see that nowadays menstruation is becoming optional, if not downright obsolete. As I, for one will not miss it. At this point, I’m still happy to bleed but only when I want to and not when I don’t want to.

Actually, it is not the bleeding I object to so much. Rather it is all the other nuisances that come with my period I detest – let’s call it Beached Whale syndrome – the bloat, the cramps, the occasional migraine.

Not to mention, that mistimed first gush. The most gauche of which would be in a man’s mouth as he is eating my pussy out hungrily. And oh yes, I’ve been there. It wasn't pretty.

I’m not squeamish at all about the idea of fucking with the flow – it’s a surefire way to alleviate cramps after all. But it sure is hell on the sheets. And blood just isn’t a very good lubricant for long periods of intense fucking. It dries out too quickly and naturally I’m not quite prepared to use the full faculties of my mouth or tongue to re-lubricate. Also, much as I adore giving head, a girl gets tired of doing it without any possibilities of reciprocation.

Now armed with my period-delay-in-a-packet, I’m off to Saigon.

To go commando under my linen mini-skirt, my neon bikini and my skimpy little fuck-me-here-and-now dress. To wank furtively in taxis and planes and feel my cum-juice trickle down my leg. To cream my guy’s cock in a public place and wipe it off with the underside of his fresh, white shirt. To have his best friend worm his fingers under my skirt and make me cum publicly on the barstool in front of an appreciative audience.

Ah. Bless thee Northisterone, you have made a 21st century woman of me.