The last time I wrote about periods my mate Kaya texted to tell me that I had ruined her morning commute; the phrase ‘gooey fresh lady blood’ coupled with the sickly, sticky fragrance of her new body lotion had sent her over the edge. She’d launched herself from the top deck of the bus and onto the street to vomit. She wanted to let me know that this was an experience she did not wish to repeat.
I tell you the above story for two reasons. Firstly, because it serves as a warning to Kaya (you’re welcome), men and other similarly weak-stomached readers: you will not make it through this post unscathed. Secondly, because it recently came to my attention that someone, somewhere, has taken the stomach-churning experience my mate had on the top deck of that bus and turned it into a marketing opportunity.
There is now a ‘scented tampon’, and it is the most repulsive thing I have ever known.
It wasn’t my fault I ended up using them. I was cocooned in my bed, foetal, like a prawn, with my legs tucked up to my stomach and my head nuzzling my cleavage. I had the essentials: nurofen, hot water bottle and a big wodge of toilet paper stuffed down my knickers because, you know, I’d come on out of nowhere (or rather, I’d not paid sufficient heed to iperiod notifications) and I couldn’t be bothered to walk to the corner-shop. Fortunately, (or unfortunately as it turned out), my mother popped her head inside my bedroom, saw my plight and offered to fetch me some tampons from ASDA, and some more nurofen while she was at it.
Mum doesn’t have periods any more, due to the menopause, so she buys tampons like your boyfriend would, if you had one – blindly chucking any old sanitary product in the trolley, figuring this one is as good as the next. Which is most definitely not the case.
It must have been a bloke who invented the scented tampon, right? A woman would have known, in advance, that the meaty smell of sloughed off womb is in no way improved by a base-note of rosewater. It’s like if your Nan dropped potpourri in the beef stew, except worse because it’s located inside your genitals.
Had a woman thought of proposing the scented tampon at a meeting of fellow professionals, that little voice in her head, conditioned by years of rom-coms, women’s magazines and men never calling when they said they would – that voice that means she has to care what other people think of her – would have gone ‘no’. ‘That’s a shit idea’, it would have said, ‘and you’ll be embarrassing yourself if you suggest it’. The voice would have been correct.
So it must have been a man and it must have been a good-looking one, who has had success with the ladies and has therefore grown a titanium ego that repels criticism, even from the voices in his head.
And this is why, ladies, I often think we need to stop boosting men’s egos by having sex with them, marrying them and giving birth to their babies. The more I think about it the more I am convinced that a period (no pun intended) during which women boycott all men except gay ones would be really quite beneficial for human kind. I’ve been at it for the last decade or so and it has enhanced all parts of my life, unless you count the sex and emotional fulfilment ones.
Think: if we just fucked them off they wouldn’t be able to sell us dangerous and disgusting merchandise, or perform disappointing cunnilingus, and it would do wonders for population control. And then, once we let them back into our bedclothes they’d be so grateful and gagging for it that even the worst ones would try to be kind – and if they didn’t, ha! We would have got our shit together and fashioned a great big bonfire to thrown them on in case they got us pregnant and ran off with our best mate, or didn’t text us back, or invented any more terrible feminine hygiene products.
Which would serve them right.
*Image is “Pink Rose” by artur84 at freedigitalphotos.net