Period Pants

I feel like I should begin this with a disclaimer for guys, but then why bother?  Guys spend so much time pre-occupied by pussy but drop the word ‘vagina’ or ‘menstruation’ and suddenly they’re repulsed?!  But my contempt isn’t reserved for men, I even keep one for myself – the devil makes work for idle hands! – but rather the ridiculous notion still being peddled by the mainstream manufacturers of feminine hygiene products.

I don’t know about you but my reaction to the beginning of a period is never to rejoice in the knowledge of my ability to reproduce and grab a white pair of shorts and go roller blading!  Instead I take a belt and braces approach to menstruation – my pants during this time of the month are not all that dissimilar to my daughters pull-ups, if they fail to canvass my stomach and tuck in my tits then they don’t get the time of day!

One saving grace I have found is that period pants double up as fantastic cum catchers!  No one wants to wake up the morning after the deed with that stomach sinking sensation that you’ve either pissed yourself or sat in a puddle!  So they double up for me, especially after I mopped up one night and fell asleep with the towel between my legs only to discover in the morning I had the fabric equivalent of a plaster of paris between my legs.

The hierarchy of my pants goes as follows:

  • On a promise pants – these are your sexy/lacy pants. Your equivalent of Beyonce’s freakum dress.  He knows when these bad boys go on, he’s got half a chance.
  • Comfy pants – do what they say on the tin, they say “you might have a chance, buy you’re gunna need to put in some serious leg work”.
  • Period pants/cum catchers – the lowest of the low. Pushed to the back of the draw not to be acknowledged until necessary.  These are comprised of a collection of all your worst knickers, the bobbly/discoloured ones, the ones you never liked to start with but you gamely smiled as you received them.

What has surprised me on a recent cull of the drawer is that I have become a ‘brief’ woman.  Seriously there are no thongs in my drawer!  I used to wear them all the time and I don’t know when it happened but I’ve just stopped.  The hubbie got me one for Christmas and I didn’t think anything of it until I put it on – honestly it’s the closest I’ll come to sodomy!  Reminded me of the first traumatic time my sister bullied me out of the belly warmers and into one and I walked like a lobster with constipation all night!

I notice guys don’t have this sort of drama; they’re either for budgie smugglers or briefs.  If my husband’s anything to go by, they don’t often cull them either – he’s got boxers in his drawer older than his ball sack!  Some of them have peep holes with a bit of room for escapee turkey neck!

What does my nut in though, is how when you’re in a relationship you’re cast aside for the week, until literally normal service can resume.  But am I bitter?!  Who me?!  No.  Instead like most women I bury my resentment deep down into my gut, to be released many moons later unto my unsuspecting and often baffled husband.  Sometimes, I can do instantaneous response; I once went full Jason Bourne and attacked him with a rolled up Heat magazine.  However my best example is #turkeygate.

They say vengeance is a dish best served cold and I took this advice to the letter.  With no justification other than my bitterness at the monthly cold shoulder, whilst the hubbie was enjoying a hot shower, I waited until the steam was akin to a level one would be unperturbed to find Sigourney Weaver pop up looking for a silverback and chose that crucial moment to place a frozen piece of turkey my mother had given us months before for Christmas, onto his exposed lower back and then legged it from the bathroom.

The results were priceless, I’ve never heard his voice reach that testicle pinching pitch since.

On that bright note I bid thee farewell.

T

 

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