When my moon cycle coincides with the time to have sexual intercourse with a willing participant, I don’t need special equipment designed specifically to absorb the various liquids produced by my frantic and frenzied lovemaking. All I need is the weird and gross towel that lives on the top shelf of my hall closet, behind the toilet paper and to the right of the Christmas lights.
Perhaps a $369 “sex blanket” designed in purple satin and meant to be laid under the laboring bodies of two individuals passionate about each other is the right way to absorb love excretions and the blood of my menses, but I prefer the well-worn comfort and security of the five-year-old beach towel covered in stains of mysterious provenance.
Is that from the time I had sex with [REDACTED] or when I accidentally dropped a hot dog at the park, ketchup side down? I think to myself as I gaze upon its frayed surface—a rich tapestry of experiences that I only kind of remember. The grotty blanket that lives in my hall closet for fucking while bleeding is by far the most alluring part about the whole adventure. A period sex blanket designed specifically for period sex advertises a specific kind of sexual experience that is far more reverential then what usually transpires—candles, incense, myrrh. Scents. Scarves of varying weight and transparency. To fuck atop a satin blanket with a special absorbent pad underneath said blanket is the fussiest kind of sex. It’s making love. It’s a communion expressed only via genital contact. And frankly, who needs it?
The period blanket composts; the towel throws plastic bags of used kitty litter in the public trash can on the way to the train. The period blanket is very good at recycling and has sheets that cost more than $20 a set.; the blanket will drag you to Kundalini yoga and make intense eye contact over CBD lattes while urging you to really open up. The period blanket needs a lot of information about everything and anything before agreeing to it, and will certainly make you feel bad at a restaurant for ordering french fries. The towel is merely tired of sleeping atop wet spots and rusty shapes of indeterminate origin and would like to enjoy one night spent in relative comfort.
The blanket gives me the option to “cuddle” with the individual in question, flipping over the side that just absorbed all the blood so that I could swaddle myself and my chosen lover in soft poly-satin—an option I do not desire because after sex is over, I would love it if the person gathered their things and left. If i’m feeling less than enthused about the ministrations that occurred, I can tell my paramour that I must wash the towel or get off the towel, because it is uncomfortable to lie on for longer than two minutes, giving me a quick and easy way to dispose of my houseguest without insult.
My grody beach towel covered in period stains and whatever is as impressive as anything else out there; I can wash it over and over again, and the stains will come right out-ish. It is absorbent (enough) and comfortable enough. It is the solution for a problem that didn’t really exist. It is perfect. I want nothing more.