A page for ranting about sexual news. Sexual awakenings and the like.


By Eliza Lawrence.

Blurry. Misty. Frosty, morning.

It was one of those early mornings. You know when you get up and it’s too early for food? Probably because the remnants of last night’s filling baked beans on toast is still hugging your stomach, keeping your belly warm. 

Coffee was enough this morning to spike the mind and apply pressure from behind me to walk through the early shadows.

I was off to the clinic because I was hurting. I was used to hurting from the stomach but this past month had painted amber, both my comfortable loose pants and the lace ones I had saved for playing in the sheets. 

Four long months of blood I told the nurse as I shifted my way onto the clinically cushioned horizontal bed. 

I hadn’t come to be checked before because bleeding is normal. Hurting is normal. I had been acclimatised to pain that anywhere else, everywhere else would be a cause for panic. Funny that. 

A man toddles to the bathroom, whipping out his penis to release the urine and discovers he’s painted the loo red. A cause for panic? 

A man toddles to the bathroom, unzipping his trousers to find his new marks and spencer’s boxers are no longer the white he had chosen to ‘look more tanned’. A cause for panic?

I put up with periods. There’s no alternative. 

However my latest trip to the dystopian ‘sexual health clinic’ reminded me that there is a danger that ‘putting up with’ is only causing more pain. 

I told the nurse of my problems. She, with a nonchalant grin said ‘I’m sure everything’s fine’. 

‘Take your garments off and we will take a peak’ she muttered, finishing the order off with a treacle ‘honey’. 

I don’t like treacle. Too sweet to be real.

‘’It seems that your coil is wrapped around your cervix’’ as she pushes up a large sausage shaped apparatus.

She then smiles. I see her eyes are glazed over as it is 8.45 and she has probably seen 6 other moaning women. I don’t moan. 

She throws a cup onto the bed, between the leg stirrups and points to the bathroom.

‘’I hope you had your morning coffee’’ 

She attempts humour.  I still don’t moan.

She wants me to pee in this cup, warning me that the coil, my contraception, has failed me ( or Ive failed it ) and hasn’t/is not providing the appropriate bodyguard for the last 4 month shift. 

This is quite serious but she is still smiling and I am still not moaning because I am ACCUSTOMED to weird events inside me. 

ALL CLEAR she says. 

‘’We will be having to take that pesky copper coil, that’s very tightly hugging your precious parts, causing you heaps of pain and oceans of blood OUT’’

Her grin fades, typing away at her computer.

‘’ Theres an appointment on Thursday the following week’’

It was Monday. 

I was given a card and sent on my way through the morning. 

Blurry. Misty, frosty morning.

I wobbled out of the clinic and I was still hurting. Even more now because there was a copper intruder who had got too friendly and had wrapped its tentacles around the precious, gentle soft tissue between my legs. 

I had a problematic intruder and it wasn’t going to be released until the following week. I could feel it grinning inside me, a jokers grin, a man’s grin when he realises that you are soft. 

When I got back to my room which still had the cloud of coffee fog swirling around it, I sat down uneasily and thought of three things. 

We can fly to the moon. 

Women bleed and put up with it.

We can fly to the moon.

I then began to moan.