Point Of Insertion: Part II

Although an intelligent woman with a phD and adept at always getting her way, my mother has never been good at expressing her feelings, especially when it comes to personal matters. Reserved by nature and raised by her blind grandmother, Mom shunned any relative who attempted to initiate the birds & the bees talk or explain how a woman's body worked.

Considering the aforementioned, when her first period arrived at thirteen, Mom thought she was dying. For months on end she used old clothes to "stop the bleeding" and stored them away in one of her chest drawers.

During my childhood and teenage years, mommy dearest never spoke to me about anything too personal, almost choking when at twelve I knocked on her door and said, "I need a pad because it happened." I distinctly recall her uncontrollable weeping as I desperately searched for the right words to console her.

In Cuba, tampons were unheard of, so it's granted that when the time finally came for me to enter womanhood, maxi-pads were the only acceptable option. My mom explained that tampons "were for hookers" and they would get me sick, making me promise I'd never come near them as I vigorously conceded.

Of course pads were uncomfortable and sometimes moved and blood leaked everywhere, embarassing me publicly on more than one occasion. Yet as humans, we're wired to fear the unknown, and tampons were as foreign to me as friendly chupacabras and UFO's.

Fast forward to adulthood.

The year's 2008 and I'm twenty-five, fully aware tampons aren't going to kill me, even if I'd never used them. My good friend Jeremy and I are at a party, another summer outing that would end on someone's couch; two friends and their insatiable hunger for fun and bullshit on a Saturday night.

It's midnight and Jeremy's huddled in a corner already past the point of no return, trying to buy a girl drinks as she explains that it's a house and drinks are free. I excuse myself from some sweaty guy attempting to pick me up so I could go to the bathroom. As I shut the door behind me and turn on the lights, I see my monthly has struck and I've spotted a bit on my underwear. I quickly finish my business and look for a girl named Linda whom I vaguely remember as the owner of the house.

Me: Dude, I just got my period.

Linda: That blows.

Me: Uh, yeah. So... Do you have a pad I can borrow please?

Linda: Pfft! A pad?! Who the heck uses those?

Me: My grandma.

Linda: Hahahaha. You're funny. Come, I'll get you some tampons.

Two minutes later and I'm back in the bathroom holding two plastic containers Linda just gave me. I could've been holding a couple of dead goats and been less clueless. It is at this juncture where I resort to calling my best friend and pray to Jesus she answers, which she does after five rings.

Olivia: This better be good.

Me: It is super urgent, so listen up. How do you use a tampon?

Olivia: Oh my God, say you're kidding. Aren't you almost thirty?

Me: I'm twenty- five, until the day I die. Seriously, I'm freaking out. What do I do?

Olivia: It's easy. Just take it out of the wrapper, put it in, and make sure the string hangs. That's it.

Me: That's it?

Olivia: Yes, babe. Super easy. Have fun!

So this was what the big fuss was about? I couldn't believe I hadn't resorted to tampon usage a decade before. I grabbed my little Tampax applicator and shoved it in there, making sure the string hung like Olivia had instructed. After zipping my jeans and making sure the situation down there was secure, I went out to the party to fetch me a much-deserved drink.

I hadn't taken eight steps when it struck me:

The morning after, Olivia and I were in hysterics over the fact I'd left the plastic applicator inside, which pinched my skin with every attempt to walk.

That night, it wasn't so funny.

As soon as he spotted me in a corner with a possible look of constipation, Jeremy made a beeline in my direction. "Yoooo, are you alright, fuck face?" He asked, barely taking his lips off the cup to utter the words.

I said nothing, dragging him to Linda's room instead and explaining my dilemma. He didn't seem to be very interested or sympathetic to my tragedy but then said, "You must've done something wrong. Take it out."

Me: I can't just take it out. I'm going to bleed all over the place.

Jeremy: Well can't you just shove some toilet paper up in there until tomorrow?

Me: I'm bleeding like a race horse and you think toilet paper's going to solve it? Get a clue.

Jeremy: What about paper towels? Them Bounty's are fucking absorbent.

Me: You're ridiculous.

Jeremy: Call Olivia and ask her if it's supposed to feel like that. You must've done something wrong.

Me: You said that already.

Olivia didn't answer the second time around and after much deliberation, I was reduced to letting Jeremy convince me to take it out. "I'll put the other one in for you. I know how it's done."

Me: And how exactly do you know this?

So that was the night I let my friend Jeremy help me insert a tampon properly right after two shots from a flask of whiskey he always carried with him.

The next morning... We found ourselves on Linda's couch (no surprise there).

I woke up groggy in his arms, with fuzzy recollections of the previous evening's shenanigans and sans hangover.

"You know, Annah, I had the strangest dream last night," he turned to me. "We were lying in bed and all of the sudden you tore off your pants and showed me your you-know-what. Isn't that weird?" He laughed.

"Very," I said, promptly excavating the depths of my mind to find a pool of bloody mortification waiting to wash over me. An exit strategy out of that conversation was needed immediately.

"So... What happened to that blonde girl?" I nudged his shoulder playfully. "Did you buy her any drinks or what?"

He yawned and looked confused for a moment before answering, "Why would I buy anyone drinks at a house party? They're free, you idiot."

And that was the end of that.