I have, after over a decade of having a shushmenstrual cycle come to the realisation that woman are just walking baby ovens. Huge, hormonal, sex mad, walking incubators of reproduction. Society would have us think that it’s the men that are the primitive, instinct driven, wilder beast, pouncing at the first sign of flesh. I’m not sure that is entirely true. I’m not suggesting us lady folk are forever on heat, sniffing out the prime willies – Christ on a stick no – I think woman (females, pick the appropriate term please) are unstable beings ruled by their reproductive organs.
We all know females have menstrual cycles, well, apart from those
lucky bastards that are on some form of contraception that holds your eggs at gun point, constricting them to the confides of your ovaries, showing them pictures of snotty faced children in the soft play and post birth vaginal examinations. Or those unlucky bastards that are pregnant and have a whole other kettle of hormonal fish to deal with, though some pregnant woman STILL have a period. Deary me.
When we think of a females menstrual cycle what come to mind? The obvious – moods, crying, bloatedness, hormonal,
pyscho bitches, more crying, men on thin ice, over eating, carbs, chocolate, the poops, the no poops, self-loathing, Netflix, tampons flying about the place, paranoia, pain killers, wallowing in self pity, man hating – are the most likely things to spring to mind. But I’m going to let you in on this new information, us ovary hoarders are just a huge respirating baby makers, controlled by our ovaries and uterus. Our ‘cycles’ have made us walking sex fiends, subconsciously or not, and we have the utter cheek to say that men keep their brains in their pants!
Most egg producers know when the big dreaded period day is approaching, it usually pops out every 28 days or so – for the lucky ones among us. We might even use a period tracking app, because, why not eh? Better to know the devil will be greeting you on your holiday than to blindly turn up to see him in your sun lounger sipping on a Pina Colada. The fixation is always on period, period, period. We are normal human beings, not subject to our hormones apart from the run up to our periods – that’s when we go all teenage werewolf, ripping out men’s hearts and dipping them in chocolate sauce to satisfy our cravings while we cry in a bath of our own tears mixed the most expensive bath bomb in Lush we could find that day.
The rest of the time we are normal, no? No. We are a continuous chain of ‘I want it in me’ – ‘it’ ranging from chocolate,
penis, pizza, tampons, alcohol to contraception but ultimately your body wants a life inside you. Females never get a break (and as a result, nor do our poor man,woman and friend folks).
When the tide passes, the ‘lady’ tide, you feel thankful, revitalised, bloody (ha, pun intended) lucky to have made it out alive, again. Maybe we suffered some indignity at the hands of our uterus. Maybe we cried in work, maybe we got caught ‘leak’ checking, maybe we ate 2 whole pizzas in 1 day. Maybe, but at least it’s done. But it’s not. It’s just beginning all over again. You ovaries will give you a week or two at best to recuperate and then – ovulation.
Ahhh, ovulation, my over looked friend. There’s plenty a sign she’s hanging about, setting the stage for the big P, kicking out an egg or two. Sometimes the ladies don’t notice, but if you listen you will hear her. Sometimes you don’t need to listen and you will hear her anyway. She’s as much as a pain in the ass (literally) as her cousin, Period. I can go a little cuckoo, a positive cuckoo, but cuckoo nonetheless. Sometimes, and this has happened on more than one, two, three, a million occasions, my ovary will tighten.
I’m sorry what?! Tighten?
Yes, it fuckin tightens. Look, I don’t know the biology of it, all I know is it’s pretty painful. I’ll be sitting minding my own business, I’ll stand up to go find a snack most likely, but my adventure will be cut short. I will need to grab at my side (ovary) and sit myself back down, or hunch my way to the kitchen cupboard. It genuinely feels like if I straighten my body I will rip and a bunch of egg ravers will spill out of my ovaries and rush to the nearest penis – to kill it probably, as no good can be coming from this pain!
This annoying pain will last a day or so. You try your best to hide it, less you look like Joey from Friends when he has a hernia. It’s not a great look, even worse, how do you explain that to someone? ‘Oh don’t mind me, I’m just ovulating today’ – ‘ovulating? But how do you know?’ – ‘because I fucking know, that’s why’. You might even whip out the period tracker, just for clarification, you know, to make sure it’s your ovaries and that you are, in fact, not dying, your kidney has not exploded. I say kidney, as it’s only on the one side, the right side, very rarely is it my whole abdomen or the left. You will open the app to be greeted with a calendar pretty much saying ‘are you mental, of course it’s sore, you’re fertile as fuck go find a man’. On the one hand, you are thankful you don’t in fact have a ruptured kidney, but on the other hand you know the beast is coming and a ruptured kidney doesn’t sound all too bad in comparison. Or you are on the baby train, in which case you are literally a hound on heat and your partner runs for cover from this seething, fertile, libido filled monster of a woman. There is really no good outcome from any of these scenarios – I have a toddler, I’m not one to speak to about the wonders of children. They are arseholes.
If you miss out on the ovary wrestle, you might be lucky enough to experience the semi-permanent boobs job, when the ladies fill with some mysterious substance, giving them a fuller complexion. Why they can’t be like that all the time, I’ll never know. Although it does come with mild tenderness, so I guess it’s good that the bouncing belles are short lived.
Can our bodies scream fertilize me any louder?! Well, yes they do. We can turn into rapid dogs, slebberin (Scottish for slobbering) for our man, your man, any man – jokes. It’s the one time we scare our partner, pouncing on the poor fella like Sgt Callahan on Cadet Martin in Police Academy. Poor guy will get the fright of his life, the tables are turned and he is the piece of meat and we are the insatiable dogs. Yikes.
It’s a short lived train ride though, best make the most of it. The anti-social, high maintenance ovaries are in control and they demand that you be left well alone, you know, just in case. In case you need to conserve energy to grow a baby. Woe betide you’re poor body when they find out there is no baby growing downstairs. Hell hath no fury like an ovary that produced a wasted egg. I’m pretty sure I have turned into the anti-Christ on more than one occasion, spitting venom at passersby for looking in my direction. It’s not a pretty sight.
So the next time you think about describing males as the more instinct driven, horny, genital driven, animal like member of our species, I suggest you think again. Take a look around your environment. I bet you will find at least one woman eating a over sized bar of chocolate, another stuffing a pastry in her face, one woman having a raging phone argument with the customer services of some unfortunate company, one woman dressed in black from the waist down, another woman glancing at you and another dry humping your leg – maybe the last one is a bit of a stretch, but I bet she’s undressed at least 40 men in her mind today on the orders of her ovaries. You’ll probably see some men too, just sitting on their phone. Casual. Nothing to see here.
Who are the filthy ones now eh?
Woman. Disgusting, sex driven fiends, that’s who.
*Shakes head in disgust