If Men Got Periods: An Inner Monologue

If Men Got Periods: An Inner Monologue

In this installation of the timeless hypothetical WHAT IF MEN GOT THEIR PERIODS?! I understand that I am taking great leaps and bounds in terms of how exactly men would menstruate. I’m not sure of the mechanics of where and why, and what a male tampon might look like. I refuse to speculate that far. Let’s just say that this piece depends on the theory that women would still be the ones to get pregnant and men would get sympathy cycles or something. I don’t know. I’m a writer, not a doctor. There’s a reason for that. XO, EC.

Ugh, it’s that time again. No wonder my balls have been swollen. Well, at least I know Katie isn’t pregnant. I don’t want to be a dad right now.

(15 minutes later)

This is the worsttttttt.

Oh my god. I’m gonna die. This isn’t normal. Humans aren’t supposed to bleed for three days. I’m bleeding and I’m going to die.

Holy crap, nobody go into that bathroom. I should hate this part but I’m also kind of proud? No more Chipotle for lunch, though. Not until this is over. No more kale, either. I should have never let Katie talk me into eating kale. That was just fucking unsanitary, even for me.

[Ed. note: I’m going to let the good people of Reddit clue you in on what I’m talking about, in case you don’t know. Link not safe for work, your appetite, life, etc.]

Fucking Larry, bragging about how bad his was last week. Mine’s worse right now. I bet anything. I’m going to bet him that mine’s worse. His cramps left him in bed for three days straight. Bullshit. He’s just weak. I’m still walking around. Fuck Larry.

Maybe I’ll pick up some beer on the way home. Maybe I’ll get Katie to pick it up for me. This is her fault. She did this. She’s the one who’s not pregnant.

We’re not pregnant? Let’s say we’re.

No, she.

I should take off work.

My boss will understand. He’ll get it. I think he just finished his anyway. Sucks for Jimmy in auditing. I think he missed this month. He must be freaking out.


Oh my god cramps whyyyyyy. I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying fuuuuuuckkk.

I need to remember to take that medication. It’ll help. Thank fuck for that stuff. Scientists really pulled through on making the symptoms go away almost entirely. And Congress passed it almost unanimously. Thanks for looking out for me, government! I love you, science.

Oh, great. Period zit. Eh, maybe I can say it’s an ingrown hair. Maybe I should grow a beard. Yeah, a beard would cover it. I’d look so bad-ass with a beard. Like the second coming of Tim Howard. Or Jesus. Jesus Howard.

I’m so growing a beard.

I wonder if Katie will still have sex now. I bet she won’t. But on the plus side, we can sit on the couch together in sweats and eat ice cream and watch The Notebook and I can totally cry and blame it on anything but the old people. God, those old people. They’re so in love.

Maybe Katie will wear those yoga pants. I can still look, right? Even if I’m getting blue balled. Damn, my balls are tender right now.

Look at me sideways again, Donna in marketing LOOK AT ME I WILL CUT YOU.

I need a cookie.

Eight cookies.

All the cookies.

I should buy Katie a cookie, too. She’s probably feeling pretty crappy. And hey, she’s not pregnant. We’re not pregnant. High five us. That’s teamwork, baby. We showed sex who the goddamn boss is!

I am God. I choose when I create life and it is NOT TODAY, BITCHES!!

(Sorry, sperm. Love you little dudes. One day I will unleash your full power and then everyone will fear the potency of my loads.)

But oh my god these cramps might kill me I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying. At least that bill to make pads and tampons covered by health insurance will get passed soon. I’m really tired of paying for those things every month.

Good old universal health care, looking out for me. Way to go, government. I love you.

Three and a half weeks later:

Oh my god where the fuck is it where is it I just need to get it over with is Katie pregnant she’d better not be pregnant. I’ll ask. Wait, no, what if she is? I can’t handle that.

Oh my god cramps, the worst, no, fuck. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Ella Ceron

Writer. Editor. Twitter-er. Instagrammer. Coffee drinker. (Okay, mostly that last one.)