I. Sanitary Towels & Underwear
There’s a dark corner in my underwear draw. It contains black panty-parachutes (pantychutes?) and horrible mutilated things that are only allowed to dance in the red glow of my menstrual cycle.
I’m such a fucking poet.
I’m also a fucking researcher. This evening, I decided to do researcher things. If there’s a problem, you gotta deal with it. And I’ve got a problem: what underwear does a girl wear during her goddamn period? 

I’m a practical broad. I took out my researcher toolbox, and from it I drew a ruler. With this ruler I measured the width of my regular-sized underwear. Then, I measured the width of my regular-sized sanitary towel. Do you know what my research unearthed? A fucking disparity.

My underwear is eight centimeters too short, and three centimeters too narrow to host my sanitary towel.

Someone, somewhere needs to sit down the motherfuckers designing underwear and the motherfuckers designing sanitary towels and ask them to form a product design coalition. Someone needs to politely request the invention of sanitary-towel-hosting-underwear that doesn’t end its life cycle by resembling a homicide in a circus tent. Or a shuffly nappy that makes funny noises when you walk. Or something that makes you feel like you’re sixty–eight. 

I don’t think there’s a woman in this universe with a vagina that can bleed obsequiously within the lines of her sanitary towel. My vagina isn’t an artist. It’s a drunken painter and decorator going through a bad divorce. And that ain’t my problem; that’s Calvin Klein’s problem.

I. Sanitary Towels & Underwear

There’s a dark corner in my underwear draw. It contains black panty-parachutes (pantychutes?) and horrible mutilated things that are only allowed to dance in the red glow of my menstrual cycle.

I’m such a fucking poet.

I’m also a fucking researcher. This evening, I decided to do researcher things. If there’s a problem, you gotta deal with it. And I’ve got a problem: what underwear does a girl wear during her goddamn period?

I’m a practical broad. I took out my researcher toolbox, and from it I drew a ruler. With this ruler I measured the width of my regular-sized underwear. Then, I measured the width of my regular-sized sanitary towel. Do you know what my research unearthed? A fucking disparity.

My underwear is eight centimeters too short, and three centimeters too narrow to host my sanitary towel.

Someone, somewhere needs to sit down the motherfuckers designing underwear and the motherfuckers designing sanitary towels and ask them to form a product design coalition. Someone needs to politely request the invention of sanitary-towel-hosting-underwear that doesn’t end its life cycle by resembling a homicide in a circus tent. Or a shuffly nappy that makes funny noises when you walk. Or something that makes you feel like you’re sixty–eight.

I don’t think there’s a woman in this universe with a vagina that can bleed obsequiously within the lines of her sanitary towel. My vagina isn’t an artist. It’s a drunken painter and decorator going through a bad divorce. And that ain’t my problem; that’s Calvin Klein’s problem.

Alpsko picture, how and where did that come about?

Asked by laurence1211

image

In July 2013, we stayed in a shitty holiday apartment in the East of Slovenia. The joint had two refrigerators — one broken, one full of nothing but local milk — and a view of the Adriatic sea. No-one really understood why the fridge was loaded with milk; it was more milk than a litter of kittens could slurp through in a month. 

Outraged by the over-priced, over-milked shitty accommodation, bored to the bone with the quiet, watershed culture of the city, I took a carton out of the fridge and poured it; all over my face, all over my legs, and all over the dining room floor. Like a slow motion moment in a John Hughes’ movie, I had rebelled against bad accommodation, blonde sexual expectations, and bukkake pornography in one splash. In that moment of flurry, wearing my hair in two Baby Spice bunches and a transparent night dress, I demanded to be photographed. I wanted to fuck with the innocence of childhood (milk and breastfeeding and making a mess) with the idea of sluthood (cum shots and cute feet and swallowing).The white stuff is whatever you want it to be. 

This is the photograph.

The 2014 Women

1. Vera and I are cruising downtown when we pass two guys walking arm in arm. We stop the car at the lights and give them a glance. “Hey baby, do you have a boyfriend?” I holler at the cute one in the sexy quarter-length shorts. They shuffle away uncomfortably, and we laugh. “Fuck ‘em,” Vera says, “they’re asking for attention when they’re wearing those short shorts.”

2. My favourite club in the city and all the cuties are out. I love summer: the boys wear little shorts and tight vests. They really know how to get me going. I spot one blonde fella dancing with a beer in his hand. He looks pretty cute. I come up behind him and press the arch of my vagina against him, slipping my hand around his hip. He smiles politely but then edges away. I don’t get these boys, woman, what’s the point in asking for attention and then rejecting it?

3. Vera and I are in the beauty salon when a guy walks in. You don’t see a lot of guys in beauty salons. I love a man who can handle walking on feminine turf. I love the way they slip in like they belong there. It makes me hot. He leans across the sofa to pick up a magazine and a peak of his Calvin Klein underwear slips out the top of his jeans. We let out a little kitty whistle. He blushes. It’s so cute when they blush.

4. “But I want to wear a condom,” he says. Urgh, I don’t get these boys. They act like they like it dirty but they’re not man enough to fertilise me. I’m sick of this shit. “I don’t want to have to think about going to the baby registration clinic tomorrow and declare myself a father,” he tells me. “You’re killing the mood,” I snap, “I like it better when we don’t use contraception. Don’t be a dick.” Why won’t he let me fuck him the way I want to?

5. “Why the hell are your balls so hairy? Ain’t you seen them boys in the pornos? With the cute hairless balls? Why can’t you be like them?” Honestly! It’s some masculinist bullshit again isn’t it? Another boy trying to show how independent he is by keeping his balls hairy. Pfft, save me the bullshit. They get enough equality as it is. Manism? What kind of bullshit ideology is that?

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