***warning: contains scenes with gruesome blood***

Thinking myself to be something of a romantic, and armed with the powerful yearning arising from four abstaining weeks away from the boyf, I was inspired to plan a brief getaway to a luxury lodge in Muldersdrift for some quality time with my man, punctuated by bouts of blissful orgasms, haute cuisine, and heavenly massages at the resort’s spa.

Fact 1: periods will always inflict you at such obviously inopportune times.
Fact 2: as much as you try to create the awesome sex and subsequent blissful orgasms despite the imposition of mother nature’s monthly visits, you won’t succeed. ‘Normal sex’ is already endowed with enough bodily fluids to make it a messy business, this just takes it to another annoying level, that completely precludes the occurrence of aforementioned sex-and-orgasm duo.
Fact 3: in the face of these already overwhelming odds, overindulgence in an all-you-can-eat meat frenzy stacks up the odds further against your favour. Why why why did I turn the dinner into a ‘me eat more than you, caveman-pussy’ affair? Spurred by the mere hint of competition, I ate my way through most of the wildlife our bountiful country has to offer – eland, giraffe, buffalo, hartebeest, crocodile as well as the more mundane chicken, beef and lamb – leaving no space whatsoever for my favourite meat, 10-inch dong (not that I’ve actually measured it, but the Gilb makes up for vertical shortness with certain horizontal lengths. There, now the world knows). Enough said.

Surely by now you’re thinking ‘no, this much bad luck is impossible – surely the horror story has to lighten up at this point!’ Thank you, kind-hearted readers, but life is indeed the proverbial bitch we so often claim it to be. Mercy should have entered at this point, with a heavenly, if somewhat overpriced, his-and-hers massage. Given the state of the fucking mattress I’ve been sleeping on in CT for nine months (which coincidentally makes me feel I have been carrying a child to full term), my back is a minefield of knots and sensitive, bruised bones. The Nazi masseus picked up on my weakness and used it to immerse me in an hour of WWII torture.

So here I sit, sullen, sulky and sore. The Gilb enjoyed his massage, at least. Pardon me if I feel hard done by.