Give Me a Nasty Lover!

Why I prefer a man who loves a good mess

I’m all about bloody messes!

That was the response I got in a text after I told him I was on my period—a warning—just in case he’s one of those.

I was already certain he wasn’t going to mind as I’ve become fairly apt at spotting the open-minded, body- and sex-positive ones off the bat. Still, you never really know with someone new until you ask. Had my period been a problem for him, on the other hand, I doubt we would have met again.

I guess you could say my warning was a bit of a test.

To me, someone’s opinion of period sex is a deciding factor: Beyond giving me a few clues as to what they might be like in bed, it reveals much about their attitudes towards the human body—and most of all, towards women.

If someone flat-out refuses to get carnal on my moon days, they would be a no-go for me. Their reason wouldn’t matter—whether they find it gross, weird or unappealing, or they happen to be a clean freak—this person just ain’t my person. If they, on the contrary, are all about bloody messes, then—BINGO!—I can tell they’re (likely to be) my type.

Now, it may sound like I’m some kind of menstrual blood fetishist, which isn’t the case. No (kink-)shame on anyone who is, but it’s not really about the period sex itself. What it boils down to is what’s between your ears; your mindset.

A ‘nasty’ man is a better feminist

Comedian Ali Wong’s period sex joke is a personal favorite because it’s so spot on. She tells the story of when she, too, warned a lover about her period, and he, to her surprise, responded: Well, then let’s make a fucking mess, Ali! Wong concludes that there is nothing more empowering and truly feminist than what that man said that day. That is straight-up ‘[hashtag] I’m with her!’

I couldn’t agree more, and I’ll gladly elaborate: We live in a world where women are (still) expected to perpetually present as neat, smooth, freshly scented packages; to wear makeup—but not too much, to dress feminine—but not too provocatively, to be sex goddesses in the bedroom—but not talk about it outside, and so on… Further, we’re asked to bear and raise children without appearing too mommy-ish—all though, the opposite is equally frowned upon—and, god-forbid we allow the very marker of female fertility to get mixed in with the very activity that (potentially) creates life, to begin with.

It’s all more than a tad paradoxical. And for the fifty percent of the population held up to these (double-)standards, the failure to comply is often proceeded by a fair share of abashment, guilt, and not to mention, shame:

Shame on the stubble, the sweat, tears, and mire. Shame on sadness, frustration, anger, and other forms of too-loud—or lewd—behavior, which tediously gets dismissed as hysteria. Shame on feelings, fluids, sounds, smells, and all the other nitty-gritty things that make us all so (im)perfectly human.

Disavowing to hold your femme-partner up to said standards—to revel in her like the gorgeous goddess she is—contributes to uprooting said shame, and that is feminist as f#%k!

Wholehearted acceptance is so romantic

I consider myself lucky that, as I mentioned, I’ve learned to separate the wheat from the chaff, and have therefore been blessed with men in my life who embrace—and even adore—my many messes.

I recently wrote about the healing benefits of being seen. Further therapeutic is being fully acknowledged for what is unveiled by those who look beyond.

As a society, we commonly equate romance to flowers, chocolate, and champagne dinners, with online lists of romantic gestures promoting tips like write I love you on the mirror after they take a shower or carve your initials in a tree. But, I’m with Wong here, who referred to her lover’s comment about making a mess as the most romantic thing anybody has ever said [to her]. Why? Because nothing is as strong a love declaration as being embraced entirely for who we are; mentally, spiritually, and physically.

Adding to Ali’s incentive, I take note of such romantic expressions and save them in my heart for rainy days. Some of my all-time favorites include the lover who leaned in to lick my sweaty armpit after sex. First, I was somewhat mortified and thought he was a bit of a freak. Omg, what the hell are you doing? But, his answer blew me away:

I want to inhale your pheromones. Your smell drives me wild!

Fortunately, I’ve had more than one lover who’s been enamored with my pussy, but there was one especially who’d devour me like the most treasured of delicacies and declare:

Aghhhh, you taste so sweet! I could eat you up.

His enthusiasm filled me with confidence and made me glow.

The men who still give oral when I’m bleeding always knock my socks off. I’ve trained myself to keep quiet, but my mind goes: Are you really sure you wanna do that? It was one of these who said:

Men who shy away from women on their periods are idiots; they’re missing out on her most sensitive days.

Agreed!

We can’t forget the cream-pie guys; the ones who’ll blow their load inside you and still head straight down to lick without flinching. (FYI, reserved for steady and long-term-lovers since safe-sex is a top priority). While this is more about their messes than mine, there’s something to be said for a man so devoted to your pleasure he won’t even cringe at this taboo:

You take my cum in your mouth — why shouldn’t I be able to handle it?

It’s all about equality, right?

Lastly, I could hardly believe the lover who took rimming to the next level and literally penetrated my ass with his tongue, only to emerge licking his lips, saying:

You are SO delicious! There’s no part of you I don’t want between my lips.

(Foreseeing the comments here; yes, I’m aware that A2M is a bit reckless and often advised against. Hygiene concerns are taken into consideration!)

Perhaps I have a twisted idea of romance, but lines like these make me swoon! They may have been shocked in the moment, but ultimately these tokens of overwhelming acceptance have burst me open and helped unburden heaps of icky internalized shame. I’ll take that over a personalized mixtape any day.

Those who can handle a mess are more mature

While messiness may be seen as a childish trait, I’m of the conviction that being able to handle a (haute-) mess, especially when it comes to sex, is a sign of maturity.

I’m not suggesting we abolish table manners or live in a pigsty, still, being so afraid for our pristine white sheets that we stifle our primal selves does everyone a disservice. Sheets are dead things, passion shouldn’t be! Anne Shark wrote a great piece about a lover who asked her to stop shedding in his immaculate apartment, which proves my point perfectly. If you encounter one of these, run for the hills!

Mature men know that real (aka human-) bodies aren’t always neat and tidy, but fold, bend, and stretch, and sometimes sound, smell—and make messes! While taking certain precautions is good and responsible, they won’t lose their cool in the face of a mishap.

Messy lovers dare to let loose — making them better in bed

Conclusively, this essay isn’t a hard strike against the anti-period-sexers. You guys do you — somewhere else — if you absolutely can’t get over yourselves. I will say though, that I’m certain you’re missing out. Not simply because period sex, and messy sex in general, can be amazing, but because I’m convinced your limiting and un-feminist attitudes are prohibiting you from deep-diving into the full spectrum of pleasure.

As Jack Canfield said; everything you want is on the other side of fear, and that includes spectacular sex. Approaching the human body, and our sexualities, with fear, inhibits us from fully letting go. But, when we show up with an open mind, void of angst and prejudice we’re set to fully savor—and that certainly won’t happen while we’re obsessing over our expensive white bedsheets.

What this text is, on the other hand, is a homage to the liberated lovers, and all the others out there who do not easily cringe; who aren’t afraid to get your hands, or your mouths, dirty.

This is also a love letter, to you who love—and fuck—fearlessly; who dare to dive in without inhibition, to lose yourself, and thus, be wholly present in the moment.

Consider this a thank you note to the freaky fuckers who, with your overwhelming acceptance of me and my body have shown me that I have nothing to be ashamed of—and through that, you’ve helped me to like, and even love myself, a little more.

In the end, I wish for every woman out there a truly nasty lover. Because better than roses and shiny things, nothing spells I love you like being seen, welcomed, and relished her in all of our gory/glory!