This is a perfect example of why I need to either put a silver bullet in my belly or get my womb cauterized. Tonight is a full moon. And it would seem, that my menstrual cycle is now linked up so that the first day of my period aligns with it. Therefore, I’m fairly certain my uterus is a werewolf and must be controlled. I don’t know when the beast started but I not-so-subtly blame one of my closest friends, Crystal Precious for this. Mostly because her body probably said on a cellular level ‘hey, let’s all get on the same train,” and because my body is a stupid jerk that can’t think for itself, it replied, ‘neat-o!’. And so now here we are.
I didn’t want to believe it, but I had proof two days ago. I stopped into the Shoppers Drug Mart to buy the ultimate in PMS snacks good: chocolate covered pretzels. So salty, so sweet, and so perfect when taking the edge off a hormone-induced mood. When I got there though there was none to be found. Never mind there were bags of them, scores even a day ago. Now they were gone. I had a panic moment. Then panic shifted to rage (remember when I mentioned the hormones?) I saw I red mist and had to breathe deeply to keep my composure. Because as funny as it is for bitches to write about this shit in Cosmo and commiserate it, it does not look attractive when a 31-year-old woman looses her cool and has a hissy fit because she can’t get the candy she wants because her body is mistaking itself for a reproductive lycanthrope. No sir, I will not cotton to that kind of guff. I did get chocolate buttons, though which soothed the beast.
It wasn’t til the next day when I was naked, bent over my bathtub with my face in a pool of chocolate syrup with a octopus tentacle shoved in my mouth the problem solved itself… wait, what? You wanted to know why I was naked and face down in sea creature and condiments? Because Shimona Henry was over and shooting me for her upcoming fetish art show and had a vision. As I have a thing for tentacle porn, and I was willing to stuff dead cephalopod in my mouth, she was shooting me. As my bathroom is 100 years old and cool looking, that’s the location. And because everything is better covered in chocolate sauce… well, that’s self explanatory. But it was with the squish of tentacle in my mouth and chocolate drool that I got the salty/sweet combo I desired. I’m not saying chocolate-covered calamari would ever displace chocolate-covered bacon, but at that moment all was well in the world. Except for the chocolate good in my fake eyelashes.
To show you how well Shimona can marry the right with the wrong, here’s some snaps she did of myself and my friend Virgina as naughty kitties.
Enjoy. I’m off to let my uterus howl at the moon with the other women who run with werewolves.
Little Miss Risk