We’d had sex once before. He had a big dick and knew how to use it. Which was why I was about to sleep with him again, in spite of his peasant tops, the tibetan flags over his bed, The Art of Seduction I found on his bookshelf and the fact that we met at my yoga center. He had the golden retriever good looks of the star quarterback at a midwestern high school, and while we did partner yoga there was something crazy about having his foot that close to my crotch. When we first met in class he stared me straight in the eyes as he massaged my inner thigh with his toes. I kept thinking, “I can’t believe I paid for this. I need to get a monthly pass.”
He was 6’4 with massive shoulders and long shaggy blonde hair. Easily, he could have been an extra on Friday Night Lights. But, he’d just moved to the big city and forsaken his football jersey for vinyasas and downward dogs. He was on the path to enlightenment. No longer a bro and not quite a full fledged yogi—he was a Brogi.
I laid on my stomach as he gave me the world’s ultimate butt rub with organic coconut oil. I was starting to smell like a giant macaroon, and I wondered if he secretively loved baked goods. He talked about his diet constantly, and I thought there might be some kind of weird projection at play. I tried to breathe through my ears as he droned on about how I should cut out dairy, and focused on how big his hands were, cupping each of my ass cheeks.
Finally, his hand slipped between my thighs. He started to rub me really hard, and then I felt his dick dry humping me from behind. He grabbed my hair. “I want you so badly right now,” he growled into my ear. I was ready and rearing to go. There’s nothing I like better than being dominated. In fact it’s my M.O. that I like to top from the bottom. But, there was one little thing I needed to take care of.
“Just a minute I have to go to the bathroom. I’m on my period. I’ll be back in a second.” I tried to get down from his lofted bed, but he grabbed my arm.
“Just take it out. Right now.” He got on top of me and pinned me down. “I need you. Right now. If you don’t take it out I will.”
“No! It’s really messy. Just give me a sec. I’ll be right back.”
He held me by my shoulders and looked straight at me. “I’m not afraid of your womanly goodness.”
With one hand he pulled out my tampon and gently placed it on the bed next to me. Then he fucked me hard. I think it was okay sex. I don’t really remember because I was completely focused on the bloody tampon sharing my pillow. It seemed to be mocking me. “Ha ha,” it said, “This is what a feminist looks like.”
I felt both liberated and also violated. Was I suppose to applaud him for not being afraid of my period blood? Bravo. You are now a man. Marked with proof from the blood of your hunt. Instead, I wanted to scream, “Come on dude, give me some privacy. Allow me the dignity of taking out my own tampon alone in the bathroom where I can check my hair and teeth and take a deep breath and then get ready to fuck your brains out.”
This guy is no feminist. He’s a certified SNAG. That’s right, a good ole Sensitive New Age Guy. SNAGS are worse than straight up assholes because they pretend that all those women’s studies courses they took at their seven sister schools actually changed their way of thinking. It didn’t. It made them better at hiding it. SNAGS will never do anything to purposely hurt you, they just won’t remember how old you are on your 30th birthday, or that you’re allergic to shellfish when they take you out for a surprise lobster dinner, or they tell you they love you on the third date, and that they really care about making you cum, but then they stop returning your phone calls and move on to wherever it is guys go when they disappear. It won’t ever be their fault because they didn’t actually do anything wrong—they simply didn’t do anything at all. Or in the case of Brogi, they go so far out of their way to prove they understand the plight of their lady friends, they end up insulting us.
Some things are sacred man, and my period is one of them. I would love you to be supportive, even curious during my moon cycle, and hey I’m not knocking strawberry shortcake sex—I love it too! Especially because all those hormones are making me extra horny. Just let me take care of the clean up alone. After all it is my tampon, my hot body, myself.