When my boyfriend Jeremy and I started our relationship four years ago, I told him one thing, and one thing only: my love language is touch. I sat him down and explained that if we’re in an argument, all it takes is a hug to show me that he cares. If I’m stressed out, all it takes is a kiss to change my mood. And if I’m on period, don’t come fucking near me, you fucking monster.
When I get home from work, tired and stressed out, all I want is a loving embrace and a back massage from the man I love. But if I come home tired and stressed because I’m on my period, I’ll slap his hands away, look him in the eye and growl, “That was just a warning, you evil fucker. You have no idea what I’m capable of doing.” And I won’t regret threatening him because he should know better by now.
I don’t think it’s that hard to understand: on the days when I don’t have my period, all I’m looking for is snuggles and butterfly kisses. But if I’m on my period, I will do whatever I can to be as far away from you as possible, you groping creep! Look at a fucking calendar!
Jeremy and I got married in September, and we planned it so I wasn’t menstruating on our wedding day. It was incredible: we kissed, we danced and we even smashed cake in each other’s faces! But on the last four days of our honeymoon, Jeremy, the relentless fucker, decided to hook arms with me like some kind of horny asshole. I punched him in the face until I could see blood and screamed, “MY HANDS ARE NOT FOR YOU TO HOLD, YOU DEMON!”
Jeremy is okay, but he should learn from his mistakes: sex is amazing between the first and 25th of the month, after that, I will hurt his penis.
I love Jeremy so much, and he will be such an incredible father. The way that we share our hopes, dreams, and affection are part of what makes this relationship so strong. But if he so much as breathes on me when I’m bleeding out of my vagina, I’ll kill him.