The curse

I finally saw Superbad a few weeks ago. I know, I know, I’m really late to the party. I only mention it now, because at some point – somewhere in between feeling nostalgic for high school sex and drunkenly shrieking “McLovin!!!” at top volume – I couldn’t help noticing something.

Something I hesitate to mention, since it’ll probably send the few male readers I have running for the hills at top speed.

And yet, I must.

What is up, seriously, with the intense male phobia of All Things Menstrual?

(…guys? Guys! Hey, come back!)

Ok, but really? I’m wondering. See, there’s this part of Superbad – which most of you have undoubtedly seen – where the Fat Kid Protagonist dances with a hot girl at a party... only to later discover that she’s left a little, er, crimson souvenir on his leg. And what happens then? Well, of course, he FREAKS THE FUCK OUT. For fifteen minutes.

Which is, to me, a just a little, teensy bit ridiculous. But it's also based in reality. Fear of Teh Menstruation has become a sort of accepted social norm for, like, every guy ever. And watching the scene play out, I started thinking about all the gentlemen I’ve known who flip at the mere mention of periods. Guys who would, in the aforementioned scene, probably have coped with the presence of lady-leavings on their pristine white thighs by setting themselves on fire.

Take, for instance, my college boyfriend -- who screamed and hurled his glass of water against the wall when my roommate jokingly dropped a tampon (a clean one, ok, we weren’t that sick) into it. Or the group of guys I hung out with my freshman year, all of whom purchased matching t-shirts that said, “I Don’t Trust Anything That Bleeds For Five Days And Doesn’t Die”.

Even Brad, who I’m proud to say is one of those rare men who will uncomplainingly buy tampons if I ask him to, doesn’t like to talk about my “period”. (He calls it Aunt Flo.)

All told, there seems to be a serious phobia amongst menfolk of what Alicia Silverstone so fabulously referred to in Clueless as “Surfing The Crimson Wave”.

Which I don't really understand, because -- I might as well just throw this out there -- I got my period on a dude once.

And, contrary to what you might expect, he did not die.

It was just a random accident; I went on my fifth date with a hot architect, we went back to his place, we had [a cup of tea – really, Mom and Dad! Tea! Ha, ha!], and fell asleep. And the next morning, the hot architect asked me for a massage. Which, of course, I happily climbed onto his back to give.

Only to discover, when I moved after ten minutes or so, that my Aunt Flo had decided to pay me an unexpected visit all over the hot architect’s boxer shorts.

And yes, it was really embarrassing. I high-tailed it out of there like I was on fire (instead of just bleeding profusely from the vagina), spent a good part of the day recalling the look on the hot architect’s face when he saw the spot I’d left on him, felt utterly mortified all over again, and then finally called and told the whole sordid story to my mom.

Whose response, I will never forget, was, “Well, at least you didn’t pee on him!”

But my point is, it wasn't the end of the world. Eventually, the embarrassment faded. And even though the hot architect ended our dating relationship a few weeks later (Him: I’m just don’t think I want to be with anyone right now. Me: Is this because I menstruated on you?) it was not the screaming tragedy that Seth Rogen would have you think it is.

And all told, I wonder if it's asking too much for gentlemen -- particularly those who are old enough to be having sex -- to just relax already with the period phobia. (To use a metaphor: if you want to go spelunking, you can hope that there aren't any bats in the cave. But if there are bats, you deal with it. Otherwise, you shouldn't be spelunking in the first place.)

What do you think, guys? Deal? Okay, great... now who wants a backrub?