Читать книгу Charlotte Roche Two-Book Collection: Wetlands and Wrecked - Charlotte Roche - Страница 19

I’ve already lost plenty of blood down there. And I’ve already got plenty to do to take care of my wounded ass without having to worry about preventing the flow of blood from my period, too. I’m fine with my actual period once the irritability right before it dissipates. Often I’m horny when I’m bleeding.

One of the first dirty sayings I ever heard, when I was very young, was at a party my parents threw, and I had to ask around a lot before I understood it: It’s okay to swim in the red river as long as you don’t drink the water.

It used to be considered disgusting for a man to fuck a woman who was bleeding. But those days are long gone. When I fuck a boy who likes it when I’m bleeding, we leave behind a huge, blood-splattered mess in the bed.

When I have any control over the particulars, I try to get fresh, white sheets to use. And I change positions and move around the bed as much as possible so there’s blood all over the place.

When we’re fucking I like to be sitting or squatting so gravity helps as much blood as possible flow out of my pussy. If I simply lie there, the blood just pools.

I also love it when someone goes down on me while I’m bleeding. It’s kind of a test of mettle for the guy. When he’s finished licking and looks up with his blood-smeared mouth, I kiss him so we both look like wolves who’ve just ripped open a deer.

I like to have the taste of blood in my mouth when we finally fuck. I find it extremely exciting, and I’m always sad when after a few wolf-days my period ends.

But I’m lucky. From what I hear from other girls, some of them are in pain for days on end. Doesn’t exactly make you want to have sex.

All that happens to me is that shortly before it starts, I get into a really bad mood—like right now—and I’m extremely aggressive toward random people I encounter. Then the blood starts to flow. No pain. No cramps.

Back when periods were still something new to me, I used to think I really was just in a bad mood. And then I’d be caught by surprise by the blood. Usually in school. Clearly visible to everyone as a red stain on the back of my skirt, because I’d be sitting when it started. You’re always sitting in school.

Or during a visit with my relatives at my aunt’s house. I went to bed because I didn’t feel well. I didn’t know why.

The next morning I got up and saw that I’d covered the bed with blood. A huge puddle. I was too self-conscious to go to my aunt and say that I’d had a bit of an accident. There was just nothing I could do.

I had slept and hadn’t noticed anything. I didn’t know how to describe what had happened to me, either. I decided just not to say anything. I left the next morning like nothing had happened, leaving the mess behind without comment.

My aunt must have gone into the room to tidy up and noticed it right away. I hadn’t even covered it with the blanket. All those liters of red were right out in the open for my aunt to see. Ever since then I’ve been uptight around my aunt. Though she’s never said anything about it.

Typical of family.

I can’t think of anything else when I see her. Until I get so ashamed I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears.

When it comes to my period, I don’t care about hygiene, either. It’s blown completely out of proportion. Tampons are expensive and unnecessary. When I have my period, I use toilet paper to make my own tampons while I’m sitting on the toilet. I’m proud of that.

I’ve developed a special balling and packing technique so they stay in for a long time and hold in the blood. But I have to admit that my toilet paper tampons really just stop up my pussy and dam up the blood rather than absorbing it the way commercial tampons do. I asked my gynecologist, though, whether it was harmful to the pussy to keep the blood inside and then let it flow out while sitting on the toilet. And he said it was a common misconception that the bleeding had some kind of purifying effect. So from a medical perspective, my blood-dam system is harmless.

A few times I went to the gynecologist because I’d lost a tampon inside me. I was sure I’d stuffed one in but, when I went to pull it out, I couldn’t find it anymore. Of course, that’s a small disadvantage of my homemade tampons: there’s no turquoise-colored string to pull it out with. And my fingers are kind of short, so I don’t get too far when I’m looking for something in my pussy.

A couple of times when I found myself in this situation at my dad’s house, I had to fish around in there with his nice barbecue tongs. There’s usually charred bits of meat and fat stuck to them. I couldn’t be bothered to clean the tongs before they went inside me. So I laid myself down in Dr. Broekert position and tried as best I could to locate the clump of toilet paper in my pussy. With all the stuff from the grill still on them. Often without finding anything. Just as I don’t clean the tongs before I shove them inside me, I don’t wash them before they land back on dad’s grill after my gynecological insertion. I always have a broad grin on my face during barbecues with friends of the family.

I ask everyone “Doesn’t it taste great?” and wave to my father who waves back with the tongs, smiling. My third hobby. Spreading bacteria.

If I’m unsuccessful in my search with the barbecue tongs and start to worry that the bloody toilet paper will rot inside me and I’ll die a horrible death from infection, I go to the gynecologist.

He calls it my Bermuda Triangle problem. Sometimes he can help me, but often he can’t find anything, either. He has really long fingers and all kinds of medical barbecue tongs made out of steel. And still there are times when he doesn’t find the clumps.

“Are you sure you inserted a tampon?”

Cute. He always says “inserted.” I always say “shoved in.”

“Yes, absolutely sure.”

I’m a real mystery to him. As my pussy is to me. I have no idea where the clumps go. Hopefully I’ll live long enough to figure out this mystery. Dr. Broekert does an ultrasound to make sure there’s nothing hiding up there.

Often I’m too lazy to craft new tampons. So I don’t throw away the old one—that took me so long to fold up—in the toilet every time I go to the bathroom. I pull it out with my finger after I’ve sat down. And I put it on the floor. The dirtier the floor, the better.

If I can add a bloodstain to all the other stains on the floor, great. Once I’m finished with whatever I had to do on the toilet, I grab it off the floor and shove it back in. I like the smell of old blood that’s gushed out of my pussy. But then, I like the smell of truffles. I’ve heard horror stories about what happens if you don’t always replace your tampon regularly. You get the worst infection—some women even die from toxic shock. Since I’ve been getting my period—that is, for six years—this is how I’ve dealt with my body and my pussy and my bacteria, and my gynecologist hasn’t had any moments of anguish over me.

I used to have a close friend, Irene. I always called her Sirene. It suited her better. And we came up with a cool idea: Whenever we had our period at the same time—which didn’t happen very often, as you can imagine—we would do the following.

Each of us in a stall. Just a divider between us. The usual eight-inch gap between the base of the divider and the floor. We both take out our tampons—back then they were minis with light-turquoise strings—and then, one, two, three, go, we’d pass each other our tampons beneath the divider. And then, when we were finished peeing and dabbing ourselves dry, we each shoved in the other’s tampon. Through our old, stinky blood, we were bound together like Old Shatterhand and Winnetou. Blood sisters.

Sirene’s tampon always looked interesting. Before I stuck it in each time, I would examine it closely. Very different from mine. Who knows what another girl’s used tampon looks like? Okay, okay. Who even wants to know? Besides me. I know.

Recently during one of my exciting trips to a brothel, I learned something else about bleeding and tampons. I go to brothels a lot now to explore the female body. It’s not like I can ask my mother or my friends. Whether they’ll spread open their pussies for me so I can satisfy my thirst for knowledge. Couldn’t bring myself to do that.

Now that I’m eighteen, I can show my ID and get into a brothel. I look way younger, so they always ask to see it. My life has gotten a lot better since I turned eighteen, but also a lot more expensive. First the sterilization. That was nine-hundred euros including the anesthesia. Here in this same hospital. I paid for it myself. Now all the visits to the brothel. I have to earn it all working for the racist at the market.

Older men always take guys to brothels on their eighteenth birthdays so they can have their first hooker-fuck. In the old days it was probably their first fuck of any kind. These days there’s no way that’s the case.

I waited patiently until my eighteenth birthday, but nobody offered to take me there. So I did it all by myself. I found the numbers of brothels in our town, called them up, and, with hope in my voice, asked them whether any of the hookers working there dealt with women. Not many did.

One of the brothels, though, immediately said it had a large selection of hookers open to women. It’s called the Sauna Oasis. The madam said it would be better if I came early in the evening as the male johns often got annoyed at female johns. Or do you call them johnettes? Whatever.

I was okay with that and now I go there often.

I wanted to pick out the right hooker for me in the waiting room. She looked like a black version of me. By that I mean she was built like me. Thin, small breasts, a wide, flat ass, but overall petite. And long, straight hair. But I think her hair was made out of plastic. Island braid extensions. I went over to her. I already knew she was willing to go with women. That didn’t need to be discussed. When I’m picking, the only women in the waiting room are ones there for me, a female client. All those who service only men—maybe on religious grounds?—disappear into a backroom while I’m selecting. I go over to her, as determined as possible. I feel very awkward in this brothel setting. No wonder men always have to get hopelessly drunk before they get up the nerve to go. And then they can’t get it up or can’t remember their expensive fuck afterward. You really feel as if you’re doing something unbelievably taboo, something crazy. I wish I were drunk, too, when I’m there. But I worry I won’t remember afterward what the pussies look like. In which case it would all have been for nothing. That’s why I’m doing this, after all. Studying pussy. So I go sober. I have too much respect for the women there and for the situation. I look forward to a time when I don’t feel so uncomfortable anymore, once I’ve gotten used to it. At the moment I still get a lump in my throat and my heart races. Only after a few minutes with one of the women do I start to chill out. Back to that first time with the girl who looks like me. I ask her what her name is.

“Milena.”

I tell her my name.

She asks me in front of all the other hookers whether I have my period. What made her think that? I think I know. She smelled it through my pants. I had a school friend from Poland whose nose was so sensitive she could tell from her seat who in the class was having their period. She fascinated me. She was like a dog. I got a real kick out of her skill. Almost every day I would ask her who was bleeding. She didn’t like knowing and was disgusted by bleeding girls. She didn’t want to be near them. Unfortunately, she moved back to Poland. Girls who for stupid reasons of preserving their virginity used pads were easier for her to smell. Because they carried their blood around all day on a platter. With girls who trapped their blood inside with devirginizing tampons, she had to work a little harder. But she’d sniff them out. And now they’ve sniffed me out here.

I answer her with a yes. She says she doesn’t want to fuck me because of AIDS. Great. A few of the hookers giggle.

Milena smiles and says she has an idea. “Come with me. Have you ever heard of sponges?”

“The things you wash up with?”

She nods yes. Things are looking up, I think.

What does she have in mind? I follow her into a room. Number four. Is this her room? Or do they share rooms? I’ll ask everything in the half hour I have ahead of me. For fifty euros. I can’t decide what would be more enjoyable: to fuck a hooker or to ask her about all the things men have done with her or that she has done with them. Actually, each possibility turns me on as much as the other. But both at the same time—fucking and quizzing her—would be the best of all.

Naked, as she already is, she walks in her high-heeled shoes over to a cabinet and pulls out a big cardboard box. I have a chance to take a long look at her from behind. I love her ass. When she goes down on me, I’m going to bore my finger deep into her ass the whole time. What she’s holding in her hands is a family-pack of something. She takes one out—it’s something I’ve never seen before. A round piece of foam packed in clear plastic. Looks like a fortune cookie, only soft.

“This is a sponge. When we have our periods we’re not allowed to work because of the risk of infection. And if we use normal tampons, the clients can feel them with their cocks. Tampons are too hard. We shove these sponges as far inside our pussies as we can and it holds the blood out of the way for a while. The sponges are so soft no cock in the world is going to notice it touching its tip. It feels just like your cunt—even to a finger. You can try it. Lie down. I’ll push it in. Then I’ll go down on you, even though you have your period.”

Milena swims in the red river and drinks the water. And she says “cunt,” too. I wouldn’t dare.

I’ve asked in all the drugstores and pharmacies. You can’t get sponges as a normal person. Maybe you need some kind of proof of prostitution or something. I could definitely use sponges. Because not every guy I fuck likes to dip into the red river. In those cases I could hide the blood the good old hooker way. Otherwise I miss out on a fuck here or there when I have to confess to blood-averse boys I’ve got my period. Sometimes Helen is out of luck.

By the way, another thing that really needs to stop is the way my period always sneaks up on me by surprise.

I am constantly surprised by it. It was true before I was on the pill, and it’s still true now that I’m on the pill—obviously no longer to prevent pregnancy but to prevent pimples. My period never comes regularly or when it’s supposed to. Never the way it’s described on the package. It’s made a mess of every single pair of my underwear. Particularly the white ones. When I bleed in them and have to walk around for a while, the blood has a chance to really soak in at body temperature and then it won’t come out even if you wash them on the hottest setting. Even if you were to wash the white underwear in boiling water. No chance.

So my entire collection of underwear has a brown stain right in the middle. You get used to it after a few years. Do other people have it, too? What girl or woman could I ask? None. It’s always the same. With everything I really want to know.

There are probably other, more hygiene-obsessed, girls who run around their entire lives wearing panty liners to protect their underwear from their own discharges.

But I’m not one of them. I’d rather have everything stained with blood than do that.

Those girls definitely don’t have the nice light-yellow crust in their crotch, either, which during the course of the day gets thicker as it continually gets re-moistened.

Sometimes a bit of the crust will hang like a dreadlock from your pubic hair, spun around the hair like pollen on a bee’s leg by the rubbing motions of walking.

I like to pull this pollen off and eat it. It’s a delicacy.

I just can’t keep my fingers off anything on my body. I find a use for everything. If I notice a booger has slowly hardened in my nose, I have to pick it out.

When I was little I would do this in class. Even today I don’t see anything wrong about someone eating boogers. There’s no way it’s unhealthy. I see people all the time on the highway who, when they think they aren’t being watched, pop a snack from their nose into their mouth.

In school you get teased for it and quickly stop doing it. At some point I quit doing it except at home, either alone or in front of my boyfriend. I thought it was only reasonable. It’s a part of me after all, this habit. But I could see in his eyes that he couldn’t deal with it.

Since then I’ve maintained a second life in the bathroom. Whenever I piss or take a crap, I munch my nose empty of boogers. Creates a liberating sensation in your nose. But that’s not the main reason I do it. If I can grab a dry booger and, by picking it out, manage to set something in motion and pull out a long piece of snot attached to it, it turns me on. Similar to pulling out the hairs stuck in my pussy. Or the crust on a pubic hair. It hurts and it turns me on. And all of it makes its way into my mouth and gets slowly chewed with my front teeth so I can really taste it. I don’t need any tissues. I’m my own garbage disposal. Bodily secretion recycler. I get the same thrill out of cleaning my ears with cotton swabs. Sticking them in a little too deep.

That’s another distinct childhood memory. I’m sitting on the rim of the bathtub and my mother is cleaning my ears with a cotton swab dipped in warm water. A nice, tingling feeling that immediately turns to pain if you go in too far. I’m constantly told that I shouldn’t use cotton swabs because you might pack the earwax in and damage the ear. And that it’s bad to use cotton swabs too often because your ears will be too clean and the earwax is necessary to protect the inner ear. I don’t care. I don’t do it to clean my ears but to get myself off. More than once a day. Preferably on the toilet.

Back to the hygiene freaks. They throw out the lovely crust with their panty liners each time they go to the bathroom and have to start collecting it all over again from scratch.

And I’m sure these girls never forget they’re about to get their period. Even while in pain in the hospital. The highest imperative in their lives: leave no stains. With me it’s the opposite.

It’s starting to flow, the blood. I knew it. I take the giant Tupperware container off the windowsill, put it on my lap, and root around in it until I’ve found some gauze squares. I estimate them to be about four inches by four inches. I decide to experiment and instead of making a tampon out of toilet paper as usual, I make one out of gauze.

It should be easier, and unlike toilet paper it should be absorbant. We’ll see. I pull out a square and put the container back on the windowsill. I fold one side a little bit so I have a starting point to roll it up. Now it looks like a sausage. Then I fold it over like a horseshoe or a long apple strudel, so it fits in the oven with the thick, folded side shoved as deep in my pussy as possible.

Whenever I can cheat the tampon industry, it makes me feel good.

I smell the finger I used to stuff in my homemade tampon. I can already detect a musty pussy scent.

At one of my numerous brothel visits a hooker told me that some men get off on coming in with their cocks dirty and making a hooker suck them off. She said it was a power game. Those are their least favorite clients, the dirty ones. The purposefully dirty ones. They don’t have anything against inadvertently dirty ones.

I wanted to try that, too. I didn’t wash myself for a long time and then had a hooker go down on me. For me there was nothing different about it from having someone go down on me when I’m clean. Power games aren’t my thing.

What can I do now to divert my attention from my numbing loneliness?

I guess I could try to think of all the useful things I’ve learned over the course of my young life. I can entertain myself well that way—at least for a few minutes.