And I had botched period sex

with an economics teacher in Vermont.

I had to go to Burlington, Vermont for a few nights

to perform standup comedy.

I got my period, in the sky,

which was frustrating timing as Vermont has no huts.

I really love Vermont.

It always sort of feels like

a Hallmark Christmas movie about a CBD entrepreneur.

It was quaint, everything was blanketed in snow.

The air was frigid, smelled of pine,

and tasted of Bernie's sweaty legacy,

a potent aphrodisiac.

So I decided to rev up (engine revving)

ye old Tinder engine.

And see what was popping on that platform.

I met up with a guy named, well, we'll call him Morgan

after the Morgan horse, which is Vermont's state horse.

According to netstate.com.

Morgan was wearing plaid in his photograph.

Tinder has taught me that red plaid

transcends geographic and political spectrums.

He was bald, but had a beanie,

which is my favorite kind of bald.

I'm drawn to the look

with a sort of feathered, olive beanie.

We met up at an arcade bar.

We had beers, we laughed.

He was funny, smart and nice.

I imagine he still is.

I don't know, I was sort of wanting to connect

with the environs, and I wound up at his place.

He leaned in for a kiss.

We were fingering each other's clavicles.

Let me just preface all this by saying

that I don't really like period sex.

I've had it before, most guys, I find,

don't mind either way.

And then some politely do

and seem sort of relieved when I'm like,

"Oh, can we wait a week?

My uterus is expelling a wasted youth."

I said, "Oh, by the way, it's that time of month."

He shrugged and suggested a towel,

which I actually took him up on,

despite my usual preferences.

After all, the green mountain state calls for adventure.

We boned.

It was squealchier than usual, sure, but it was sex.

It was nice, it was fun.

It was like slip and slide at Carrie's prom.

When we finished, I sort of attempted to cutesily,

shimmy off of the towel.

And then he said, "Oh shit."

And I said, "What?"

Which is the correct answer,

according to the "Oxford Dictionary."

And he said, "The condom's gone.

I think it's inside of you."

We scanned the area and sure enough, it was gone.

And likely inside of me.

I am not on birth control.

So this was cause for concern.

By the way, this precise thing had happened

to me about 10 years before in a cabin on Thompson Island,

off of Boston, and it later sort of expelled itself.

So I was like, "Oh, okay, I'm gonna go figure it out."

And he was like, "Are you sure?"

And I was like, "Yeah."

And then I pranced off to his bathroom

and I sat down on the toilet

and tried to sort of dig around inside of my innards.

And I couldn't find it.

I went back to his room, like a convincing Lady Macbeth.

And I said, matter of factly,

"I'll just figure it out."

And he was like, "No, we're gonna find it."

So then a near stranger, Morgan,

had me bend over his bed, like in this sort of medical,

slash science fiction, slash Dexter-like procedure.

But without a glove, because it was intimate emotionally.

He kind of plunged inside of my body

to ultimately extract the condom.

He said, "Oh, I've got it."

The wilted sack of his very seed

fell from my canals and wetly hit the hardwood floor.

And I can only describe what happened there

as sort of a frothy raspberry deluge.

(waterfall crashing)

My reactions to that are threefold.

First, how amazing that our two fluids that form life,

sort of married inside of me and my body,

and I don't even know his last name.

Two, if I was 20 or even 25, maybe I'd feel mortified.

But in my early thirties, emotionally calloused,

I just sort of felt amused.

And then three, okay, why do I have to now experience

the side effects of Plan B and not him,

I guess patriarchy exists, even in Vermont.

We cleaned up our merge of fluids on the floor,

I fell asleep on his towel.

I woke up, birds were chirping in,

light was streaming in through his window.

He gave me money for Plan B, which I later talk took

with jasmine tea, in case Gaia was watching.

So I left Vermont, and sure enough,

one moon later I felt compelled to text him

and say, "What's up, hope you're doing well.

Also it worked, I'm not the mother of your child."

And he was like, "Oh, I forgot about that."

In reflection, the main lesson for me

is that I just don't really like period sex.

And in closing, I will offer you a passage

from the Vermont State Anthem.

"These green hills and silver waters are my home.

They belong to me.

And to all her sons and daughters be from my uterus free."

(bird wings flapping)