Premenstrual Terror

“When you walk about, and you’ve got one in, do you get a little thrill?”

I look at him, handsome, cheeky, wife at home so not really of concern to him or me.

“No, you don’t feel it.  Certainly not if you’ve put it in right.”

“Oh.”  He seems a little disappointed.  I decide to flirt a little, what the hell.

“Would be pretty cool if it did.”

He squints up at me from the desk by the window, the one with the half decent view.  The one we all want, but this new guy, a month in the door, somehow has.

“We’ll see.”


The month passes and he’s there with a grin, noticing spots poxing my chin as if a gremlin’s sprayed me with a tiny AK47 from the chocolate bar I’m lifting to my mouth.

“I’ve been looking in the shops.”


“That shit’s expensive!”

I nod, grumpy and wishing it wasn’t so obvious that the curse was upon me once again.  Fucking moon, fucking menstruation.  Fucking men.

“Your point?”

He smiles, sly, eyes glinting with mischief.

“I think I can help you out with that…”

I snort.

“What, sponsor a sanitary pad?  Treat me to a tampon?  Piss off.”

He leans closer, and despite myself I want to pull his perfect earlobe into my mouth and never let it go.

“Better.  I can get you something so you never have to pay for protection again.  Period.”

He sniggers at his little joke, and I’m intrigued.

“I’m not fiddling about with one of them moon cups, I’m clumsy, I’d spill it, trust me.”

“No, trust me.  I can sort this out.  My brother’s good with this kinda thing.”

“What kinda thing?”

He taps his nose, and I notice his nails are clean but just slightly too long.

“You’ll see…”


I thought his brother worked in the quarantine section of the zoo.  Maybe he did, maybe he was just an inventor on the side.  I never thought to ask.  Not till later.  I wasn’t thinking about the cons when he brought me the pro.

“Stick this baby in?  Sliiiide it in like it was your favourite…” he looked at me and I blushed “…toy.  And you’ll never need another of them fiddly paper bullets.”

“Really?  How?”

He folded my fingers round the small metal sheath lying heavy in my hand.

“It’s kinda like a washing machine.  You just need to know it works, not how it does it.”


Again with the nose tap, and I’m hypnotised by the creamy crescent of nail like a child’s tooth on his fingertip.

“Trust me.”

“Don’t I need to take it out and replace it?  Wash it or something?”

“Nah.  Just let it do its thing while you do yours.  But you’re gonna have to let it settle in.  And no sex.”

“No sex?!”

He smiles and I can hear him breathe, feel its heat on my skin.

“You won’t want to with this.”

I raise an eyebrow.  He opens his mouth and I pre-empt him, “I know, I know, ‘trust me’”.


In the ladies, I look it over like I wanted to at my desk but couldn’t.  Similar to a blunt steel syringe, quite like an applicator tampon, but there’s no string dangling like a dead rat’s tail, and it has an unusual weight to it.

I can feel the surge of the crimson flood, and I hate the pads, the tampons, the care I have to take in getting the angle right for insertion, the fear of a leak, the pain when I yank the string for removal and catch a pube too.  Fuck it.

I stick it in, as far as it will go, push the plunger and feel a warmth spread through me as if I’m drunk and vibing it up, as high as the speed setting will go.  Ohhh, it’s good.  I walk out the cubicle as if half asleep, wash my hands with plenty of soap, stick the empty steel in the bin under plenty of paper, then wink at myself in the mirror.  Looking good, kid, and feeling fine.  Pretty damn fine.


I don’t question it, would you if you were always coming, and never going?  Would you?  Course not.

Not till I have cause to months later.

It’s after the office party, well after.  The pretty girls are done photocopying their bottoms, the boss has gone home with a hard-on to his long suffering wife, and me and a few of the guys are off to the pub for a follow up.

Then I’m in the beer garden, lighting a fag, still in that good good mood of great, effortless continuous sex.  And he gets me from behind.

Nobody knows I’m here.

They’ll think I’m in the ladies, or on the dance floor, or at the bar.  His hand splits my lip on my teeth with the strength of sick silence, his other one tugs my skirt up and his zip down.  Since the silver syringe, I’ve done away with knickers, never wear them.  Never need to.  I wish I had that flimsy barrier now.  I struggle and squirm, hating him, terrified, that BASTARD, and he prods me with his thing, stabs it in-

and shrieks with pain.  Tries to pull away.  Now he’s the one twisting and squirming, battling to be free.  There’s a horrible, hideous tearing sound and he falls to the ground with a squealing scream.  It reminds me of the pigs my daddy used to butcher on the farm, before mum left and I chose to go.

I clamp my hand to my groin and feel wet warmth there, where I haven’t for months.  Then as I whimper, and he groans far away on the floor, flopping in the pooling blood, I feel it pulling away.


What the fuck?

What the fuck was it and where the fuck’s it going?

Someone throws the door open and light falls over my attacker.  He’s twitching with shock now, pale, anonymous; I’ve never seen him before in my life.  But I’m sure he used to have a penis.

There’s just a horrible meaty mess amongst the hair now, and the bouncers rush to help him, taking care not to stand in the wet red surrounding him, ignoring me in the shadows by the wall.

I stick my fingers in, glad I kept my nails short.  They feel the stub of him, feel the warm strength of my vaginal vault, then… holy shit.

No way.

I pull my fingers out, quick, hold them up to my face.

The bouncers are calling for an ambulance now, looking about for his penis.

I step into the light, and all I see are my fingertips.

And the teeny, tiny bite marks my pet made, nibbling me within.

Before it knew it was just me, just mummy.

And carried on with its welcome feast.

By Gill Hoffs

Hey Shitbag, What’s My Destiny?

You hit a nerve, made my hands shake when you grazed those painted nails across my arm. The way you shook your ass at me and that peek-a-boo on the sly when you bent over and let me get a good look at ya cunt from behind.

You made me make a sacrifice,

For you,

Not me.

I hated the thought of your smile and your fake pouty lips, but I loved the commune of your flesh, shared and tattered. You gave it a bad rap. Your life, you said. It was just porno and tap water, malted milk balls and restless cocks. You called yourself Destiny, and I wondered why someone like you would work in a chicken house like this. Maybe you was mad at your daddy. Hope I didn’t look like him, so I sat at the back of the bar, in the dark, contemplating your full lips and how they would look severed from your face and mounted on my throbbing cock. You said you could see the future in that little deck of cards you carried around in your purse, said it with a “Hey Mister,” when you asked me if I wanted to know mine. “Ten bucks,” you said, and I replied, “Divine.”

You thought I was talking about you, but I wasn’t. I asked what you did for a living while I flipped the tassel on your boob, and you said you liked to fuck. “With a crystal ball?” I asked, and you laughed at me. You didn’t want to know what I did, what my passion was. You said it was all in the cards, and that death with his rusted out scythe and his emerald green eyes was just a beginning. I nodded and fingered the razor in my pocket, cause I supposed it was true. Well, you believed it, along with the moon and the stars and the voodoo priestess who told you “you” had a gift. You didn’t want to know about all the naughty things little girls like you shouldn’t know about. You didn’t want to know about my fascination with skin.

I am a sculptor.

What’s inside you is weak,

And I can fix it —

With plaster.

I want to fuck you with a chisel. Scrape the ligaments from your bones. What I do is a labor of love. I bring things back to life, but you didn’t even really want to know me beyond the free drinks and the bits of coin I dropped in your tip jar. You thought you were a hipster, a girl gone wild, but you’re really just a fucking parsley smokin’ bigot, getting back at her rich drunk daddy. Your bust will look nice mounted next to the saw palmetto by the shed. I’ll use pencil erasers to keep your nipples hard, yet supple. That’s what I was thinking while you giggled and practiced your “witchcraft” as you liked to call it. You went on and on about sinkholes and bedbugs and why it’s so important to wash the fucking sheets. What if I default on my lottery payment? Will I get sued for all those vile accusations I made about the frigid bitch of a mayor? or Was I letting failure bloom when I spread my seed to the hookers on the next street corner? “Fuck no,” I replied. “This is a small town, honey, and there ain’t no jobs in a dust-storm famine funeral parlor. I got clients. Not a lot of huntin’ to do around here,you see, so I might be easy money, but this strip ain’t the only game in town.” You smiled again, said I was hokey and quaint. Wanted to know whether I wanted to smoke a joint and get a lap dance or not. Now, I don’t know nothin’ bout your big city ways with your tattoos and pierced clits and all that greasy black eye makeup. I just skin em and stuff em; well, you don’t really stuff em, not like a scarecrow with sawdust and hay.

I do like your sky blue innocent eyes, though.

I think I’ll keep them for myself.

By Cheryl Anne Gardner