I’ve already lost plenty of blood down there.
Here we go, friends. It’s been awhile, and I bet you all missed Helen so much!
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.
Often I’m horny when I’m bleeding.
This book is so awesome. Charlotte Roche should have just called it TMI.
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.
Here we go, guys.
When I fuck a boy who likes it when I’m bleeding, we leave behind a huge, blood-spattered mess on the bed.
Of course Helen loves this, especially when she gets to use fresh white sheets. She also likes to change positions a lot to get the blood all over the place. This sounds like a really gross personals ad.
When we’re fucking I like to be sitting or squatting so gravity helps as much blood as possible flow out of my pussy.
I also love it when someone goes down on me while I’m bleeding.
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.
That would actually be less gross than what you’re really doing.
Helen counts herself lucky that she doesn’t have any pain during her period, so she gets to have her ‘wolf-days’ once a month. Her only problem is that she gets into a really bad mood right before it starts, and then once she starts bleeding, it’s smooth sailing.
… I feel like that was a really bad phrase.
Helen reflects on the first time she ever had her period, while sleeping at her aunts house. Due to embarrassment, she didn’t say anything and just left the bed full of blood for her aunt to discover after she left. Nice, Helen.
Ever since then I’ve been uptight around my aunt. Though she’s never said anything about it.
Typical of family.
Not really. I bet Helen’s family is so used to her depravity that they just sigh, clean up her shit, and move on. Sad, really.
When it comes to my period, I don’t care about hygiene, either.
When do you ever care about hygiene?
Tampons are expensive and unnecessary. When I have my period, I use toilet paper and make my own tampons while I’m sitting on the toilet. I’m proud of that.
You shouldn’t be.
I’ve developed a special balling and packing technique so they stay in for a long time and hold in the blood.
I’m so sorry, you guys.
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.
I bet this gynecologist has done case studies on Helen’s vagina practices.
A few times I went to the gynecologist because I’d lost a tampon inside me.
On second thought, he probably goes home and drinks himself into a coma after Helen visits.
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.
I feel like that’s a pretty big disadvantage.
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 suck 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.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOO… *breath* OOOOOOOOOOOO
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 back 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 and family.
I don’t have a voice left to scream anymore.
My third hobby. Spreading bacteria.
Sometimes, I love you Helen. Most of the time, like now, I hate you. You are so. Fucking. Gross.
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.
Why not just do that in the first place? GOD.
He calls it my Bermuda Triangle problem. Sometimes he can help me, but often he can’t find anything either.
Does he know that you try with barbecue tongs first? I don’t think this guy should be a professional.
“Are you sure you inserted a tampon?”
Cute. He always says “inserted.” I always say “shoved in.”
I hate the mental pictures this book gives me.
I’m a real mystery to him. As my pussy is to me.
Your pussy is a mystery to you? How is that, when you spend most of your day inside of it?
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.
It’s stories like this that make me wary of public bathrooms.
I used to have a close friend, Irene. […] Whenever we had our period at the same time – which didn’t happen very often, as you can imagine – we would do the following.
Really, really, sorry, you guys.
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.
I think you can guess where this is going.
And then, when we were finished peeing and dabbing ourselves dry, we each shoved in each other’s tampon.
Through our old, stinky blood, we were bound together like Old Shatterhand and Winnetou. Blood sisters.
I had to Google Old Shatterhand, apparently a German guy wrote American Westerns about two Native American blood brothers. I feel bad for them that Helen is comparing her depravity to them.
Who knows what another girl’s used tampon looks like? Okay, okay. Who even wants to know? Besides me. I know.
At least you know you’re fucking disgusting, Helen.
Helen talks about how she goes to brothels because she can’t ask her friends and family to ‘spread open their pussies’ for her so she can ‘satisfy her thirst for knowledge’.
She talks about how hard it was to find a brothel that dealt with women. Are there that many brothels in Germany?
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 for annoyed at female johns. Or do you call them johnettes? Whatever.
This paragraph makes me happy. It’s funny, and it’s not about menstrual blood.
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 have all been for nothing. That’s why I’m doing this, after all. Studying pussy. So I go sober.
Helen talks about the first hooker she ever had, Milena, who she describes as a black version of herself. Milena asks right away if Helen is on her period.
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.
But she’d sniff them out. And now they’ve sniffed me out here.
Helen tells Milena she is, in fact, bleeding. Milena tells her she can’t have sex with her because of AIDS, but she has an idea regarding sponges. Joy.
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.
I feel really bad for this hooker.
I love her ass. When she goes down on me, I’m going to bore my finger deep into her ass the whole time.
Milena shows Helen a sponge that she says will hold the blood out of the way while they fuck, because somehow that gets rid of the risk of ingesting blood, but whatever.
Milena swims in the red river and drinks the water. And she says “cunt,” too. I wouldn’t dare.
Really? After all the disgusting things that you do, you can’t even say the word ‘cunt’? REALLY?!
Helen laments that you can’t buy these sponges in stores, because she’d love to be able to hide her period from some guys that don’t like to dip into the red river. Also that her period is never on time, so she makes messes in her underwear a lot, as if that’s different than any other day.
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.
I should have posted this on Halloween. Want to scare the shit out of yourself? Read this chapter of Wetlands.
Side Note: It’s snowing outside. Fuck you, mother nature.
Sometimes 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 the walking.
I like to pull this pollen off and eat it. It’s a delicacy.
WILL THIS CHAPTER EVER END?!
[…] 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 reason I do it.
I don’t want to know the reason.
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.
I’m so disgusted right now but I’m laughing my ass off. Curse you, Sebastian, for making me read this book.
Similar to pulling out the hairs stuck in my pussy. Or the crust on a pubic hair. It hurts and 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.
HATE HATE HATE.
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.
It’s starting to flow, the blood. I knew it.
Aaand, we’re back in the present. Because experiencing all of Helen’s past periods was necessary before experiencing this one.
I decide to experiment and instead of making a tampon out of toilet paper as usual, I make one out of gauze.
This girl really needs a hobby. Like knitting.
I smell the finger I used to stuff in my homemade tampon. I can already detect a musty pussy scent.
I would rather be reading a book about knitting. Please.
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.
I wanted to try that, too.
Helen, your pussy is always dirty.
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.
What can I do now to divert my attention from my numbing loneliness?
And we’re through! Whoo hoo! Next chapter is short and definitely sweet compared to this chapter. Toodles!