moving and the menstrual cycle

I moved down the hill this week. While schlepping the bed out of the U-Haul and into the bedroom of the new house, I noticed faint remnants of menstrual stains on the mattress from the day in 2001 when Pamela Palmer and I were making love like tigers.

It was probably the fifth or sixth time we had sex, and nothing as simple as a cycle in nature was going to stop us. For an hour I was her tampon, although the seal was not exactly seaworthy.

The menstrual fluid had ruined one of the sheets, which I tossed. I tried to get the stains out of the mattress, and scrubbed it clean with a scouring pads and brushes. This cleaning technology was no match for the power of a woman.

The stains triggered a pleasant memory. It made me smile.