As a friend once confided to me, "My girl’s on the blob and she’s wicked horny." Now that was true of his particular girlfriend, but until my last ex, I was never with a girl who didn’t think that the only thing that was being shoved in her for one week every month was Ben and Jerry’s.

My cock was like a plunger and when I pulled out, it looked like I was bringing half of her liver with me.Let me just say before I get into the pros and cons of this, I am one squeamish bastard. Seeing my own blood makes me want to puke. But as well as being squeamish, I’m the horniest guy you’ll ever meet. Seriously, if I’m not having sexy time or masturbating until my penis resembles the relish on a Big Mac, then I’m probably thinking about doing one or the other.

My ex was, apart from being one crazy chick, constantly in the mood, and I willfully abstained (and got blisters on my hand from rabid masturbation) from sex through her first four periods. That’s four weeks of no sex, 28 days of feeling like a Vicar who can only look at the choir boys; a princely 112 fucks I had missed out on. That sort of thing overrides any feelings of squeamishness, and I manned up to the challenge on a cold mid-winter’s night with the wind gently brushing against the window (I will make this sound fucking eloquent and you will appreciate it).

Well, let it not be known that for every challenge in the world there is indeed a solution, and what I feared more than being raped by a 6 foot 5 black guy named Dave (long story) was pulling my cock out and seeing blood dripping from it. That sort of thing would equal instant puking and probably end all hope of another fuck, whether a pleasure cruise on the Red Sea or not. My solution was simple and brilliant: a red, strawberry-flavored condom. Heck, if I could do a Chad Kroeger and suck my own cock I may well have considered doing so—what can I say, I like strawberries.

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English Post BoxAnyway, I belted my trooper up in a bright red condom (and he looked like a fricking English Post Box—see right if you want clarification on how bad a phallic symbol that is) and went at the job at hand. I was at first pleasantly surprised by the added lubrication, even if the smell was making my stomach churn, and I suddenly empathized with every tampon—I mean at least I’m getting something out of this.

I overcame my instant need to empty my bowels, and instead emptied a couple of very grateful balls. Then came the bit I had been dreading: removing my blood-soaked member. I pulled him out and he looked like a battered ‘Nam vet. You see, in my eagerness to have sex, we did it in the early stages, so my cock was like a plunger and when I pulled out, it looked like I was bringing half of her liver with me. Apparently, though I was never told, she has "heavy flow." Seriously, forget blood drives, she could stock a hospital by connecting a funnel to her vagina once a month.

After running to the bathroom with a flaccid penis dripping blood all over the floor, I threw the condom in the toilet and decided to let Ben and Jerry’s be the only thing going inside any girlfriend I have when she’s on her period.

You may be asking at this point, "Why, oh why, did you not go for another route of passage?" The answer would have to be: if blood makes me insanely sick, then crap makes me want to heave up organs I might need some day.

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