Whilst I am busy imagining I have a cock, over at Rentboy Diaries, I thought I would balance things here, and talk about the most female of things I could think of.

No, not multiple orgasms (though clearly, this is how nature blessed us, and I thank her every time I gush for the fifth, six and seventh time, all over some nice chaps' hand).

Rather, I am talking about periods.

You see, the cycle of getting (madly) horny, being in pain, bleeding (a lot), getting more pain, becoming even hornier, stopping bleeding, (but staying horny), never ceases to amaze me. And how my body can stop bleeding totally – for 24 hours - and then start up again – full flow – as if it were day one of the cycle, I find most intriguing.

It’s like a last burst of energy to remind me, that no matter how much I think it’s over, there’s still some more blood left to come out and, (very annoyingly so), ruin a perfectly good new pair of turquoise satin hipster hot-pants.

Every woman knows what I am talking about here – it’s the final dreg of blood – that last gush, that always, without fail, ruins our most favourite knickers (when you’ve haven’t bled for a day, it seems perfectly reasonable to assume it’s all over and done with, so we get caught out every time we put our new sexy pants back on).

And we all know – and have experienced – this final spurt, whilst with someone else haven’t we? It’s quite clear that doing vigorous exercise, or – more preferably - having a cock thrusting inside of you, will always bring on that final bit, occasionally covering said man in enough blood to look like a battlefield.

This situation isn’t often pleasant; I’ve even had a final spurt whilst a guy was eating my pussy: “I thought you tasted metallic”, he said to me later, whilst I groaned with embarrassment and felt obliged to give him a blow job for an hour to make up for covering his stomach and cock with what seemed like gallons of my blood.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. Oh no. Sometimes, this final spurt can have its advantages.

I was thinking today of the guy I was seeing last year, SP. Yes, he with the ability to have fantastic sex, combined with an inability to commit.

I was remembering – with immense fondness - one of the last times that I saw him, and realised that, for once, I was thankful and appreciative for my final period spurt.

We were fucking on his couch by candle-light. He was exploring every inch of my body with his hands, before finally thrusting his fingers in and out of me, making me climax over and over again.

I remember being soaking wet – feeling that, even more than my normal miniature waterfall down below, I was gushing with more intensity when I came. Which, as it turned out, I was.

SP’s thing was to make me come – and boy did he; I had climaxed six or seven times before he finally gave me what I wanted: his cock, fucking me hard.

He took me from on top, underneath, side by side, behind, and finally - my ankles around his neck - kneeling in front of me, as he pummelled me hard, making us both climax together intensely.

Both drunk and tired, we went straight to bed after, and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, when I got up to make some coffee, I got a fright. For a moment, I thought an intruder had been in the flat and had killed someone: there was blood everywhere. And not just drops – entire handprints covered the couch, their presence feeling like an eerie recreation of some act of despicable violence.

I looked at them and retraced the events of the night before: ah yes, that was where he had me on all fours and was trying to fist me; oh, and that must have been where I sat on top of him and he was rubbing my g-spot; oh yes, and that was when I was on my knees and he was ramming his cock into me as fast as he could.

For a moment, I felt dreadfully guilty: even though I thought my period was finished and I therefore did not expect to be bleeding, it was my blood after all, and his pale cream couch was clearly ruined.

Not that I am a vindictive or malicious person who holds grudges, but somehow, in the scheme of things - his cheating on me, and being a fucker – it seemed like some kind of karmic retribution: my body had found a way to royally shaft him. Better than telephoning him and hanging up; more effective than cutting up his clothes; more original than letting down his car tyres – by bleeding all over his couch, my body was telling SP, “Fuck you, you prick”.

It felt good.

And when I went back (for one last fuck, a month later), this utterly house-proud man still hadn’t managed to get all my blood out of his couch.

I was very sad when I finally walked away from that situation, but the little bit of sadistic pleasure I got from knowing that I left my mark - his handprints of my blood still visible for anyone to see – in his world, more than made up for the heartbreak.