Period Peace


Gary couldn’t figure it out. Tampons in a men’s toilet?! Whit for?!

I know times are changing, but this is just rubbing it in his face. His brain circulating all possible scenarios as to why this could be. The space they took up, no less than one week ago, was empty, baron, only a space for the shadow of the bog roll. Now it contained a mystery. A box of horrors and questions.

“Do I wipe my arse with them?” Gary’s thoughts now speaking in his fully formed gruff voice.

“Maybe they’ve goat special cleaning liquids and I rub one over my hands – stop the spread ae germs and that?”

“Maybe it’s for folks who have nosebleeds and they just shuv wan up”.


He’d seen some email about equality or some pish, but just deleted it instantly. He’d nothing against anybody or that, just couldnae be fucked reading the email.

It said something about… what was it… period poverty? Or hygiene? Special requests?

Couldn’t mind for the life of him, but the hygiene bit made sense.

Cousin Cheryl had poisoned herself once by not properly washing chicken, and she was in the hospital for 3 weeks. Ye just cannae take chances wae hygiene. Even if Cheryl was always scratching her arse, that could only account for so much poison.

“So we’ve got tampons, hygiene, and the men’s toilets” – whispered Gary, like he was spouting info back to his team on the shitest episode of the crystal maze ever made.

He’d watched a work related best code of practice video, saying that putting the toilet seat down when ye flush would stop the spread of germs. Does it work both ways? I mean the feces comes from your arse, so surely germs can live there to?

Does the arse contain a germ breeding ground?

More importantly and pertinent, does Gary’s arse contain a germ utopia…

“This is fucking daft”, Gary laughed the words out, hands rubbing nervously on the thighs of his second favorite pair of work trousers. I mean, if folk were walking about with tampons up their arse, ye’d be able to tell wouldn’t ye?

Well not necessarily… I mean woman do it all the time. No their arse granted – but in a similar region to be fair.

Is this the world we live in? Is this the future? Evolve or die Gary, evolve or die.

The box was now in Gary’s hands. Fresh and unopened, re-stocked daily. A lot of arses to fill.

He peeled the side open, somewhat pretending to read the instructions. The same way a teenager would pretend to read cooking instructions on some chicken nuggets when their maw had fucked off for the evening.

The contents were not as intimidating as he thought. His short spikey black hair relieved at the pause in sweat.

Peel open?…

Pull back?…

A string?…


It was literally a rubix cube.

How do burds do this?!?!? Gary was sweating again. His light blue primark shirt potentially stained beyond repair. Belt off. Giving it a wee bit of Shakira to get the trousers down. Perched them at the ankles. The trusty work shoes won’t let them touch the floor. We are dealing in strict hygiene here of course. Now for the underwear. Prized Calvin Kleins. They’d seen him through his darkest days. A new test for the pair. One leg then the other. Never letting go of the tampon box.

Gary’s baws were freezing. Both fear and immediate cold had gripped them.


Gary’s mind cast back to plenty other things he’d been scared of before trying for the first time.

First time he played pool at the pub. Shit feart.

First time he made a pot noodle. Shit feart.

First time he cooked for a burd. Shit feart.

First time jumped across the garages as a wee boy.

Easy money Gary. Your arse is the garages. And the tampon is you, as a wee boy.

It’s time to jump the garages once again, it’s time to put that tiny wee boy version of yourself up your adult arse. It’s time for the future, it’s time for change. It’s time. IT’S TIME.

Gary roared like a lion stepping on a piece of lego, stuck out his tongue like he was doing the hacka and i.n.s.e.r.t.e.d.

Ice ran through his veins. No longer was he the simple minded, ignorant man before.

Now, man of the world, voice of the people, hygienic as fuck.

Gary’s posture adjusted. Boxers, trousers, t-shirt tucked in. Ready to rock. Ready to roll. Slight twinge in the arse.

Gary cruised into the canteen like a young Elvis Presley, hips aw oer the shot.

He clocked his best work pal Smithy, also leaning on the counter-top with the confidence of a man possessed. Time to tuck in, both these boys are fucking ripe.

“Smithy mah man, how’s tricks?”

“Gazza, san, whit ye sayin to it?”

A silence fell over them both.

They looked each other up and down, up and down again, up and down for a final time.

Finishing at the eyes. They both knew for certain.


They both had tampons up their respective arses.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s