Polluted Sex
Órla rocks on her heels tilting her uterus backwards in a toilet stall at Connolly Station. Puts a hand down her pants. Looks at her fingers. No red. Folds toilet paper into her knickers, thinks of how the fail-safe old-school way to stop most Irish fellas sleeping with you is to tell them you’re on your period. They choose to stay far away from the reality of that, can’t say they’ll pull out covered in ripe blood. There’s a certain kind of sanctity surrounding your menstrual flow, a hangover of old ilk connecting you to the tides and their transgenerational fears of moons and banshees.
Read the eponymous short story in Lauren Foley‘s debut collection, Polluted Sex.