Men may want to withdraw at the sign of blood, and stick with the (first) fun and sexy part of my relationship with Feline.

 “Don’t introduce a new character unless you know how the story ends.”

It is not uncommon for new dates to curiously inform if they are going to make it to my blog. Samuel was even disappointed I didn’t mold our failed affair, or perfect one-night-bliss depending on how you look at it, into a steamy erotic story. And Feline too, must have known I would write about her one day. We just never thought it would be under such stressful circumstances.

My relationship with her has been a blissful one, in which our personalities more often than not, melted together harmoniously, as opposed to the stand-off we are experiencing today. We’re in a tug-of-war, and we both blame the other for the mess we’re in.  In silence of course. On the outside we pretend to be in this together.

I’ve know Feline all my life, although I didn’t know her name. It’s a Dutch girls name pronounced; Fay-lean-nuh
But she was named after the English word Feline.  Which means cat-like or belonging to the family Felidae, which includes the lions, tigers, jaguars, and wild and domestic cats.

A few years ago, I was having a fit over Dutch people calling their daughter Feline. “What the f*ck are they thinking, naming their daughter pussy?”

Just before I exploded from indignation, I realized this logic could also be used the other way around. Because who WOULD be the perfect candidate to be named Feline? Yes, of course, my pussy.

It was one of those moments when you know the Universe is unveiling a great secret, and that it is your sacred duty to enlighten the masses.

Since then one friend has uncovered the identity of her vagina, and one lover has found out the correct name of his penis under my inspiring guidance, but I still hope that one day much more genitals will be acknowledged as separate entities with their own personalities. Just like Feline.

Feline and I were of course born (although not named) on the same day. I remember masturbating from the age of five, but that’s because I can’t recall earlier memories of anything.

Yet despite this early awakening, I wasn’t aware of what I was doing, until I started reading girl magazines in my early teens. Apparently there was such a thing as “having an orgasm” and the most common phrase about it was that it was completely normal “not being able to have them yet”.

Not only was I perfectly able of having them, I had also found my way to my own pussy without any help, before I could properly read and write.

A warm glow of self-love and sexual arrogance came over me!
I can’t say I was very compassionate towards my sisters at that time. If I had known the word frigid I’m positive I would have used it.

Together with the first boyfriends, I learned to know Feline in her full glory. Here she was: wet, willing, loyal, adventurous, sweet. I still sometimes talk about “my body” (an often used euphemism for Feline, not just by me but by a lot of women!) as “the perfect beginners model”; it works exactly as it should, very easy to make it come, very rewarding to make love to. As a true altruist I wish my body upon every boy loosing his virginity.

Despite our pleasant companionship, Feline and I didn’t always agree.
When a relationship was past it’s due date? Feline would fall into hibernation, suggest a few side lovers, or she would tear the house down until I gave up and broke things off with the guy.
And Feline has tried to convince me twice that a completely uninteresting, annoying man was a good candidate for sex. She has won that argument once.

The past year Feline and I have lived dull lives. One time even dropping down to zero; I went on a Tantra Challenge and vowed I wouldn’t masturbate for 20 days. After 20 days I had taught myself to have an orgasm exclusively by squeezing my pelvic floor muscles. A skill I would otherwise have not discovered. I intended to write about this journey me and Feline took, and made a photo of my lower belly on day 15, I used it with this post.
The second half of the challenge? 20 days of masturbating twice a day!
But this turned out to be so exhausting that I (we) gave that up after a day or ten. Including the inspiration to write about the whole thing. In my mind, not being able to do it twice a day ranked my libido only slightly over that of the girls who couldn’t find their own clit.

So in Spring 2010 a lover left me and, aside from the Tantric experiment, nothing happened for a year. And although I’ve gone without lovers for longer times throughout my life, this time it was when and why the trouble began…. bleeding. Heavily. I had never used super tampons, but after months of unreliable tamponing I leaped for the biggies so that I could teach my yoga class without having to worry about leaking.
“I have to get on the pill, to calm things down,” a voice in my head said. Or maybe it was Feline’s voice.

But although I liked the safety of being able to “Double Dutch” (to use  condoms and pill, when having sex) the thought of having to use pills because I, A Yoga Teacher, was unable to control my period, repelled me. Yoga heals. Yoga conceives. Yoga detoxes. Yoga soothes. Yoga aborts.
There is nothing yoga can’t do.
And we all know how easily the menstruation ceases when a woman is too stressed.
Then why wasn’t I able to turn down the volume?

When in early Spring this year, the heavy period was preceded by 5 days of pre-menstruation blood I gave up.
The pill! The pill it was.

I waited for the next cycle, for that pre-menstruation to end, and the real period to begin and swallowed! DAY 1, was a fact. Let the healing begin.

The first weeks after my menstruation I was blood-free and had a lover. Samuel. And after that? 10 days before my New Chemically Induced Period was supposed to begin? Blood. After a week or so? More blood. Second pill-planned cycle? Maybe I was blood-free for whole week before the cycle repeated itself.

I used super tampons only one day, instead of my usual three, so the pill was working a little bit. But being at some stage of prolonged periods half of the time (this is an estimate! I still don’t dare to count) was obviously not the effect I was hoping for.
“I m giving you the lightest pill there is,” the doctor said.” Please come back if it doesn’t work.”
It didn’t work.
Yet it didn’t feel like the pill was failing. It felt like I was failing. Feline was failing.
And I caught myself considering to become anorexic, so that the bleeding would stop.
Or do so much ashtanga yoga and fitness that I would loose all my fat and the bleeding would stop.
I was willing to exchange my fertility in return for control over my own body. In return for control over Feline.
Because that was of course the real tragedy: my best friend had become a blood spitting foe. A nemesis who I was about to finish off with starvation and sports anorexia.

Since living in an infertile  bag of bones would also have it’s draw-backs, I decided to try a more gentle approach, before I brought mayhem to my body.

So instead of my typical morning with a big fruit, honey and nuts feast breakfast and hours of yoga postponing, I drank tea, ate a banana, and went to my yoga mat. From all the yoga and stretches I normally do, I selected only the ones beneficial or at least harmless for when you’re in your period. During my hour long practice I asked Feline why she was bleeding and she answered me. And we cried. We cried a lot.

And I still don’t know if the bleeding will ever stop, if I will ever be lover-worthy again, or if I will one day give up the idea of healing and ask for medical help.
But I do know that before this episode in my life can have it’s ending, Feline and I have to figure things out between the two of us.

And I hope we come out as friends.