Stop Trying to Nine to Five your Menstrual Cycle

First and foremost, if your job is genuinely from 9 to 5 then wow, you fit into my title’s stereotype perfectly. I am however, well aware, that many of you reading this will work much, much longer hours than that.

And I want you to stop. Hear me out…

For far too long womb-beings* have been slotted into a system that doesn’t work for their bodies.

A womb-being is a cyclic being. Every 21-35 days (and varying) a womb-being sheds the inner lining of their uterus.

The day this blood arrives dripping or gushing out of their pussy is the first day of menstruation.

A quick overview of the cycle:

Note: This image depicts a womb-being with a 28 day cycle, this is a misleading average and it is completely normal to have a cycle that extends between 21-35 days. Mine is currently 35.

This information alone may be new to you, or it may not, something I wish to share is what runs parallel to your follicular (pre ovulation) and luteal (post ovulation) phases; the inner seasons.

Parallel to bleeding cyclically we womb-beings are aligned with seasons.

Menstruation = Winter

Thickening womb lining = Spring

Ovulation = Summer

Body detects pregnancy has not occured = Autumn

YES we are literally magical cyclic witches whose wombs go through seasons. And what do seasons have to do with working nine to five? Everything.

Let’s think of a tree;

When a tree enters Spring it is pumping out a lot of energy; it’s sprouting buds, flowers, it’s hyped with activity and soaking up the sun which is increasing each day.

Come Summer the tree is going off, it’s able to do a million things at once, be in full beautiful bloom, host various insects, birds, and adventurous climbing children.

Then Autumn rolls around, there are less visitors to the tree, its falling leaves give the impression that it is closing off a chapter, some energy remains in the process of letting the leaves fall but it certainly isn’t starting anything new.

Winter, by all accounts the tree is dead, but we know better. The tree is in a deep sleep, a sleep that is essential to its capacity to recharge and ready its-tree-self for the coming season.

Womb-beings are like this tree. We are capable of SO damn much, unbelievable amounts really. And we literally are not meant to do it all cycle long.We are not built for the patriarchal structure of 9-5, five days a week, 52 weeks a year. We’re just not!

Many womb-beings are taking a plethora of painkillers, suffering intense PMS, in agony from cramps, developing endometriosis, skipping Winter altogether with the contraceptive pill, and slowly but surely switching off and disconnecting from their bodies entirely.

AND I GET IT! I did it too. I numbed myself to make it through. To keep up. To meet the deadlines. To prove I was just as good as a man.

But I am not a man.

I am a womb-being and that is a fucking blessing.

When we stop fighting our seasons and start to flow with them everything changes. We learn how to do a month’s worth of work in two seasons (Spring, Summer) and to recuperate it all in the other (Autumn, Winter).

When we start to lovingly flow with our inner seasons our body speaks to us in kind; PMS and cramps can reduce, endometriosis and other such menstrual challenges can fade away.**

But what good is this information if you are in a profession that requires you nine to five?

You can begin to listen to your body within your work.

Buy yourself a daily diary and begin to record your cycle, see if you can work out which season you are in.

Record your emotions and begin to track which are recurring in each season.

From my own experience of doing this I know that during Autumn right before I bleed I always feel lonely.

According to your own tracking, begin to make the subtle adjustments that you can control.

For example, don’t allow challenging, potentially triggering meetings be booked on your heaviest bleeding day. Take that accrued leave during your Autumn phase and book yourself a massage. Schedule your overnight shifts during your Spring phase when you can conquer all. If you have flexibility, do your work from home for your full menstruation.

There is only one person in charge of your body and that is you. So stop and listen to it, make adjustments for it. Honour yourself as the magical cyclic witch you are. Screw the nine to five and live your one beautiful life your way.

*Womb-being is a new term I dreamt into creation for women who identify as women AND for beings who do not identify with the word woman but have a womb AND for womxn – who like me, have realised they don’t really feel like having the word ‘man’ inside their title.

**I am in no way claiming that following inner seasons will fix all cases of endometriosis, however it has been recorded to help many womb-beings to which I refer.

Keep following my tale(s) on Facebook and Instagram

Image by @la_morse

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything

I have come to the understanding that a womxn’s menstruation is more than a time to shed blood. It is a time to shed suppressed emotions, to shed tears laced with our deepest fears, it is a time to shed womb memories from our ancestors, and it is a time to shed our own womb trauma. For to be a womb-being on this earth is to know trauma.

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything.

My best friend and housemate Amber – previously known to long time readers as Zimbabawia – said this when I got off the phone.

I was upset.

Upset because I could sense a pattern emerging from my new interaction with a man.

Three weeks ago I had gone on the red hot pursuit of him. For the first two weeks I thoroughly enjoyed our communication, but as I entered the third week my interest was waning, and I felt myself less and less available.

It is important to note that when we began communicating I was in the Summer phase of my cycle, Ovulation. Fast forward two weeks and I had moved through Autumn and was well on my way to Winter – menstruation. Having become so much more aware of my emotional relationship to my menstruation this makes sense, Autumn and Winter are times for shedding and turning inwards.

On our call I spoke my brutal truth – ‘I actually don’t want to be asked questions, in fact I really don’t feel like talking to you at the moment. I just don’t want to connect online.’

Afterwards I was feeling like shit. In fact as I write this I can feel a heavy, dense and dark presence looming over me, and my laptop.

I spoke my truth to this kind man. Yet as I did it I kept hearing a voice in my head saying: ‘You’re a tease. You’re leading him on. You’re wasting his time.’

These harsh words are so against my core beliefs that although it was painful to hear, I thought, well maybe it’s because they’re really true? Maybe I hurt people with my desires, my flirtation, my wants.

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything.

Amber said this to me as I nestled my heavy head into her bosom, laying on the couch. And something landed. We stayed there for hours and my subconscious mind was coming to a deep sense of realisation.

You see, in the past I have been called those things: You’re a tease. You lead him on. You wasted his time.

I’ve been called them by men, by womxn, and even by family members. Although every time I fought the labels vehemently, I didn’t have any foundational evidence as to why that wasn’t true. When it happens enough times, you start to believe the labels you are assigned.

Cuddling on the couch finally gave me the time and connection that I needed to uncover my evidence.

It wasn’t long ago that I found out what the word boundaries meant. When I was told that I didn’t have strong boundaries I thought the person making this claim was talking about a fence around a paddock… I think that says enough.

But it was true, I didn’t have boundaries. When I began to be a sexually active young womxn I delighted in flirtation, banter, and randy dancing,and when things started to turn up a notch, and the receiver of my flirtation made an advance, I didn’t know how to back out of the situation…

I had initiated this flirting. This dancing. This Banter. So that meant I wanted it. Didn’t it?

I didn’t. But I did it anyway. Because I thought I had too. Because I believed I owed it.

It = my body, my mouth, my pussy.

This went on for some years, then eventually something started to shift. I remember a few times when I had engaged in an evening of flirtation and the recipient went to make the next move, I expressed my objection. My no.

And that’s when I got it: You’re a tease. You lead him on. You wasted his time.

From the men, from womxn, from a family member. I was fed this dialogue and I was furious.

Why was I being punished when it did not feel like I was doing anything wrong?

No one had an answer for me. I was left with these accusations, I didn’t even know I had taken them to be my truths.Until this week.

When I told that beautiful man my truth, that I wanted to reduce our communication, that I don’t want to connect online – there were two parts of me present.

First: The empowered, Goddess, Queen, part of myself who knows how to listen to her truth and then SPEAK it.
Second: My young, newly developed sexual little womxn. The one who was coerced into believing, ‘You owe them something. You owe them your body, your sex, your love.’

Writing this is my expression of bundling my sexual little womxn up into my arms and telling her that she never owed anyone anything. That she wasn’t doing anything wrong. That her love of flirting is a pure, and a beautiful form of moving her life force energy.

I am telling her right now that she always has and always will have the right to change her mind.

That every single other womxn has the right to change their mind too.

That our bodies are not properties.

That our actions are not contracts. ONLY our words. Only CONSENT. Always CHECKED IN ON.

I have come to the understanding that each menstruation is a beautifully painful opportunity to shed the trauma my younger self endured. To heal her wounds. To deprogram the narrative that a womxn owes everything. When in fact, she owes nothing.

Keep following my tale(s) on Facebook and Instagram

Down With Expectations — Including Facebooks Expectation that I will Go Away Quietly

A hard but important lesson on sex:

This morning during an intimate experience with a partner we both managed to trigger one another.

I gave him sensual touch which I felt like giving, but once I had had enough I stopped.

My partner was triggered as enjoying the experience he had expected my touch was leading to intercourse / orgasm.

Being tantric he expressed that he was feeling triggered and needed a way to release the anger he now felt in his body from lack of release…. cue my trigger.

I was furious. ‘How RIDICULOUS’ I shouted to him. How dare you have expectations.

We sat down and talked and it became clear. Pornography and male standards had led my partner to having the belief that sexual touch from a woman will, and SHOULD lead somewhere.

Now in tears I explained how this expectation had lead to me having unwanted sex in my past, more times than I can say.

You see men and women are trapped in this vicious cycle TOGETHER. Young BOYS and MEN are continuing to receive information from society and the media that sexual expectations of women are standard.

Meanwhile WOMEN have not been told that they are FREE from expectations. That their body is THEIR OWN. That any sexual touch they choose to give STOPS when they want it to stop. That it’s OKAY to change your mind DURING sexual interaction / intercourse. Women have not been made aware OR made to feel safe to SPEAK THEIR TRUTH.

Imagine this, you’re a man having sex and suddenly your dick goes soft — for whatever reason. What happens now? The sexual intercourse stops, you cannot continue.

Well if a woman’s vagina turns ‘off’ — for whatever reason there is no GATE that suddenly closes and shoves the penis / fingers / tongue (you get my point) out. There are NO gates in a woman, there are only her WORDS.

Once I explained this to my partner he was speechless. He thanked me so much for teaching him this and promised to teach the men in his life this vital lesson. I walked downstairs grabbed my iPad and typed this.

Now it’s your turn. Spread this message men AND women together need to create a new sex culture. And I ain’t fucking stopping till we get there.

How have you experienced expectations in sexuality?

Artist unknown — please comment if you do ❣


This was posted posted onto facebook the morning of November 4th 2019. By nighttime it had reached 12 000 people I was flooded with private messages from MEN and WOMEN about how this issue had touched them, reminding them of their own painful experiences of engaging in sexual experiences that were NOT a full YES from their yoni / lingum.

Without notification, email, any form of contact my post was deleted the next morning.

Facebooks filtration of vital content perpetuates a world were men and women are refused the basic human right to sex education that can literally transform the way we relate and can even REDUCE even sex violence.

Creating a change for sex culture will be harder without major platforms like Facebook, but that ain’t gonna fucking stop me.

And to YOU: comment below on how you feel about my original post, about deleted content, and please if this resonates SHARE IT!

Hairy Pits Take Europe

So apparently I’m a hippie now. I have a weird haircut, I wear random clothes, I travel for a lifestyle but most notably, I no longer tame my body hair. I didn’t used to look like this, I waxed my underarms, shaved my legs, and scheduled my monthly Brazilian appointments. I loathed the cost, effort and pain of hair removal, but I did it because ‘that’s what women do’ and… what man will want to eat out a hairy vagina?

This bohemien change occurred in the desert where I released my wild woman — in many ways. The most visible way being my body hair.

In the desert my waxed pits were the odd ones out; practically all the female volunteers were rocking their natural foliage. Never before had I wished for my pits to hurry up and grow back. Once they eventually filled out I felt a sense of pride raising my arms alongside my desert sisters.

When the desert time came to an end and we were heading to Namibia, I intended to remove the hair but Zimbabawia, Mumma Africa and Impy persuaded me not too.

‘It looks great! Al natural gal.’

And so I was convinced to keep my natural hairs even in the ‘real world’. I didn’t think much about it until my road trip with the Namibia boys. Being in their handsome presence I felt the blush of self-consciousness come over me. Still seeking further reassurance I decided to ask Lekker Boy and Mumma Lover what they thought of my pit-Afro.

‘It’s great! That’s your true self.’

‘You totally rock it!’

Although it pains me to say, the validation of two men over my three female friends made it so much easier to accept my hairy new look and believe others would accept it too.

What the fuck had society done to my brain?

So, I did it — I embraced my natural hairs. While we drove down the desert roads of Namibia I let my them flap gracefully in the wind. As I danced to Afrobeats in Rwanda I threw my arms in the air without hesitation. When I became intimate with Honey he lovingly stroked my hairy pits as though they were the most natural thing in the world — which they were.

Now, seven weeks later, I have become used to this new furry version of myself. I find myself tenderly fondling the thick, black bush of my pits and vag.

Reunited with Mumma Africa, our departure date creeps up on us and I feel that same insecurity resurface — I don’t know if I can face taking my natural hairs on a plane destined for Europe.

Why is Europe any different than Africa you ask?

Europe is where I’m meeting a bunch of non-hairy friends. Europe is where fashion becomes important again. Europe is where the German lives — and I know beyond a doubt that he won’t like my pitAfro.

Tormented by these social pressures I turn to Mumma Africa and Zimbabwia for help and we decide to do a little research…

We find out that in the 1920s there was as a dramatic change in women’s fashion. Dresses became shorter and tighter, sleeves were removed — the body was the new biggest statement. So with all these limbs on show some scheming advertisers from the men’s hair removal industry began to target women’s hair and their self-esteem

Advertisements featuring joyous women in slick summer dresses with hairless underarms began popping up in women’s magazines. These advertisements promoted hair removal products that dealt with ‘unclean’ hairs and promoted ‘female loveliness’.

Hold on a minute — unclean? Women were bombarded with a message that the natural hairs they’d always known were now suddenly unclean, unsightly and unfeminine.

So clearly I’d been unknowingly programed so to speak. But this discovery did prompt me to have the invaluable realisation — once upon a time, not so long ago, all women were hairy, and none of them knew and felt any damn different.

Keeping my natural hairs is not me making a grand hippy gesture — it’s me justbeingme.com just like my fellow al-natural sisters from the 1920s!

So no thank you Mr Gillette!

Empowered by a vision of hairy women of the past and the support of the women in my present, I throw my unused wax and razor away, then continue packing. Tomorrow we wave goodbye to Mumma Africa and Mount Kilimanjaro and board a flight to Portugal — my pitAfro can hardly wait to arrive.


Keep following my tale(s) on Facebook and Instagram 

The Challenges of African Dancing: Part 2 — The Challenges of Lovers

Lovers — I can’t seem to get the idea out of my mind. I want to be a lover, I want to have a lover.

But lovers aren’t necessarily singular. Take Zimbabwia, we’ve been to six countries now and she’s had a lover in five (go girl). So if I’m going to learn to be a lover, I need to learn how to love, and how to let go.

And yet, just writing that fills me with hesitation. I haven’t managed to find myself a lover on this trip, how can I possibly let him go when I find him?


I wake with that unfriendly yet familiar feeling — a hangover. I’m getting too old for hangovers. I roll over to check my phone and there blissfully waits a message from Honey! My nauseated feeling is instantly replaced with delicious flashbacks of last night’s Afrobeat base, of my booty (non-suggestively) grinding up against Honey, and the kiss… my tummy swoons with butterflies as I relive our tongues intangling.

Some replies back and forth and we arrange to meet up that evening when he and Lips have the keys to their new house.

Telling Zimbabwia the plan, we instantly realise our dilemma.

‘Shit. We can’t possibly be our usual free selves when we have a CouchSurfer Mum to go home to.’

For those of you who have couch surfed before, you will understand that sometimes — depending on the country, the culture, and the vibe of your host — you are obligated to show a certain amount of courtesy. Going out for a one-night-stand isn’t always considered courteous.

After much debate, and a little bit of embarrassment, Zimbabwia and I determine that our best option, for total freedom, is to leave Mimmy’s and ask Honey and Lips if we can stay at theirs.

‘Hey Honey, so about tonight. I know you’re just moving into your place and you don’t even have your own furniture yet. But we’re in a bit of an awkward spot and well… Could we kind of move in too… Like bring our entire lives in the form of backpacks with us? This doesn’t mean we have to have sex…’ I awkwardly stutter through the phone.

‘Yeah sure, that’s sweet,’ replies an unfalteringly sweet Honey.

And so, that is how Zimbabwia and I move in on our first date. HAHAHA.

No seriously. This story still makes me cackle while writing it. But this is just the typical ‘living in the moment’, outrageous shit that happens when you travel — I bloody love it.

With our packs on our backs we jump onto a pikipiki (motorbike taxi), wave goodbye to the lovely Mimmy, and cruise down to our new home. Little do we know that we are about to have two entirely different experiences.

Honey is already home and welcomes us by showing us around the completely naked house. Without even a cup for the wine we’ve brought we sit together on the balmy porch sipping from the bottle of red, waiting for Lips to arrive.

Lips, we learn, is a tailor at the Kimironko Market and often stays out late fulfilling orders for his many wazungu* clients.

The bottle of wine is long finished when he finally arrives. We sit together for a while and then wish each other goodnight — Zimbabawia and I’s eyes meet and we barely contain our laughter as we head into our ‘boyfriend’s’ bedrooms.

‘Have fun!’

Finally! With the door closed, Honey and I alone for the first time. As we sit down on his bed I feel utterly nervous, I really like this guy! But just like his dancing, he starts off tender and slowww.

He leans in to kiss me and I feel sparks of electricity shoot from my lips. We makeout for so long that waves of pleasure pulsate from my mouth through every fibre of my being.

Our possessed hands begin to roam freely, exploring each other’s bodies. Delicately he removes my top and brushes his hands over my underarm foliage — my skin erupts in goosebumps. I raise my hands to caress his beautiful natural dreads. He removes his top and I respond by pressing my chest against his gorgeous caramel skin, our bodies feel like they fit together perfectly.

He is a tender, gentle lover — looking me in the eyes, putting a condom on without me needing to ask, entering me slowly, with gratitude. My vagina senses Honey’s purity and fully opens to welcome his penis. I don’t need to angle my cervix or position him — we just glide.

A sensuously long time later, utterly spent, we collapse into each other’s arms and drift off into a lovers’ coma.

When I awaken Honey has already gotten up and bought us breakfast ingredients — and utensils to cook them. I’m seriously swooning so hard over him while he makes breakfast that when Zimbabwia appears, I laugh.

I forgot you were here!

One look at her and I register that her night wasn’t as luxurious as mine. We head out for the day leaving Honey to organise the house. Once we’re out the gate I turn to Zimbabawia and the gossip begins.

‘I’m a lover not a fucker!’ Groans Zimbabwia, who’s now slouched on the couch of the very impressive Inzora Cafe we’ve found. I sip on my smoothie through a bamboo straw (yes Inzora!) and listen to the tale of Zimbabwia’s evening.

It turns out Lips was the opposite of Honey. He wanted to FUCK all night and when Zimbabawia finally got to sleep he woke her up at 5am so she would let him out of the front gate. This resulted in her having approximately 45 minutes of sleep.

In the days that follow, Zimbabwia and I entertain ourselves throughout the day and in the evenings head back to our home and our housemates for dinner. I practically count the hours until I can see Honey again. I’m becoming addicted to his nectar.

Each day I find myself unveiling another affectionate flower, which has never before been watered. I’m not ashamed to show my heart in the form of kisses, hugs, making the bed, and bringing home treats.

Honey doesn’t push me back or make me feel over the top, or too obsessed. We’re just living in the now — because soon I will be gone.

Every night we make love, and every night my body yearns more deeply for his touch, his breath, our mingled sweat in the humid nights. I love touching my fingers on his scars and asking questions about his life.

With every day that passes I begin reflecting on my past romances. I have never acted this way before because I was never able — I was shamed for my openheartednes and made to swallow my affection.

Ten days later our Rwandan journey was coming to an end, and I started to feel confused. Is it possible to have this much loving with someone, this much of a connection and just leave it at that? Isn’t that a waste.

The mind began to take over and was plotting stories of how to make this work.

I could move to Rwanda!

Our last night comes around all too quickly and to comisterate / celebrate our departure Bitches, Bangles (our Israeli friend who we met in Malawi), Zimbabawia, Honey, Lips, and I all head back to Cocobean. Zimbabwia and I are rocking some seriously cool new threads* that Lips has been busy sewing all week and I am ready to shake my ass.

Honey and I melt together on the dance floor and Bitches boy is making us all wet ourselves with laughter sassing his booty around in our dance circle.

The lights and the music are pounding and I realise that my head is spinning. I ask honey to come outside with me for a bit and he escorts me next to the pool. We’re mid kiss when he pulls away and looks at me slyly.

‘Do you remember what you said the last time you were here?’

‘Oh shit. Yep. Hold on. Take this’.

Handing Honey my camera and shoes I stand up onto a chair and launch myself into the swimming pool. As my head resurfaces I hear a roar of applause, laughter, and some angry security men screaming at me to;

‘Get out!’

Soaping wet, I climb out and wave my arm in victory to the disbelieving crowd. A security guard takes my arm and escorts me towards the exit. Behind me Zimbabwia, Bangles, and Bitches mouths are all agape.

‘I guess we’ll see you later!’ They cackle.

Honey walks up next to me, holding my possessions. He smirks and says nothing.


From Honey I learnt how to African dance. How to love. How to be loved. And most importantly, I learnt how to let a lover go. I can tell you, it wasn’t easy, I asked Zimbabwia numerous times why moving to Rwanda wasn’t a good idea, until finally I had my own realisation. To ‘live in the moment’ also means that you sometimes have to leave that moment, where you found it.

So to you Honey. Thank you for tasting so sweet, and getting me addicted to the nectar of a lover.


*Wazungu: people who wander or in the case of Africa it is the common name for foreigners


*Threads: clothes.
Lips is an amazing Rwandan fashion designer who works his ass off to create unique colourfully explosive clothes, which combine western fashion with the beautiful African fabric
Kitenge.
If you need an injection of colour and culture in your wardrobe then this legend at Kimironko Market Kigali OR head to his website.


What are your experiences with Lovers? Are you a Zimbabawia, you have multiple? Or are you learning to leave the moment where you found it like me? Comment below!

Keep following my tales on Facebook and Instagram ❤  

The Lover and The Prowler

So I’m a Gemini. For those who know anything about astrology it’s commonly known as ‘the twin’ — the dualistic persona. When it comes to sex, my louder persona — The Prowler, loves the freedom and empowerment of a one night stand. For years I’ve loved going to events, prowling a crowd, picking my mark and ending the night in bed with said chosen.

However, there is another side of my sex story. A side who has not had as much time in the spotlight — The Lover. She loves sex that is meaningful, and with a person whom she feels a deep connection to. Someone she can truly blossom with.

In this tale both the twins come out to have their say.


I will forever regard Windhoek as being the home to the world’s best couchsurfing-host-women, ever. Twerk Queen and her five sister’s humble home gives us our first glimpse of what it would be like to be a true local. Tucked away in the heart of Katutura Township, the thrum of music drifts from the numerous bars, children play freely on the street, prowling cats and dogs seeking scraps of food and with the right with a waft of the Single Quarters meat market fills the air.

The girls give us their bed, their food, their company, and even attempt teaching us how to Twerk (previously concluded by our tiny white asses as a physical impossibility).

The sisters are taking us into town with a group of their friends. Walking into a bar I am gobsmacked. It feels like we’ve walked into a Melbourne bar, the most obvious difference being our glowing skin, standing out amongst the dark chocolate crowd. Everyone is trendy as fuck and all walks of life are represented; there are hipsters, glam girls, gangsters, suits, you name it.

I’m positioned at the bar waiting for my GnTs and peering out at the sea of people, when the beat takes on a different nature. Oozing out of the speaker is a combination of jazz, soul and funk — I instantly feel my hips organically sway to the rhythm. It’s not just me; everyone around me is transformed by this music. Booties are shaking, hips are grinding, they’re fully immersed in dance, full of confidence, full of pride in their varying body shapes. And they are showing the fuck off. I froff this place.

Still grinning from this sight, a 6ft tall woman passes by. I recognise that she is a transvestite. Apprehensively, I look ahead to see what the reactions towards her will be… nothing.

This city is seriously blowing me away! There’s a transvestite and no one batting an eyelid! She is safe and accepted HALLELUJAH!

Let me explain. I’ve been travelling through parts of Africa e.g. Tanzania where being homosexual is still punishable by imprisonment. So now, coming to Namibia and seeing humans of all gender identifications, wearing whatever the fuck they like, dancing however the fuck they want; brings me pure joy.

GnTs in hand, I make my way outside to sit with Twerk Queen and her gang of guy friends. Somehow we get onto the topic of anal sex.

No no. That is only for gay people,’ declared one of the male friends.

I look over at his normally loud buddies and they are silent —not daring to disagree. Filled with confidence from this progressive place, I decide that this is a topic we can safely debate. And so that’s what we do; Mumma Africa, Zimbabawia and I proudly share our views of how men can enjoying all parts of a woman’s body and it does not make them gay.

As the silent friends start to find their voice and agree with what we are saying, I catch the eye of a beautiful man. He’s well over 6ft tall, wearing a bright yellow hoodie, and he’s looking directly at me. I feel myself instantly blush. He waves me over and I excuse myself from the conversation which has now evolved to tips for anal play.

Attendee introduces himself. Besides his strong facial features, impressive height, and stylish get up, he is also beautifully spoken and sophisticated. He’s effortlessly wooing me and The Prowler is letting him.

I’m here with my flight attendant friends,’ he boasts.

He introduces me to his glamourous colleagues. They tell tales of stop offs to Berlin; nights out in the Bergine; ocean dips in Lisbon and attending concerts in London. They come from another world and I am whisked away by Attendee’s stories.

Meanwhile, my gang’s night has come to an end and they are ready to to hit the road.

Are you coming with us?’ questions a suggestive Zimbabawia.

I turn to Attendee, uncharacteristically shy, and he replies:

You’re staying at mine aren’t you?

At this point Twerk Queen steps in and tells him:

She is under my supervision and YOU had better look after her. Give me your number. What’s your address? Call me when you get home AND call me in the morning!

Yes mam! She turns to leave but not before striking him one last watch it glare.

So that’s it. I’m going home with Attendee. Jumping into the taxi I hear the tiny voice of my The Lover protesting. I decide it’s just nervousness, this is my first one night stand, outside of the desert since Durban Boy.

We detour to get late night Nandos and take it back to his living room where the sharing of greasy food allows me to relax. As if a segway into the events ahead — we lick the chicken salt off our fingers and he invites me into his bedroom.

Again the nerves in my belly flare up. I sit awkwardly on his bed waffling on about the cool clothes in his wardrobe. Half listening, he pulls off his jumper to reveal a body I will never forget.

The nerves start to dissipate. This is what we’re here for. We’re not here to make friends. Not here to get to know each other. No. We are here for sex.

As he comes towards me I instinctively reach out my hand to caress this new, beautiful skin. Clearly wanting to do the same he yanks my top over my head to reveal my bra free (always) breasts.

Laying between my legs he takes each breast into his hands and tenderly kisses my erect nipples. He twirls my nipple ring with his tongue and I watch like a voyeur feeling the warmth grow in my body.

I gently put my hands on his spongy hair and encourage him to come up to face me. Finally, we kiss. Oh. My. God. My instant thought is to feel my own lips. Are my lips really that small?

Kissing him again I am in heaven. It’s like kissing the softest, most moist, beautiful black pillows. I’m only just getting started on his pillows when he lifts them off my mouth and moves them down along me; down, down, down, to pussy town.

I am wet with anticipation, if those lips felt like that on my mouth then… OMG he has arrived. He parts me with his tongue and moves his lips around my outer lips. His tongue gently strokes along my clit making me moan.

Because I find it hard to orgasm while the attention is solely on me, I swivel around so that I come face to face with his erection.

His dick; oh my gosh his dick. By now you probably realise I haven’t been with a man whose darker than my breakfast cinnamon. And now, as I take this beauty in my mouth, I am wondering, Why the hell haven’t I?

As usual the distraction of a cock in my mouth allows me to fully relax and come to orgasm. We come back to eye level and marvel at one another’s skin. Running our hands along each other we joke about our differences and then he enters me and colours are forgotten.

We are one union of pleasure, grinding down onto him I feel full of life, lust, and freedom — freedom to explore my sexuality while I travel this amazing continent. With this thought in mind Attendee climaxes and I drift off to sleep in his soft arms.

Yes, yes she’s asleep. Oh no, here she is, she woke up.’

My morning lay in is disturbed by Attendee handing me his phone.

Hello?’ I ask, quite confused. Twerk Queens commanding voice comes through ‘Girl you alright? I told him he has to bring you home’.

The phone call finally finishes with Attendee swearing that he is bringing me home soon. And then, silence falls between us.

We have nothing more to say to one another. Fascinating. How can there be so much language without words when our clothes are off. But when the morning comes it’s like we are strangers again.

When I jump out of his car I look at Attendee in his rather sexy uniform, yet I feel nothing. For the first time it dawns on me that although I love and respect my sexual freedom, The Lover, the connection seeking persona in me, simply isn’t satisfied with just penetration.

At this realisation, The Lover seems to be getting louder; ‘I tried to tell you!

I think it’s about time this twin had some time in the spotlight. I wonder who she’ll meet next?



Keep following my tale(s) on Facebook and Instagram

Artwork by @_monadoma_


A Rhinoceros Blowjob

We humans spend a lot of our time watching animals. We watch them in cages and tanks. We watch them on tv whilst listening to David Attenborough. We watch them in zoos and aquariums. We watch them on safari in foreign and exotic countries.

Our species seems to get so much enjoyment from watching animals. So I wonder… do they enjoy watching us?


We are now in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia.

As I collect the keys from a questionable car hirer, I feel grateful that our next outback adventure is about to begin. We said farewell to Impy and Rocks this morning; waving goodbye to Impy brought me to tears.

Luckily we’ve arranged to pick up two new travel buddies, thanks to the evergiving connections, from AfrikaBurn.

Before I even have time to ponder what travelling with men will be like, Lekker boy bounces into the car:

‘Lekkkkkkker Bros!’ he chimes.

Wearing high shorts, suspenders and donning a yellow ukulele strapped to his back, he hands us a bottle of viner (half water, half wine).

‘Drink up!’

Just as we’re processing this energetic, handsome and colourful being, the next one climbs in. He’s more tamely dressed, bespectacled, tall, dark haired and of course …handsome.

‘Hey, thanks so much for picking us up!’ Oh and he’s polite. Welcome aboard, Mumma Lover.

I immediately feel my energy recharging. Road trip round two, let’s begin.

We set off North of Windhoek, it doesn’t take long for the conversation to steer down the old familiar road — sex talk. The unfamiliar road, however, is that this time we have two male perspectives! We’re deep in the midst of a conversation about ‘pulling out’ when Mumma Lover explains:

‘I don’t cum inside a woman who I only have casual intentions with. Ejactuating in a woman is very intimate and I don’t want to be misleading.’

Revelation! I used to hate that The German wouldn’t cum inside me. Although this may not have been his reason, it’s interesting to hear another perspective. This is going to be an educational week.

We arrive at our first camping stop, the Spitzkoppe Peaks. Over 120 million years old, these rock formations seem to appear from nowhere, towering out of the flat desert at up to 1728m high. We pass locals selling giant crystals clearly unearthed from this sacred area.


The camping ground is rather busy. There are families, older couples with their bakkies and some serious rock-climbers — barely visible amongst the smooth formations.

We decide to camp as far away as possible from everyone. We want to connect as a group for our first day together — with the assistance of our leftover Afrikaburn goodies. Once we set up our tents we prepare for a trippy exploration of the area.

Afrikaburn taught me many lessons about tripping in the desert and these were the most vital: pack a fuck tonne of water; cover your head; and don’t bother wearing pants.

With water strapped to our bodies we begin our exploration of this unique area. We only make it a few mere meters when the giggles begin. Having spotted a dassie (a kind of desert beaver) Mumma Lover exclaims:

‘If I were to fuck an animal it would be a dassie. Look at that booty!’

Everything is ridiculous and we can hardly get a word out without breaking into hysteria. As we scramble up a steep rock face our laughter halts. Somehow, we have stumbled onto the set of a film clip…

WHAT???

A very serious group of people intently focused on cameras, lights and dancing all turn to stare angrily at us. We’ve obviously just bombarded the take. Unable to handle the absurdity of the situation our crew erupts into raucous laughter. I manage to catch my breath and shout to our audience:

‘Sorry, to disturb, but we’re tripping!’

Hearing this, their annoyed faces transform into laughter ‘Ohhhhhh!’.

Only in the desert.

As we leave the production we agree that with the sunlight fading, our bare bums are getting chilly and so we make our way back to camp.

We’re still reeling from the absurdity of the day when we spot them… A car of five have set up their camp right next to us — Fuck. We are not in a quiet mood!

Lekker boy and I stealthily climb a convenient spying-rock to check them out.

‘Holy crap, they’re young!’ I shout.

Not having been exactly subtle our neighbours spot us and introduce themselves. They’re an English couple and two (single) male friends. Seeing that we’re on.com they invite us to join their camp fire.

‘We’ve been dying for a party,’ they grin while pulling endless gin bottles from their trailer.

It seems that the madness from the desert day will be transcending into the night. After finishing off the goodies — and all the gin, we climb the rocks and dance beneath the stars.

One of the single boys, Handsome English Lad, and I hit it off and banter by the fire way into the night. When my crew ask if I’m coming to bed I feel conflicted but my intuition tells me what to do.

We say goodnight to our rowdy English pals and collapses into Lekker boy’s tent. A feeling of regret starts to creep in, but then Mumma Lover farts and I come back to reality — grateful to have chosen pals over penis.

The scorching heat of the morning forces us to rise our sad, sorry, hungover asses out of a sweltering tent. After a couple of vomits (pole sana Zimbabawia), and a gallon of water we load back into the car ready for more of the wild, wild NORTH.

And wild it is. The gravel roads take us to the Skeleton Coast where we investigate masses of animal and shipwreck skeletons strewn along the eerie road. We literally race an ostrich with our Jeep —winning by a feather. And we make a pit stop at a questionable campground where the owner casually tell us:

‘Once I was stuck in that bathroom because a lion was outside.’ Fabulous.

By the time we finally arrive our wildest destination of them all, Etosha National Park, night is falling and we’re eager to get the fuck into secure territory.

As we drive through the high security gates of the nights campground we breathe a sigh of relief. Randomly choosing a place to camp we jump out of the car and burst into laughter; camped directly opposite us are the Spitzkoppe English Gang!

Thank you Universe for potential penis round two!

‘Hey! Fancy seeing you again. We’re heading to the viewing deck. Join us?’ beams Handsome English Lad.

Bringing wine and sleeping bags, we follow along to the campground’s man-made watering hole. Here the animals routinely come for their evening drink. The water is illuminated by a spotlight and a viewing deck has been built in prime position for watching the animals.

Just as I’m settling, in Lekker Boy slaps me. Looking up confused by the assault I gasp disbelievingly… a rhino is slowly approaching the water. Epitomised as the rarest, most volatile poacher-sought creature —it is simply mythical to be in this beasts presence.

As the night wears on everyone heads to bed, but I remain. Only Myself, Other Lad and Handsome English Lad remain on the entire deck.

Though I am happy to have seen the animals, my inner animal has another agenda on her mind. English Lad and I have been quietly flirting all evening but Other Lad doesn’t seem to have caught on. Instead he asks:

‘I’m going to bed, you coming?’ to my Handsome English Lad.

And then, English Lad says ‘Yeah alright’ and stands to leaves with him! Isn’t he feeling my vibes?

‘Are you going to bed?’ he asks me.

‘No,’ I responded, ‘I’ll just stay here a while longer.’

He’ll be back, I think to myself as I settle in to stubbornly wait. While waiting I guess I fall asleep because the next thing I know Handsome English Lad is waking me:

‘Hey Charlotte, Charlotte?’

Bleary eyed, I smile at the sight of him. I knew it.

Without breaking the silence he slips into my sleeping bag, and It. Is. On. His hungry hands begin to explore my body and I arch my back, delighted for sensual touch, eagerly anticipating the oncoming pleasure.

Wizzrd Sleeve was only a few weeks ago but when I’m in a habit of regular sex I find it so hard to suddenly stop.

Our breath is heavy and audible as we intwine our tongues and bodies together. His hands reach down to my underwear and slip between my squirming legs. Feeling my wetness he smiles and begins to migrate south of the sleeping bag.

He pulls my underwear aside and I groan as his lips finally meet mine. I love being eaten — and this public environment makes it so much hotter. Exhibisionism, licking, and penetrating fingers bring me quickly to orgasm. I let out an animalistic moan.

Having finally caught my breath I start to switch places. Now I’m in the mood to use my mouth as a pleasure tool. Handsome English Lad is at the mercy of my wet mouth and I quickly have him making his own animal noises.

Whilst enjoying my power over this humans pleasure I glance out over the watering hole — there standing still as the night is a giant Rhino.

I feel its eyes penetrate my own. I pause mid mouthful wondering, what to do?

Well, I think to myself, It’s about time the animals got to be the watchers. And resume swallowing him, deep into my throat.


Keep following my tale(s) on Facebook and Instagram 


Some more beautiful snaps by myself and Lekker Boy!

Mother Nature and her Women

Quiz time! Which country is so wild that it has free-roaming wildlife; is the size of Alaska, yet has a population of only 2.5 million; and is home to the world’s largest sand dune?

Don’t know? It’s Namibia, of course!

If you and your pals want to be independent, badass explorers; if you can surrender to mother nature and be prepared to tackle anything she throws your way… then make Namibia your next holiday destination.


Mumma Africa, Zimbabawia, Impy, Rocks – our new Russian delight – and I have decided that the best way to get over our Afrikaburn hangovers is to get our asses back into the desert.

After picking up our bakkie (Namibian / South African slang for a ute or pickup-car) we bid farewell to our South African friends. Upon hearing our adventure plans, they bombard us with advice for Namibia:

Make sure the car is packed with food and water.’

‘Top up your petrol at EVERY opportunity.’

‘It can be days before you pass a shop or other humans on the road!’

‘You can wild camp* in the South but NOT in the North – the whole cast of the Lion King roams freely up there!’

Really, I think — how hard can it be?

The officers at the Namibian border crossing decide to make it hard immediately.

‘Excuse me, Officer,’ I ask in my sweetest voice, ‘but we notice you have written different exit dates for each of us and we are travelling together.’

Once we finally convince the grumpy officer to give us the SAME exit dates, Impy revs up the bakkie and we roll on in to the mysterious Namibia.

As we navigate our way towards Fish River Canyon, everyone’s eyes are fixed out the window. ‘Woahh,’ we breathe simultaneously. The road ahead is dead straight as far as the eye can see. Splayed across the horizon are layers upon layers of mountains.

‘SO many layers!’ Impy shouts, and the cameras begin to click. It takes another hour of the endless magnificent scenery before it sinks in — This. Is. It!

With the sun now setting, and not having seen a car since we crossed the border, we stop the car in the middle of the. Pumping up the one and only ‘Africa’ by Toto, we fling the doors open and dance deliriously on the road. Completely alone, utterly enraptured to be here — together — on what feels like a distant planet.

Carrying on, Impy’s happiness is magnified when she gets her first glimpse of African wildlife. Prancing alongside the car are a herd of springbok — the antelope not the rugby team.

But before she has a chance to appreciate the moment, a suicidal springbok decides to make a beeline for our bakkie. Now, as Aussies, growing up with kangaroos we are taught to slow down and hit them, NEVER to swerve. Impy, with her boss-bitch driving skills, steadily eases the breaks and — thump.

As we watch the springbok struggle back to its feet and limp away, we feel a mixture of relief and irony that the first animal we’ve seen — we’ve hit.

Fearing the appearance of more suicidal animals, we decide that now is as good a time as any to try our hand at wild camping. Finding a spot to pitch a tent in an empty desert is quite unnerving. Never have any of us been so alone, so isolated, on such an equal playing field with nature. Mustering up courage, we bravely reassure one another:

‘We’ve got this.’

With the smell of canned pineapple and chickpeas filling the air we sit on our camping chairs, rugged up against the cold night ready to eat our first gas cooker meal. Above us a spectacle of stars brightly. Total bliss. Unaware of the time, we simply follow the signal of nature’s darkness and soon slip into our sleeping bags.

Mumma Africa cooking up a storm

The next morning, we are already up and packing as the dawn pushes its way through the darkness. There’s a sense of triumph within the group at surviving our first solo night in the desert, but this is rudely interrupted when a motherfucking SCORPION scurries out from under the tent.

‘Arghhhhhhh!’

I guess the deadly arachnid decided to use our warmth as its home for the night. Cautiously, we shake out our shoes and shove them onto our naked feet.

But we won’t be deterred by an arse loving scorpion and a suicidal springbok. As we start up the bakkie and continue on our way to Fish River Canyon, we’re met with a glorious sunrise.


Impy pondering the canyon

Colour changes on the canyon

As a gas station appears, we remember our friends’ warning:

‘Top up your petrol at EVERY opportunity.’

Pulling up, we’re greeted by a perplexed gas station attendant.

‘Where the man?’ he asks.

‘Ladies only!’ we grin.

Driving away from our entertained servo man, our conversation turns to females travelling Africa solo. Why is it that Africa is viewed as such a ‘hard-core’ continent to travel? I mean, plenty of 20-somethings have been to India, South America and South East Asia. Why is it that when you tell someone that you’re travelling to Africa, you’re met with comments like:

‘Wow, you’re brave! Aren’t you worried about rabies?’

Or the most common:

‘But isn’t that unsafe for a woman?’

Our now hotly passionate conversation is put on hold as we veer off road for another night of wild camping. Unbeknown to us our evening is about to get…hard-core.

Hopping out, we each begin our nightly jobs: Mumma Africa and Rocks make the dinner, Zimbabawia and I put up the tent, and Impy lights the fire. All is well, and then we hear it… the spine-chilling yelp of a nearby creature.

‘Kinda sounded like a hyena,’ whispers Rocks.

‘WTF! It is not a hyena, they’re not in the south!’ I bark, horrified to hear her express my own terrified thought.

We’re all frozen. Barely moving, we point our torches into the darkness, looking for the source of the sound. Suddenly, the night is pierced by another yelp, this time behind us. Whatever the creatures are, they’ve got us surrounded.

Impy, Rocks and Zimbabawia sprint towards the car.

‘HONK THE HORN!’ I scream from the fire, too paralysed by fear to leave its flickering protection. The horn rings out and we wait.

The silence seems to last forever. Eventually, we decide a safe amount of time has passed. Totally rattled, we conclude that it was just a jackal (a fox-like creature) enticed by the smell of food.

‘What were you doing to protect yourself?’ I ask Mumma Africa.

‘Mmm, I held up the salt shaker?’

Our laughter manages to cut through the lingering fear and we find our way to bed — though we sleep with one eye open.

Morning comes and we drift down the sandy road towards Sossusvlei. For the first time in days we’re surrounded by humans — tourist humans. They’re all here for the same thing as us: to climb the famous red sand dunes and see the deadveli skeleton trees.

Looking up at the 325m high Big Daddy Dune, I wish with all my manifestation might that we will be alone when we get to the top — so we can take the most epic naked pics.

It’s a gruelling climb, but an hour later we are all willing our sandy socks to take the last few steps. As we reach the summit, our jaws drop in unison. The most glorious spectacle we have ever witnessed pierces its way into our retinas: kilometre after kilometre of red and white mountains meet the brilliantly blue sky. THIS. IS. IT!

‘Mmm, guys.. are we alone up here?’ I say in disbelief.

Looking down below we burst into laughter. ALL the cars and tour buses have miraculously disappeared. We are ENTIRELY alone. How’s that for manifesting? Without a word, we each strip off our kits, and what follows is, well… this!

Because I couldn’t not!

Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with. Still, at the end of the day we are primal beings, made to co-exist with her. None of us will ever forget the feeling Namibia gave us of sheer human vulnerability. But we will also never forget nature’s reminder that we are powerful women — hear us fucking ROAR!

*Wild camp – camping in nature away from organised campsites for free!


Keep following my tale(s) on Facebook and Instagram 


More pictures because there were too many stories to tell!

Bullsport gorge hike — pants optional
Impy freaks out over baboon handprints in the dust — ‘It’s like a human hand but a monkey!’

I discover a gnawed off zebra leg in the Bullsport gorge…yikes!

Road side discovery –suitcase filled with letters and other random items from desert explorers.

Kolmanskop; ghost town of Namibia abandoned and invaded by the dunes of time

A Feminist Man’s Adventure Into the Red Temple

The burn is over. My masculine energy wishing to fuck everything, has subsided. Now a softer, more feminine energy, desiring tenderness and affection has slipped in to take its place. I wonder if there’s anyone left in this desert who can fulfil such a need before my bus departs tomorrow!?


It’s time for our desert decompression; the festival goers have gone leaving a trail of us dusty volunteers behind to MOOP* the Tankwa desert. After a day of picking up glittery gems in the scorching heat, I plonk down on a sofa, swearing to myself that I will never again decorate my face with pretty plastic. Unknowingly, I have sat next to a familiar face. I had been a distant admirer of Wizard Sleeve as I watched him building an instillation, but never managed to forge a connection. Now sitting by his side I tell him My fringe needs a trim. He kindly offers I can do it? Closing my eyes, I surrender while this handsome stranger cuts my hair with weed trimming scissors.

The dinner bell rings and Wizard Sleeve and I depart together. Cutting my bangin’ new bangs has established a flirtatious bond, and as we walk past his tent we fight playfully ending up literally and figuratively, somersaulting into his tent. Landing face-to-face, our laughter ceases as our energy shifts from playful to lustful. Leaning in we connect for a long, deep kiss. My body responds to his gentle, yet firm caress, becoming aroused by the sexy spontaneity of the situation. My womb space is tingling as we break away agreeing without words that this will be continued later. But for now, dinner is beckoning.

Our final meal is small and sad; it feels so wrong. How can we be leaving our desert family? The farewell turns into a giant cuddle puddle* as I hold Wizard Sleeves hand amongst the bodies until he whispers Do you want to go back to my tent?

Walking hand in hand, I’m feeling giddy for the events ahead until my inner voice rears her head to interrupt — Isn’t it probably time you told him you’re on your period?? Yes. I have been selectively omitting this fact but Fuck it. I seriously do not believe that being on your period should mean you don’t get to be intimate. In fact, the first days that I bleed are bloody (haha) hornyyyy days.

Horniness aside, I accept that it is potentially quite rude not to inform a lover that my temple is currently red. So while he kisses my neck and grinds himself harder against my throbbing sex I finally utter I’m on my period…

Okay, well I don’t mind if you don’t?

Ohhhhh fuck yes! This tall, eccentric, talented man just got himself a gold star. There is nothing sexier than a man who understands and accepts that menstruation is a natural part of being a woman. That we experience this 13 times a year. And that some of those times we are bound to want to jump on a dick.

I explain that I have the menstrual cup in, I’ve had sex with it in before.*
As he slowly enters me, I gasp from the intensity of the sensation I am soaking wet with my own arousal and blood, plus the combination of my cup and his cock is like a double penetration. My senses are in overdrive and every thrust makes me moan in hot, messy, pleasure. We hold onto each other until one last liquid bursts out and joins the party. After baby wiping our bits to clean up our juicy mess, I drift off to sleep snuggled in his arms. I can’t help but feel disappointed that I don’t get at least one more night of this loving.

The next morning, it seems that the the Universe was listening to my plea. There has been a miscalculation of numbers and the bus is overfilled! We’ll have to wait until tomorrow night for the next one. YAHOOOO.

Having seen me miss the bus, Wizard Sleeve asks to hang out again. I tell him that I really want to spend the last night with my kitchen crew Great! Can I join? It disappoints me to say, but this request surprises me. The men I’ve been intimate with in the desert, other than Hawk Eyes, haven’t continued their affection towards me the day after. Wizard Sleeve is filling me up in ways more holistic than penetration. Blithely I respond — Of course you can.

After a movie, a cuddle puddle, and lots of treats from Dreadlock Pixie Queen, Wizard Sleeve and I migrate to my tent. This time I tell him that my period is really heavy now and I don’t want to have sex. Of course, he doesn’t mind at all, only asks Are you okay? Can I hold you like this? Wrapping his arms around me, he gently cradles my womb space, and transfers his genuine care into me. This unconditional kindness, seeps all the way up to my heart. I’ve never experienced a male lover, who not only respects and fulfils my desire for tenderness, but does so through his own embodiment of feminine energy.

Boarding the bus, I am now utterly serene and ready to depart. I love my masculine energy and the fun experiences it conjures. But just for a change, allowing my feminine energy to rise showed me that I also have the power to attract beautiful men, like Wizard Sleeve.

I can’t wait for more.


Keep following my tale(s) on Facebook and Instagram


*MOOP – Matter out of place. One of the guiding principles of all Burns is ‘Leave NO Trace’. MOOP is any object which does not naturally occur in the environment you have occupied. Working in the MOOP team gave me a disturbing insight into the enormous array of man made items we leave in our wake. If you spent some hours picking up glitter, plastic gems, baggies, feathers, gum etc off mother earth’s surface, you too may change some habits.

*Cuddle puddle – a comfortable area which becomes filled with 3+ humans intertwining limbs, eventually becoming a giant human hug. Ideal when feeling lonely, craving affectionate touch, or wishing to begin an orgy.

*Sex with a menstrual cup – Yes I have done this twice, both times it has been completely fine. No the cup cannot get lost, there is only one exit. It may however become difficult to remove — I once helped a friend remove her ‘lost’ cup.
For this tales interaction I kept the cup in as I wanted to reduce the mess. I now believe that emptying, and removing the cup before sex is a more logical method as there’s going to be blood regardless!