#i have menopause

[yeyinde]

With his marriage on the rocks, Price ends up drinking himself into a stupor at the bar the night after his wife of fifteen years tells him she wants to separate. It's where he finds you—a man's walking midlife crisis. Much younger. Too pretty for your own good.

Just passing through, he can vaguely remember you telling him as you twirled a black straw around the drink he ordered for you. Whiskey sour but with cherries instead of lime.

He grimaced around the thought of it, but couldn't seem to peel his eyes away from the way you curl your tongue around the red cherry floating in your drink. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.

Too soft, too.

He feels it when he places his hand on your thigh—to steady you, he tells himself when you start to wobble on the stool—the soft meat of your body giving so easily under the weight of his thick, grizzled fingers.

You don't belong in a pub like this where the floor is always sticky, the wallpaper is probably still made of lead, and there's gum stuck to the underside of the table. Despite the smoking ban, the room is clogged with dense tendrils of smoke. No one lifts a brow when he pulls a cigar from his front pocket, and strikes a match to light it. Puffing away in the corner with a too pretty, too young thing leaning into him, asking can I give it a try?

It's wrong. He feels it in his bones. A siren wailing in his head. Leave, go home. Don't look back. And maybe that's what you are:

a siren

because he peels it from between his dry, chapped lips and feels his heart throbbing in his chest when you lean over him, his lap, eyes still locked on his in the near the perfect pastiche of an early 90s pornography video—amateur, grainy around the edges; soaked in that glossy, faded old film filter—and wrap your cherry red lips around the hilt, lashes fluttering as he swallows thickly and rasps out that's it, sweetheart, now suck—

Feels his age acutely in the ache of his thighs as his muscles tense, drawing tight together when your eyes close, pinching in disgust around the heady mouthful of maduro, but mm, love, ain't supposed to swallow it.

The gleam of unshed tears pooling against your lashline catch beautifully in the warm, lambent glow of the lights overhead that are undoubtedly older than you. Lachrymal. He feels it in his guts like a stone. A thick lump of smouldering coal he has to try and breathe around.

The eight—nine, maybe—whiskeys he had since he sat down and grunted his usual order at the barkeep catch up with him all at once the moment a single drop spills over, and those cherry red lips part, embarrassed, and the smoke in your voice, the raw, scorched wound of untested flesh doused in tobacco fill the hole in his belly when you say I've never done this before and, soft, shy, sweet: will you teach me?

It's awash in the jaundiced spill of winter lights. Blue hour bathed in orange. There's a mark on your thigh when he pulls his hand away, damp palm leaving a stain in the soft cotton of your pants. He's not sure why that renders all logic in his head null, but it stabs into him like a pickaxe through the temple. Sudden, violent, and jarring.

His hand cupping you through your pants, feeling the heat of your cunt on his still-wet palm. Growling in your ear when you tremble against his chest about how he has a lot he plans on teaching you, sweetheart, so be a good girl, and come home with him—

He doesn't make it that far.

Unbuttons his trousers the moment you climb into the back seat of his truck, legs spreading in anticipation for him to fill the split of your thighs, and curl a single finger in his direction, a silent comehither.

Marionette on strings, he follows. The obeyance rankles down his spine but he's too far gone to give it much more than a passing, agitated flick. Ignoring it in favour of wrestling his trousers down his hips, and pulling you on his lap.

It's every part the indecent, goatish drunk hookup he vaguely remembers from back when he was some approximation of your age. Pawing clumsily at your cunt in a selfish, perfunctory preparation. Unpractised despite having decades of experience throbbing insistently in his temple, muted under the cloying haze of too much alcohol and the manifestation of his fantasies come to life in his lap, perched so prettily above his aching cock.

Pants into the mess he makes of your neck about how much better he'll be later. Take you home, eat your pretty pussy out until you're nearly ripping his hair out from how good it feels, and then he'll fuck you on a bed. Proper, he grunts, snaking a hand down between your thighs to grip his cock, the other peeling away from the warm, tight heaven between your thighs, fingers slipping out slick and sticky, smearing it over his fat, weeping head.

"need you," he grunts, barely cognisant of much outside this concupiscent ache in his belly. This hunger he's never felt before. Just mutters, slurs, need you, need this pussy. Come on, love, let me in—

He pushes against your opening, flared head splitting your folds so obscenely that he's almost desperate with the need to commit the sight to memory. So fuckin' pretty—

You whine, mewling above him as his slick fingers squeeze your waist, pulling your down over him. Forcing his cock into you as you bable about it being too much, god, it's too much, too big—ego feeding, incendiary. Mesmeric. If it's meant to slow him down, or make him stop, it slips through the cracks. Eaten alive in the fog.

His hand pushes against your throat, fingers folding over the span of it. Gripping tight. Holding firm as he catches your gaze and plants his feet on the ground. The noise you make when he bucks into you from below, forcing the rest of his cock into the impossibly tight squeeze of your cunt is snuffed out when his hand spasms, closing into a choking grip.

Seated deep inside you—too deep, it's too much, please—he feels heavenised. Bathed in bliss. Nirvana. Can't quite wrap his head around how good you feel beyond staggered grunts that spill from his sweat-slicked lips, and a needy, urgent roll of his hips, unable to pull away from the euphoric clench of you swallowing him down.

It's an eye rolling pleasure. The kind that rips through his belly and drags him to the brink in an instant. All heat. A molten, velvet clench. Primal. All animal seeking a warm, safe latibule.

He thinks of the womb and it's primordial incalescence as he works himself into you, head blanketed in a dizzying, almost delirious spot of pleasure. Soporific. And that's what you are—an overwhelming sense of sempiternal warmth. Something every fibre of his being wants to crawl inside of.

And he does. Over and over again. Peels his hand from your throat to curl it over your nape instead, pushing your mouth against his in a scorching, bruising kiss. Laying claim, eating your moans from between your teeth, chasing the cherry sweetness that lingers. Making a mess of you with the sweat that drops down his temple and the spit that slicks your chin.

Inside you, too. Spilling in your cunt with a belly-deep groan. It rips through him like a head cold, a fever, and leaves him feeling warn and sore. Unable to keep up with the gutpunch of his pleasure as you cling to him tight and mewl in his ear for more.

(Something he plans on giving you for the rest of his life if you'll let him.)

Makes it to his house somehow. Fucks you in the foyer because the sight of your bare, cum-slick thighs shakily climbing up the stairs, knees pressing together to keep his release inside, is enough to rent him in two. And it does. Spilts him down the middle until all that's left is want.

Avarice. Greed. A hunger so deep, it rattles his bones when his belly growls.

Spends himself dry inside of you, unwilling to pull out even for second. Falling asleep with you slick and warm around his cock. Content for the first time in ages. Slipping into a sleep so deep, he wakes up at noon the day.

But you're gone when he does, leaving nothing behind except deep scratches down his back and the pair of panties he stuffed in your mouth last night to keep you from waking the neighbours.

Despite regretting not tying you to the bed and slipping the ring his wife left on the end table on your finger, it's cathartic.

Just—

Not meant to last. His fleeting siren. A secret he'll take to the grave because if it ever got out, it would ruin his reputation. His family. Everything he worked hard for.

And when his wife changes her mind two weeks later and comes back home, life returns to normal. He's once again the dutiful husband. Provider. A good, honest man even though he finds himself dreaming of you as he lays beside his wife, your scent still clinging to his pillow. Hungry. Unfed.

But this is the way it has to be. Must be.

Until his siren comes back to haunt him three weeks later when you turn up again, back in town and pregnant with his child.

[meirimerens]

youtube shorts is just tiktok without being on the app the amount of "i'm a [qualification] and [misinformation]" could make one turn their skin inside-out in protest. "i'm a board-certified OB-GYN & it's only been about the last hundred years that women have actually experienced menopause. We didn't live long enough to experience it" how can you be so incredibly wrong about something so integral to your practice. King of the Hittites Hattusilis III was told in 1250 BCE that his sister was too old to reproduce at age 50+. Aristotle wrote in the 4th century BCE that women stopped menstruating between ages 40 to 50, common menopause ages today still. i cannot begin to tell you how 4th century & 1250 BCE don't really count as "the last hundred years" unless that -s is doing a lot of heavy lifting. waiter waiter more misinformation laws.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

i wanna know more about svsss menopause

They synced their periods together too well. Now they are synced through their perimenopause years.

[motsimages]

The bit about the menopause in Never Stop Blowing Up was superfunny but I don't want the youth to think it was just a joke because it's funny to speak like this about menstruation and menopause. If you happen to be next to menopausic women after you are 30, they will tell you about it and yes, it may involve a way heavier flow than before for a couple of years.

Quite literally, the nurse assisting a gynecologist I had an appointment with told me that she spent two years having to have a change of pants in her workplace (the hospital) because she bleeded so much. Sometimes she even fainted.

And since I'm at it, other things that apparently happen, as told to me by menopausic women are: temperature dysregulation (the famous hot flashes), your boobs get bigger, your vagina lubricate much less, difficulty regulating the mood swings (if you get angry, you get superangry superfast and it's hard to calm down).

Looking forward to hear jokes about this too.

[mothmvn]

more cisgender women should be looking at cisgender boys' puberty as a menopause preview, honestly. i find that cis men treat menopause with more pause, ironically, because they recognise the emotional/physical rollercoaster - gee, your body is suddenly sweating absolute buckets and smelling way outside of your control? you feel gross, you keep growing patchy hairs in new itchy places, and summers have suddenly become unbearable? woof, been there done that, let's get you an ice pack and some gatorade buddy, i mean mom

until menopause hits them, cis women (among others) can sometimes treat male puberty as a gross horror that they are forced to mitigate the consequences of - ugh, men with their hair and their smelliness that they can't keep sanitised, it's a concession to live with them, it's a chore to share space with them. you know it's not just a Boy Hormone, right? this exact same testosterone will jump you in a dark alley 30 years from now, you can accept it before then or keep treating it like an enemy latched onto those around you

[transmogrified-in-the-void]

Happy disability pride month to ppl who have disorders/disabilities that are mostly annoying to deal with. It doesn't mean you're "faking it", or that it isn't a "real disability". This month is still for you

[yourfaveisapostmenopausalman]

hi! i know there's one for liquid ocelot already, but what about plain revolver ocelot from MGSV/MGS1? thank you btw ❤️

revolver ocelot from metal gear solid has the insight that only a post-menopausal man could have

[perilegs]

cranberry juice save me. save me cranberry juice.

[pynkhues]

They look so beautiful and adorable in this pic

https://x.com/loustatsx/status/1863790723159519318/photo/1

Not to be weird about it, but I kinda love that their outfits are coordinated, haha.

[youssefguedira]

do you ever just

[paul-simon-juggling]

Today I bring you the "Paul losing his fertility" gifset.

[istherewifiinhell]

V

likeeeeee im no scientist hoss but seems to me any data we can gather on innate or median sex differences is completey kaput until we stop. BABY SLOPE SEXISM

[zappedbyzabka]

He has that pregnancy glow. That shine.

[kandicon]

Idk why it's so funny for me to picture other Reds looking back and forth between the Toy Soldier and Old Rosie and being like "Umm. That is NOT one of us, halfling or not. Look at him! He has a mustache!" and Old Rosie being like "Menopause will do that to a gal. Now go fetch me a pint and do fifty pushups. I don't care that you're fresh out of the test tube, you can't go disrespecting her like that." but it's fucking hilarious.

[nxuvillette]

there’s gotta be a study done as to why kids are developing migraines much earlier in their youth

[dilfmas]

your mom is literally my grandma's age that's so wild

no yeah she’s old <3 a lot of my siblings are old enough to be my parents, i actually have a number of nieces and nephews that are older than me cause my dad is even older and started having kids at like 19