Ever since the latest spot opened nearby, the limos leaked models onto the sidewalk, the guys in ties lined up the block, the girls in their hypodermic stilettos shouted redundancies, “I’m so drunk!” The patrons humped in front of my girlfriend’s building, blocking entry and the bar’s outdoor area was canopied in a din so relentless it formed a hardened shell, interrupting our intimacy and our arguments.

One night, kites flying high, we decided to penetrate the shell and leave our mark with feminine products. We placed our soiled tampons and panty liners into a plastic bag, added the rubberized contents of several never-used safer sex kits, then shook the bag to let the immaculate dental dams and pristine finger condoms soak in our womanliness, before tying the bag by its handles, creating a menstrual piñata.

If we hurled that thing over the fence, we speculated, those yuppies won’t know what hit them. We celebrated our genius with high-fives and scotch and tequila. We got out the bong, danced around to Nirvana and argued briefly about the amount of toilet paper I used when I stayed over. My kite crashed and I passed out, body half on the futon, half off. The girlfriend lasted long enough to dump a glass of cheap vodka out her window onto a couple cozying up to the stoop.

The next morning we disposed of the bloody mess in the garbage like civilized people on our way to brunch.

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