I like being a woman. I like my femininity and all my feminine parts—my butt, my boobs, my hips, and my… well, you know. Down there. I’m proud my body is a vessel—that it has the software and vigor to incubate and birth beautiful brown babies. It never bothers me that I must consign myself to the menses cycle every 28 days. Except when I want to do stuff like, well, you know—shag.

I’m low-key divaish. I’m excited by things like big hair, six-inch heels, form-fitting dresses, lipstick, Brazilian wax, and almost any product marketed to women.

Listen: I will try a thing once.

When I caught wind of Diva Cup, it piqued my interest. I tried it and it sucks. Some women will tell you it’s the best invention since sliced bread. Don’t believe them. Buy more bread.

I wrote a short review on the Diva Cup here—but decided to expound on those thoughts for the MyBrownBaby community.

Diva Cup is the latest technology designed for feminine protection during that time of the month. It is a menstrual cup. It can be worn for up to 12 hours and is reusable. It is made of silicone, which contributes to its rubbery texture and bend. It must be folded like a diaphragm before it is inserted into the vagina. It resembles a scoop—one you might find in a container of Lipton iced tea mix—except there is no handle and the edges are soft and rounded. Also, there is a flexi-stem at the base of the cup, for easy removal. Trust me: it is useless.

I’m all for innovation, but not at the cost of awkwardness, discomfort or the search and recovery involved in using this product. I promise you, there is nothing sexy or fluent about using Diva Cup. It is cumbersome. Here’s why:

  • I had to hunt the damn thing down. It wasn’t stocked in the local supermarket. It wasn’t even sold at Walmart. I had to travel to an out-of-the way CVS pharmacy, just to find and purchase it.
  • It ain’t cheap. A sole cup costs a whopping $29.99. The price of one cup, including the Diva wash (cleaning solution) is $38.99. The price of two Diva Cups is $40. Its reusability begets the cost. But, it is not exactly the product I’d want to do a three or four or more-peat with—it’s not a toothbrush. It’s the kind of thing that should be immediately trashed after one use—like sanitary napkins, tampons, Pampers, condoms, and fuckboys.
  • You have to be a contortionist to get that bitch in.
    I bent, I kneeled. I squatted. I did Bharadvaja’s twist. I did downward dog. I did crane pose.
    I bent, I kneeled, I squatted. I did Bharadvaja’s twist. I did downward dog. I did crane pose.
    I bent, I kneeled, I squatted. I did Bharadvaja’s twist. I did downward dog. I did crane pose.
    It took nine tries and 40 minutes before I achieved a semi-fit. Yoga will not help.
  • It feels like a catcher’s mitt, just chilling in your crotch. Expert users will argue that the Diva Cup wasn’t in right—but wrong. There was a foreign object inside my body and I felt all of it with every shift, twist, and turn. It is tantamount to the distraction of a splinter beneath the skin or a nagging booger lodged in the nasal cavity. When I walked, I felt like baseballs were being juggled on my pelvic floor. When I sat, it felt like I was sitting on a speculum. When I sneezed, I felt as if I might expel my entire cervix.
  • Let’s be clear: my $30 purchase was not for the sole sake of finding a better alternative to sanitary napkins or tampons. I bought the Diva Cup because I wanted also to fornicate with my man. The thirst was just that real. I wanted to get it in, but the Flow is an interruption of all things intimate. I thought the cup was goals—but nah. Its clumsiness is the ultimate Debbie downer. Shagging got shut down. And while other brands, like Soft Cups, give a green light to using the cup during sex, Diva Cup does not.
  • The Diva Cup will assume squatters’ rights. The scavenge is real. The eviction is realer. If you were one those kids who liked to fish through a box of cereal to find the toy, then perhaps you won’t mind. I, however, take exception to having to frisk my private parts for anything that doesn’t belong.
    I poked. I prodded. I pushed.
    I poked. I prodded. I pushed.
    I poked. I prodded. I pushed.
    It took twenty-five hellish minutes to dispossess that damn thing.
I promise you, there is nothing sexy nor fluent about using Diva Cup. It is cumbersome. Click To Tweet

Once removed, I stood in the bathroom, holding a dripping cup and its crimson-colored contents: a mini-version of Mr. Kool-Aid. Droplets of red were on the floor, the toilet, the sink. My legs were shaky. My pelvic region was sore. I felt molested. And my own hands were nothing less than guilty. There will be no do-over. I’m quite done.

I can’t.

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Ida Harris

Ida Harris is a proud Ba'beez mama and columnist at MyBrownBaby.com. A cultural critic, she writes about art, feminism, Blackness, and motherhood. When she is not wielding the pen, she is birthing beautiful brown art dolls.

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