The most common reaction to any mention of the reusable silicone menstrual Mooncup is: “Ewww!” Perhaps it’s the brand name, which women associate with hippies worshipping their inner goddess, or maybe it’s the concept, which has the unique effect of making all males slack-jawed with horror at the technical details. Either way, if you can’t stomach period talk, you should look away now.

For those readers still here, well done for believing that there’s nothing to be squeamish about. In today’s more caring, sharing, penny-saving times, menstrual cups are increasingly cool among ethically minded women.

Apart from their sustainability, there is much to like: they can be left in for up to eight hours — unlike tampons, they have never been linked to toxic shock syndrome — and their makers claim they don’t interfere with the vagina’s biochemical balance. They cost £20, but last for years, so save you hundreds on tampons and pads. There are tales of second-hand Mooncups being offered for sale on office notice boards and stolen from suitcases on holiday. I’d become curious to try one.

Friends who have used Mooncups are polarised. “They’re fab — really simple to use, environmentally friendly and, honestly, not gross at all,” says one evangelical devotee, Rachael. “I get horrific period pains and, for some reason, they aren’t as painful when I use a Mooncup. The slurping noises are the only downside.”

Jo, on the other hand, is typical of those who have tried the Mooncup and hated it. “I tested mine out by going to Chessington World of Adventures on the first day of my period. It was a blood bath. The worst bit was having my four-year-old in the loo with me and him going, ‘Is it a cup of wine, Mummy?’ ”

The history of tampon v cup is like that of PC v Mac: market-dominating giant v touchy- feely and somehow morally superior underdog. Both commercial tampons and menstrual cups were invented in the 1920s and 1930s, alternatives to the sanitary “napkin”, worn with belts. Before then, women used washable cloths, or nothing. The tampon, it seems, gained its ascendancy because of its applicator, which decreased the “ewww” factor in those inhibited days, before women started looking at their vaginas with mirrors.

In the 1970s, authorities lifted the television-advertising ban on all menstrual products, and thinner stick-on pads were invented. Even today, period management is constantly evolving. Boots has just started selling Mooncups in every branch due to demand. So has the Mooncup’s time come?

From the moment I order the Mooncup, I realise I’m stepping into a very different world. The company’s information manager told Style that they would only send a journalist a sample if she would commit to being “genuinely open to changing her habits and potentially using Mooncup from now on”.

I start by selecting size B, which is for childless women or those, like me, who are under the age of 30 — as opposed to size A, which is for women who have had children or who are over 30. (As I turn 30 in a few months, I now feel rather anxious about exactly what is meant to happen to my vagina on that birthday.)

Once in possession of my Mooncup, which comes in its own little drawstring cotton storage bag, I instantly feel daunted by the size of the thing — the diameter looks at least four times that of a super-plus tampon.

As a grown woman, you forget how stressful it once was learning to cope with menstruation. When it comes to starting another method, it feels like a real hassle. So it’s a good thing I am at home when I get my period. Also, it’s only when I pick up the instruction booklet to begin that I remember that I have to sterilise the Mooncup in boiling water before using it for the first time.

Having boiled it, I find it easy to put in, but it attaches like a limpet, and getting it out takes a good few minutes of uncomfortable struggling in a series of highly undignified positions — the cup comes with a “stem” which you pull to remove it, but you have to trim it down with scissors to stop it chafing the skin, which then makes it harder to reach. And yes, there can be ungodly noises. Once it is out, it’s not too messy, and you just rinse it with soap and water and replace it.

For the first day, I find it hard to relax. “That thing’s making you walk like a robot,” says my fiancé uneasily. The problem is, you don’t want to keep being reminded about your period, and I can’t forget the Mooncup is there — it feels too big, cumbersome and bulky. I won’t even go into how I feel when I sneeze; and I need the loo all the time. I suddenly remember why all the ads go on about white trousers and rollerblading — you don’t want your period to interfere with your life.

On day two — a Saturday — I psych myself up to call the Mooncup helpline. I want to ask about the risk of possible infection and I’m worried because I only have scented soap to wash the Mooncup, but the instructions say to avoid this. In the meantime, I’m back on tampons, and the relative comfort is indescribable. On dialling, I get an answering machine asking me to call back during office hours. Listen, Mooncup: menstruation doesn’t stop for evenings and weekends.

On Monday morning, I get straight through to a “nurse adviser”, who initially seems surprised by a call asking for the helpline (I get the feeling I’m calling a small office rather than a bank of NHS-Direct-style nurses). However, she immediately reassures me about all my concerns and tells me to keep practising.

It feels like having a cosy, personal chat with a friend rather than calling a medical helpline — and that is refreshingly noncorporate.

For the next few days, using the Mooncup feels more comfortable, and I can imagine that, with practice, I could get used to it. Now I stop to think about it, I can see how odd it is that I take it for granted that the only choice is tampons — apparently, only 100m of the 1.7 billion menstruating women in the world use them. And there is nothing, objectively, more “gross” about using a menstrual cup than a sanitary towel, or a pesticide-riddled cotton tampon, destined for a landfill.

In fact, there’s a hinterland of ecological menstrual alternatives out there. Some women use sea sponges, which can be reused for about six months and, like cups, need to be sterilised regularly. There is the “interlabial pad”, a sort of thin sanitary towel worn against the vagina (hopeless when you need a wee). And then there is so-called “free bleeding” — aka no protection at all, which sounds unhygienic, but is how, historically, many women coped, and still do cope in the developing world.

In fact, the Mooncup makes sense on every health, ecological and historical level. Yet somehow, for me, it’s simply too fiddly, time-consuming and uncomfortable: I’m going back to tampons.

And my Mooncup is going for a nice long rest in its organic cotton bag.

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