Mar 182009
 

I’ve had a mixed relationship with my body when it comes to menstruation.

I started when I was 12, and was a little pissed because I had swimming class that day, and my Mom was broke, and she only used pads.

 

I was running late but had to get money off of my already strapped Mother, run down 6 flights of stars, go to the store, get back up 6 flights of stars, figure out how the hell to put this thing in my vagina, and get to the YMHA in time for our swim class.

 

It was not a beautiful coming-of-age moment.

 

My first boyfriend was not impeded at all by the flow of blood. Not. At. ALL. In fact there was no behaviour he cared to modify sexually because of a little blood. Blood was just something that came out of me, he reasoned,  and therefore flawlessly beautiful.

 

I neither realized how rare a position this was nor fully appreciated it at the time.

 

In subsequent years I’ve seen men run away like scared rabbits from menstrual blood. I’ve heard women use terrible language in regard to their own bodies when it comes to their periods.  I’ve had partners decline to fuck because I was bleeding…despite the fact that I really really want to fuck when I am bleeding.

 

And that fucking sucks.

 

A few years ago I was traveling round Europe. I wound up in Norway…in Oslo, specifically.

 

Don’t ask.

 

Shit happens.

 

I was vising a friend I’d met online, and we were going to hang out for a few days. There was a modicum of sexual tension, and the unilateral approach was “Well, let’s see what happens.”

 

The first night I was there, my period, which was an almost constant companion due to my unstable health and spiraling alcoholism, re-surged with a vengeance.

 

I’d been at Vidar’s huge brooding dark Victorian house with its slick wood floors and huge windows and vaulted ceilings for a few hours. Having known one another online for a while now, the transition to real-time was very simple.  I was grimy from my travels,  and as he prepared some roasted reindeer for supper, I sat in a hot bath watching my insides slowly turn the bathwater pink.

 

“Well, so much for any fucking anyway.” I thought.

 

So I thought…

 

After aperitifs, roast game, many rounds of boozy conversation, and booming glorious stertorous Edvard Grieg rolling through the place, I was fairly certain that my Viking friend had some mischief in mind.

 

Seriously…seducing someone to Grieg is best left to crazy fucking Black Metal Norwegians in whose veins runs the blood of Vikings. Don’t try this at home.

 

I was trying to ascertain when the appropriate moment to advise him that I was bleeding…profusely…might roll around.

 

I’m not a presumptuous girl, so I thought it might be best to wait until I was pretty certain a fucking was imminent before saying anything.

 

And sure enough the fucking was soon imminent and before the ropes got too elaborate and the cuffs were secured to the bed I mumbled something about him needing a towel. He furrowed his brow, pale blue eyes observing me coldly.

 

“Why? For a little blood? Pfft.”

The bear hat is mine. I requested he wear it to mitigate the Evil.

The bear hat is mine. I requested he wear it to mitigate the Evil.

 

Well, OK, whatever you say…

 

Not long after that it was more than a little.

 

It looked like an episode of Law & Order SVU: Oslo in this bed. Seriously. There was even a bloody hand-print on the wall. How that got there I’m unsure.  But slicked with blood and sweat and my bodily fluids everywhere, a long while later, I was pretty ready for  a break.

 

I was still twisted into some impossible position and half bound to the bed when he got up and strolled across the room to fetch his cigarettes. Sitting back down beside me on the bed, he said nothing as I lay there, regarding him silently.

 

His forearms, dusted with copper coloured hair and thick with muscle and sinew were, I realized, slicked spotted and smeared with blood.

 

Blood was under his fingernails, and his rough callused hands were slapdash with red.

 

I was about to mention this terribly obvious fact as I watched his bloodstained hand grope to his bedside table to retrieve  his lighter.

 

He casually flicked the lighter on, the whoosh of the flame’s  ignition drawing my eye away from the curve of this thick rippling shoulder to his other hand, also blood darkened, and caressing a cigarette.

 

My mouth parted slightly as I watched him light his cigarette and draw slowly  on it, bringing the smoke from the smouldering tip into his lungs and out through his nose.  As he dropped the lighter back on the table, I could not tear my eyes away from the deep red pigment that clung to his fingers as he raised the cigarette to his lips, bloody fingers and cigarette and cool amused stare noting my round-eyed expression.

 

His gaze wandered over me, over the bed, taking in the sheets the walls the rumpled stained blanket, and he took another drag on his cigarette.

 

His free hand, also blood-gilded,  caressed my chin as he grinned, his thick accent corduroy in my ears as I smiled up at him.

 

“Quite a mess, little girl, yes?”

 

Yes.

 

Quite.

 

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday ;-)

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  35 Responses to “HNT: Blood Makes Noise.”

  1. Can I just say- you have absolutely beautiful hands- your fingers are so long and exquisitely elegant, it’s no wonder you type so effortlessly and that your written words flow like honey.

    My husband is the same way- he’ll wait to wash it off until we’re done cuddling, he has absolutely no issues with blood. And with PCOS and endo I bleed like a motherfucker, my period comes like a red sea and he’ll be calm and content just pounding away as it splashes against our thighs. He’s a great man.. and men as calm and comfortable with a *little* menstruation blood are an absolute rarity.

    • I thank you for your wonderful compliment! It is funny, but i am not a good typist at all. I ma pretty fast for a non-touch typist,t but I have to stare at my hands when I type! Add a bit of dyslexia to the mix and you have a recipe for LAAAMENESS!

      My younger sisters, both of whom inherited the genes from the slenderer side of the family used to always obsess over my hands. Which was absurd, because I’d have traded my hands for their butts and smaller boobs any day.

      Are we ever happy??

      You are certainly with a keeper there with Mr. Dreamer. I understand everything ain’t for everybody, but when your partner revels in you, in ALL of you, that is a TRULY amazing feeling!

      xoxo

      ~Mo

  2. Happy indeed. :)

  3. Awesome!!! I love the way you write.

  4. Oh goddess & gods that was hot, damn. I’ll be in my bunk.

    .

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    .

    .

    .

    I am glad I am not the only one not squicked out by a partner mensing it happens deal with it. Damn that was a good tale and a hot HNT.

    • *whew* Glad to have NOT squicked all the menfolk. I still run into people who are turned the hell off by even a drop of blood… so once I know someone isn’t, I give them 34 points!
      xoxo

      ~Mo

  5. I have an odd relationship w/ menstrual blood. I personally hate *my* period, and love that with CBC, I can have it once a year…and have no problem being fucked during that time.

    J had some body dysphoria, and the one time we tried having sex during his bleeding, he flipped out and I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening comforting him. F was only ok with it the last day or so of hers.

    The other day, I needed sex so god damn fucking badly. I tried to booty call text Q. “This isn’t really a good week” she said. At first, I thought she was busy, and was confused…wasn’t she done with stuff for spring break? “Ok.” I wrote back.

    Later that night, it hit me. It was that time for her, must be. I texted her “you know I’m totally ok with fucking people who are bleeding, right?” (oh, I was so that suave). She wrote back puzzledly. This went on for a bit, and later we were talking about something else, and I brought it up. I didn’t bring up the fact that I have a fantasy about fisting someone on their period, and then smearing their blood all over them…

    Long story short, we fucked. And it was bloody and messy. That’s what the Fascinator Throe is for, right? A red towel to clean up afterward, and voila.

    Wow. i think I made need to write a post on this as well.

    • Oh yeah you do….CLEARLY, Miss LadyGirl!!

      I am glad it was hot as hell and that, hopefully, it was a moment for Q to be comfortable with a more sanguine play-style too!

      *smooch*

      ~Mo

  6. As someone who has always been squicked out by her own body, the freedom and absolute candor that you write this with – it’s like a breath of fresh air. Things like this bring me a little closer to acceptance of myself, just a little bit, but that’s still better than nothing, right?

    Happy HNT!

    • Hellew, lovely!

      I appreciate that you are able to read it and feel that war rather than what I always fear is “Ew. TMI, nastypants!” which , OK, I know lots of people do, but maybe one month at a time, we can move closer to OK with our squishybits!

      ((hugs))

      ~Mo

  7. I love a man who isn’t afraid of a little (or a lotta) blood. Mine, or his. Unfortunately, Americans tend to run at the first sign of the stuff.

    • In thinking of the people who really didn’t care about blood, yeah, the Europeans seem to not give a flying wet-wipe, and my first boyfriend, having immigrated from Trinidad as a kid, wasn’t strictly American either.

      Perhaps I need to set up an outreach program…an approach to help people with menstrual shyness :-P

      Hey thanks for stopping by, and for reading!

      Peace

      ~Mo

  8. This post got me and my sweetie talking about getting a new sex towel. Just sayin.

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  18. ‘Blood was just something that came out of me, he reasoned, and therefore flawlessly beautiful…’ That spoke to me so powerfully. As I havve always told H., there is nothing about her that is unclean. Thank you for tackling such a difficult subject so honestly.

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  24. Beautiful. It’s so nice to know I’m not the only person who says, “So what?”

  25. […] Well most times. Unless I happen to get my brain into the memory of listening to it when I was in Oslo visiting Teh Mad Viking a few years back in which case the emofest veers into…well, more explicit memories and different flavors of tears. […]

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