SEXIS WRONG

were real fantasies for him or merely extreme scenes copied
from pornography onto my flesh.
He used to scratch me hard and tease me, his long, blackpainted
pinky nail digging into me. I bled for him in other
ways, though. I bled every time we had sex for one year,
always so embarrassed and ashamed, taking my blood as a
sign that I still wasn’t used to it, that I was too tight, that it
hurt, that I didn’t enjoy it. Letting him fuck me was the only
way I did begin to bleed on a regular basis, my post-coital
spotting a thin substitute for menstruation.
You, too, seem to possess this magic of making me bleed.
I have quasi-regular periods now, though at times it is hard
to attribute the cause of the bleeding. I’ve never felt embarrassed
or ashamed or inadequate with you, though. You take
my blood as a testament to how much I like it, how open I
am, how deeply you touch me, affect my body.
You roll your eyes at the squeamish and vulgar attitude of
most men upon encountering blood in a woman’s vagina, always
remaining calm when I expected you to freak out. Even
when the sheets were so soaked that they had to go into
the wash immediately, along with the mattress pad, while I
scrubbed the mattress, legs streaked with drying blood. Your
cheeks still sticky with my blood, a random smear of it on
your forehead distilled by sweat, and a darkening crust in the
corners of your mouth. Or when we left a fine blood-spray
pattern on the sheets from the force of our fucking, a mist
showering down each time your body impacted against my
upturned ass. Your own hand stained from opening me up,
small jelly-like clots stubbornly sticking further up your arm.
Or when I’ve masturbated with your cock
still inside me, lubricated with my own blood,
coating my hand and cunt. Later finding random,
bloody fingerprints on the sheet or wall,
scrubbing my nails and still picking crusted
crescents of blood out of my cuticles later at
dinner. Sucking the blood off of your cock has
almost sent me into sensory overload, the creamy, coppery
taste mingling with the smoky, fecund taste of you. Or when
your mouth has been latched tight to me while standing over
you, hot ochre drops of blood dripping onto your chest and
running down to stain your cock and hand.
But tonight we’ve showered after fucking, washing away
blood and cum and lube, and I’m clean and pure and offering
myself to you. Take blood from me and make me yours. I
breathe deeply, open my eyes, and look at you with no fear.
You make the first cut down my arm. It’s deep, it hurts, and I
feel it like a regular person. I worry for a second that you’ll go
too deep, but you don’t, of course. There’s a half-inch opening
in my arm. You reposition the blade and push in; I feel the
pop as the point breaks into my flesh, and the slow, dragging
scrape as you cut crosswise. It catches slightly as it crosses
the center of the other cut, and you compensate by pushing
in deeper, startling both of us. The half-inch cut is now a
deep, slightly uneven cross from which blood is starting to
drip. I’m transfixed by the path it is wending down my arm.
You’re crying a bit; a few tears drip off your cheek.
You bend in to suck, not ravenous as I am, but licking lightly,
the way you first do when you encounter my clit. Then slowly
and methodically, careful to catch each rivulet with the wet
upsweep of your tongue. It’s exhausting and breathtaking.
You can’t believe that you’ve done it. You’re amazed, shaky,
a little disgusted, but also somewhat proud, savoring the moment
in a kind of triumph over your fear.
“It’s wrong,” you say. “But you like it,” you whisper, curling
my hair between your fingers that knot into a fist. I nod yes,
supremely calm and centered. I feel I’m at the center of creation,
sitting still while everything else spins around me. You
clean my arm and the blade, insist on putting the Band-Aid
on, playing nursemaid all the way. It feels so normal, yet I’m
slowly remembering that others would be horrified by this.
Even you say, “It’s wrong.” You’re crying and shaking, so I
pull your head close to my chest, a mother’s gesture bringing
you into the center of my calmness. I feel as if someone
should be filming us, like we’re specimens about to be analyzed.
I shake my head to clear the negative thoughts, concentrate
on the alchemy we’ve performed.
Sucking the blood off of your cock
has almost sent me into sensory
overload, the creamy, coppery taste
mingling with the smoky, fecund
taste of you.
Is this what they mean by “blood sports”? Blood sports are
always defined as edge play, even among experienced players.
It’s not just the risk that the fluid brings with it, the possibilities
of HIV and hepatitis. Blood play is generally not allowed
in public play spaces, even when universal precautions
are used and biohazard bags are available. It’s an automatic
stop in action.
I bled at the first big play party I attended. I was face-down on
a wooden table, full-length black silk skirt pulled up over my
ass, which was getting worked over with a variety of paddles
and brushes. A small dot of blood appeared on my ass; everything
stopped abruptly while the dungeon monitor was called
over. He inspected it and slapped a Band-Aid on, giving us the
BLOOD 25