Sex and Tragicomedy

WARNING: THIS NOTE CONTAINS DETAILS THAT SOME PEOPLE WILL FIND OFFENSIVE, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO BLOOD, TEARS, HUMILIATION AND SEXUAL CONTENT. (AND SOMETIMES A COMBINATION OF ALL OF THE ABOVE.) PROBABLY NOT AS DISTURBING AS MOST SOUTH PARK EPISODES OR ANYTHING BY CHUCK PALAHNIUK, BUT STILL CARRYING A POSSIBLE ICK FACTOR. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Firstly, please excuse any rambling and poor sentence construction in this note; it's coming up 2am, and I got maybe 2 or 3 hours of sleep last night, and I'm running on empty.

So, I had a date ten days ago, and promised a couple people I'd write about it. It's taken me this long to write anything down, because my head's been a bit woozy. I don't know what's wrong with me, to be honest. All I know is that someone will say something, either to me or on the TV or in a book, and my eyes will glaze over and I'll drift off into a little daydream, and next thing I know it's an hour later and I've been staring at the wall for a long time.

Heh. Christie Beth calls it "loved up", but that's not quite the right term. For one thing, I'm definitely not in love. In like, sure, but nothing romantic.

But I get ahead of myself.

So, I met this guy. I'm always amused by how many of my notes start with this, because there's ALWAYS a guy somewhere in my life. But anyway, I met this guy. On here, actually. I seldom use AFF for actual dating or sex; I joined it on an impulse a couple years ago and stayed for the interesting blog section. Like most women on there, I get plenty of emails, but I seldom reply to any of them unless the email content or the profile of the sender really catches my interest. (Until this guy, I'd only met one other guy from the site, and although he was a nice man it turned out that we didn't really have anything in common.) But this one emailed me maybe seven or eight months ago, and he was so funny and smart I emailed him back, and for most of this year we've been sending friendly messages back and forth, both through email and text message.

And then, maybe three weeks ago, he called me. Which was a surprise. Actually, I'm not sure if I'm more surprised that he called, or that I answered. Most of you probably know how much I hate talking on the phone. I suppose it's a borderline phobia, although I never let it progress into a full-blown freak-out. But while I tolerate talking to close friends and family members - and actually enjoy talking to a select few - I really, really hate talking to new people. If I ever give my number out, I tell the person to text me.

But he called, and I answered, and somehow he suggested that he come to see me, and somehow I agreed. I don't know how, to be honest - it just kind of snowballed, and before I knew it I was having a guy I didn't REALLY know come all the way from Leicester. So I spent the next week alternating between frantically cleaning the house, and having mini panic attacks, all the while thinking, what the hell have I got myself into?

But then Friday arrived, and I figured, well, this is good for me. I'm breaking out of the box, doing something different for once. Taking a chance, putting myself out there. So I cleaned the bathroom, and shaved my legs, and baked a cake, and then set off for the station to pick him up.

And that's when things got interesting. Strange, but interesting.

(By the way, this is the guy who has me reading Voltaire. Which is a nice little piece of irony, actually, since our date could definitely be considered either the best or the worst of all possible dates, depending on how you view things.)

So I met him at the station, and I have to admit, things didn't start particularly well. When I got there, I wasn't in a spectacularly good mood. My muscles were all hurting from cleaning the bathroom earlier (and my bedroom the day before), and my back was twinging and I thought I was maybe getting another kidney infection, and I'd gotten rained on several times, and I had a fever. So I was hot and bothered - and not in a good way - and trying not to show it. And at first there was that awkward silence that you sometimes get with people, when you think you know them, and then you meet them and they feel like strangers. We decided to walk into town to Tesco, since I needed a couple of groceries, and the whole way he walked a couple of paces ahead of me. (Most of my male friends do this with me, and I don't think any of them realise quite how irritating it is.) After a couple minutes, he started talking to fill the silence, and somehow it just felt like he was trying to make the best of a bad situation, and like it was a great hardship to be here with me. So we bought groceries and sandwiches, and got a cab home, and the whole time I was wondering what the hell I was doing.

But once we were home, things got better. I went into the bathroom, and while I was in there I heard him talking to my mom about uni - he's about to do a degree (a Masters, I think) in biomedical engineering - and about his upcoming trip to the US, and he seemed a lot more relaxed with her than he'd been with me. So I dried myself off and took some painkillers, and then my mood improved a bit, and I sort of told myself, suck it up and try and make the best of things. And funny thing - as soon as I stopped acting like a shrew, he stopped acting like being with me was a chore. Funny how that goes, huh? :P

So we sat on the sofa and watched QI - which is an awesome icebreaker, at least it was for us - and ordered Thai takeaway, and as we watched comedy and ate excellent curry, I could feel things thawing more and more. So when he moved closer to me and put his hand on my leg, I just looked at him from under my eyelashes and smiled a bit, instead of breaking his hand off (which I would have done an hour previously).

And then his hand moved. :)

So his hands are on my breasts, both over and under my thin cotton dress, and he's tweaking and sucking on my nipples, and the next thing I know the halterneck of my dress has become untied, and I'm turning off the TV and saying goodnight to Mom, and we're heading upstairs. He's rubbing my shoulders - amongst other things - and pressing me back against him into what feels like an incredibly impressive erection, and kissing me very excellently, and after I brush my teeth and wash off a bit we end up lying on my bed, cuddling and kissing, first with our clothes on, and then without.

I don't need to spell out the next bit, do I? :D

But then - ALAS! Tragedy strikes. Or perhaps comedy-tragedy, although it didn't seem like it at the time. We finish the unmentionable, and I'm lying there thinking that perhaps this liason was a good idea after all, and he's standing up and suddenly makes a funny noise in his throat. And then he turns to me and says, "Are you...?"

So I say, "Am I what?" And then he says, "You know...on your TIME." And he gestures to his crotch area, and I look down, and it looks like there's been a massacre. There's blood EVERYWHERE.

So, master of the understatement, I look at it blankly and say, "That's not right." I go to the bathroom, check myself, and sure enough, I'm bleeding. what I don't know is WHY I'm bleeding. I know it can't be my "TIME", because since I got the contraceptive implant I don't get periods anymore. All I can assume is that it's the kidney infection that I felt coming on earlier. So I curse for a minute or so, and debate bursting into tears, and eventually repress them and go back into the bedroom to see what the damage is. Turns out it wasn't as much blood as I thought. Naturally, any blood during sex is too much, so it seemed like a lot, but luckily it only got on us and on the sheet. So I gave him a washcloth and access to the bathroom, and went downstairs to get my spare sheet (which had luckily just been washed), and put that on the bed, the whole time managing not to look at him. Then I tell him I'm going to take a quick bath, and I lock myself in the bathroom, and sit in the bath for twenty minutes, banging my head against the wall and crying a bit and generally cursing the universe for making my life into a giant cosmic sitcom.

Eventually I pull myself together, and go back into the bedroom, and manage to make a couple jokes about it. I figure that the evening's totally ruined by this point, and that he'll never want to see me again, but it's too late to get a train or a hotel room so I owe it to him to at least try and make him comfortable, and not weep and wail about how humiliated I am. And he laughs, and makes a couple jokes too, and I feel absurdly grateful to him for not throwing a hissy fit or running out of the house while I was in the bath, which IMO he'd be well within his rights to do. Then he suggests going downstairs to have a cup of coffee and watch some TV, and with gratitude I agree.

We make the coffee together, and that gives us something to talk about, after discovering our mutual love for good filter coffee. I'm guessing he was expecting Nescafe instant, and I think I impress him a little with my cafetiere and my Java Sumatra blend (that I keep in the freezer, which I think surprises him a bit). It's a small victory after the humiliation I suffered upstairs, but it helps me feel a bit better, more in my element. We settle on the couch and watch Dara O'Briain for an hour or so, but I don't actually take in much of the program because we're talking for most of the time.

I can't actually remember all that we talked about, because it seemed like we talked about so many things. And I can honestly say, I can't remember the last time I met a more fascinating person. He seemed to know something about everything. I could - and did - bring up any subject, from medicine to boxing to the ancient Sumerians to parent-child relationships, and he could happily hold an intelligent conversation on it. I've realised by now that he's quite scarily-smart, but the really glorious thing about conversing with him is that he assumes that I know what he's talking about. Sometimes I don't, and I have to ask for more information, but he always assumes that I can understand him, which is a small miracle. People always talk down to me. Because I'm cheerful and smiley and soft and moderately pretty, strangers automatically assume that I'm not very smart, but even close friends and family members fall into the trap sometimes. Everyone does. And admittedly he did it for the first hour or so after we met, but then he stopped. And that feels nicer than I can tell you.

An hour passes in what seems like minutes, and Mom's turned off her light by this time, so we decide to retire to bed again. I go into the bathroom and wash my face and brush my teeth, and I wash the downstairs area again, and realise that I'm still bleeding. But it occurs to me, this can't be a kidney infection, because the colour's wrong - it's too bright. And then I take note of the pain in my lower abdomen that I've been ignoring for the last hour, and then it hits me. I know exactly what's wrong with me. He ripped one of my scars.

When I was raped, nearly five years ago, I ended up with some pretty nasty internal scars. For the most part, they don't affect my life. At the time the doctors warned me that the scar tissue would always be weak and there was a possibility that they could tear during sex, and that I should be careful, but because it never happened I pretty much forgot about the warning. But evidently something about this guy - I'm guessing his sheer size *evil grin* - caused him to hit me in just the wrong place.

I suppose when you're hung like Lex Steele, that's easy to do. :D

Part of me wants to start crying again, or throw a temper tantrum, because I'm so mad at my body and at Obie, and it seems grossly unfair that that fucking monster is STILL affecting my life, after all this time. But instead I shrug and sigh, and put on the long black nightdress I bought (that I mentioned in the last note), since it seems like covering up is a good idea right now. And I go into the bedroom and tell him that I know why I'm bleeding, and explain the situation to him - although when he asked me why I was scarred, I used the euphemistic "I was attacked" rather than "I was raped". I think he read between the lines though. So I slip into bed beside him, and turn to face him, thinking that we can talk for awhile and then go to sleep. Not quite the evening I had been expecting, I think, but all in all it could have been worse. We do talk some more, and it's nice and comfy, and I think that this is a pretty good place to end the evening.

Or at least my brain thinks that. However, our bodies have a different idea. :D

As I said, I don't need to go into detail, as much as my treacherous brain wants to lead me down that path right now. Suffice it to say that he still seemed to find me attractive, and that although he was trying to be a gentleman about it, because he didn't want to cause me pain, he really did want me again.

So he had me again. Four more times. I discovered after the second time that my abdomen only hurt when I was upright, not when I was lying down, so he did his best to keep me on my back for the rest of the night. Although there were times when I was on my stomach, or my hands and knees, or perched on the side of the bed, or sitting in the middle of the bed with him kneeling in front of me, while I wrapped my legs around him. Normally I'd be self-conscious about trying out so many different positions, but he made it so easy and unscary that once I got over my initial shyness, it just felt good. No, not good - incredible.

(OK, so I didn't NEED to go into detail. I guess I just wanted to relive it a bit.)

We spent the whole night like that, periods of blazing passion interspersed with talking and kissing and cuddling. I always think that people who are confident (but not cocky) about their looks make the best lovers, and it was so blissful to be with someone who's comfortable in his body. There's always that fascination when I'm with someone new, that drives me to explore them, and he seemed perfectly happy to lie there and let me run my hands over his face and his body for what seemed like hours, while I committed every detail of him to memory. I was a little surprised at how much of a cuddler I've become - it's one of those things that's vastly changed since my head injury, but having not spent the night in the same bed as many guys since then, I haven't had a lot of opportunity to examine the change - but I have to say, I like it. I can no longer remember why I used to be uncomfortable with too much contact. I know that in the early days I spent with Richard, I always used to get nervous and jump up afterwards, which I think hurt his feelings a lot. I regret that now, especially since I can't relate to that feeling anymore.

At about six, we finally went to sleep - well, he went to sleep, and I went downstairs to eat the rest of my dinner, and then eventually came back up and drifted off. My alarm went off at ten-thirty, and I got up and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face, in the hopes that I could make myself look less sleep-deprived.

Apparently I looked okay, because by the time I got back he was awake, and he pulled me back into bed, and we spent the next couple of hours entwined around each other, glorying in our bodies and the pleasure we could give each other. In the night we'd experimented a lot, trying to find a position that made it easier for me to take all of him, because he was so big and I'm fairly small inside, and it was a huge (LOL, sorry) challenge for me to try and fit the whole of him inside. But we finally discovered that the position that worked best for us was me on my back with my legs up over his shoulders, and boy did that work well! Being a multiple sort of girl, I've never had a problem getting orgasms, but I've also seldom had an experience where they came one after another in what seemed like a continuous stream without any effort on my part. I had to bite into my hand in order to stop myself from screaming and attracting the attention of the lodgers, and I still have the slight toothmarks in my palm. :)

Eventually, of course, he knew he had to leave. His plans were to catch the midday train, so he could be home by two or three. Unfortunately we sat down on the couch, and somehow kept falling into naps and cuddling (as well as watching an appalling movie on the Sci-Fi channel) and he didn't even call for a cab to the station until well past four. Meaning that he probably didn't get home until six or seven. I wonder how he explained that to his parents. :P

All in all, it was an incredible date. If he weren't such an awesome person, the bad stuff could easily have taken over and made it a night from hell, but he didn't let it, and he coped with my body's malfunctions (yes, malfunctions plural, but that's another story) with humor and grace. He had all sorts of wonderful things to say to me, about how great I was and how good I made him feel, and I could tell from his body's reaction to me that he wasn't lying. That meant a lot to me, because I'm never quite confident that I have any talent in the bedroom. He seemed to find me attractive and sexy, even my saggy boobs and my fat ass and my squishy Khoisan nose and my giant man-hands. :) And, as trite as this may sound, while the bedroom stuff was incredible, if I never slept with him again I'd still want to be friends with him, and talk to him, and just know him.

Most of the time I refer to myself as a cynical optimist, and I can never quite decide whether it's the cynical side or the optimistic side of my personality that dominates. But right now, I'm leaning towards the Pangloss school of thought - that even with the blood and pain and embarrassment and crying, the night - and morning after - simply could not have gone better.

He doesn't want a committed relationship, and neither do I. But I am hoping that we stay friends - even close friends - and that I get to see him again.

BTW, his name on here is diablophallus, and he's in the US right now if any ladies want to be satisfied by a hot young stud who's hung like a stallion. If AFF ever allows standard members to leave testimonials again, he'll get a glowing one from me. Until then, this blog is the best I can do.

So that, my darling perverts, is the 100% true story of my latest date. Hopefully you found something of value in this extremely long post that you've just spent the last twenty minutes reading, whether it made you laugh or cry or groan in sympathy, or if it just turned you on a bit. It's now ten to four in the morning, and I'm going to sleep. But when you turn off your computer, spare a thought and a bit of sympathy for this girl. It's been eleven nights since I had him in my bed, and I'm still having trouble concentrating on anything else.