Virgin Boy Blood, Anecdote #1

I was about to retire to sleep when the vagaries of my life closed in on my little brain and I became so incensed I had to get up and take care of some business. Namely, move a bookshelf. Why I felt so incensed that I had to move this bookshelf is unimportant, as the new location of the bookshelf is actually much better than the first. It is now sitting next to my desk, with my lamp upon it instead of my desk, thus freeing valuable desk space. There is also, upon this bookshelf, a photo of my boyfriend, Andy.

Yes, Andy is once again my boyfriend; it happened officially on December 14th. Things are as they should be, yays all around.

But, this is not what I wanted to come and write about. No, I came to write about a scrap of cloth lying upon my desk that I've had upon my desk for months, intending to write a blog about it. I want to write about it because, you see, it is SOAKED WITH VIRGIN BOY BLOOD.

There was no rite performed to extract this blood. Okay, that's not true. Making out is a rite of some kind, yes? Yes.

The skinny is this: When I was 21, I dated a 17 year old. A soft skinned, dark eyed, mullet sporting (a good five years before the ironic mullet at least) beautiful 17 year old who drank too much Mountain Dew and played too many video games, but who got dewy eyed when I talked about things that moved me, would leave flowers taped to my apartment door, who was a virgin in nearly every way. I gave him his first blow job at the lake cabin of a mutual friend, as we laid drunkenly on the bottom bunk on a set of bunk beds. Little did we know, our friends downstairs were about to mount a paparazzi onslaught and would soon bust in with a video camera and bright-as-shit light. I still haven't seen that tape...

A week or two later, this boy and I were making out in my bedroom. I'd just moved into my first apartment and didn't yet have a bed, so our fondling went down on a weird fold out chair device (it was basically like sleeping on couch cushions) on the floor. The lighting was dim to non-existent, and suddenly, everything became very wet.

I couldn't believe he'd have come so quickly, he said he hadn't, so I got up and turned on the light.

There was blood. Blood everywhere. All over what I was wearing, all over my boyfriend, all over the quilt my grandmother had made from my father's baby clothes (irony?).

Turns out the lad had had an improperly done circumcision and the skin was too tight, and when there is vigorous making out, rubbing, or anything of that sort, the skin rips a little and bleeds like a mother fucker cuz the dick be full o' bloods. He said, "This happens sometimes. It doesn't hurt." That's the sort of thing a gal might wanna hear about before the making out occurs, kiddo.

Aaaaah!

Anyhoo. We had sex a week or so later. It was his first time. For me it was meh. Except for the virginity eatin'.

A couple years later, we had sex again, at the very same cabin this all started. He'd learned a few things in that time. It was no longer meh.

He stopped talking to me shortly after. But that's a different anecdote altogether.