[TMI warning: menstrual blood.]
As my trip to the UK approached and I was thinking about packing and logistics, I had the novel experience of sex being a significant part of my travel plans. Stock up on preferred brand of condoms. Should I bring any toys? Yes, but which ones, and how shall I pack them? I know I’ll need a nap when we get back to the room, so how many hours will intervene between arrival and first fuck? But as the day got nearer, it became apparent that I’d be travelling during my period. So then we planned not to have sex the day I arrived.
At the end of that very long day — flight, reunion, coach trip, settling in, and lengthy nap — I had a lazy, steamy bath. Once I’d had a thorough soak, he came in to visit, sitting on the edge of the tub. While I reclined sleepily in the hot water, he lifted my left arm up and gently bathed me; he repeated this with all my limbs, and my front. Then I rolled over luxuriantly so he could wash my back. When I was right way up again, he slowly rubbed and explored my folds. He then left me to my bath, and I finished up soon after.
As he was pouring his bath, he told me to be ready — naked and in bed — when he was done. So I was.
He came in, I was slick and ready, and he was soon reaming me vigorously from behind. At some point, the slickness became a slippery wetness and it eventually occurred to me that the menstrual flow, which had stopped for a while, had probably started again. Not a big deal — we had a towel down.
When we finished, he said somewhat hesitantly, “It looks like I’ve done you a great violence.” It was dark. He didn’t really want me to see him and he was even a little concerned about me looking at myself. So I looked down. Of course I looked. There was blood all over my vulva and the tops of my inner thighs, with a drip on each leg running down toward my knees. There were bloody finger prints around both hips and on my lower back. (The only thing missing was a big, red, possessive handprint on my flank.) He was no tidier; he later reported that his cock and the front of his pelvis were uniformly red. He went to wash up and I stayed put, on hands and knees, because I didn’t want to sit and drip on anything.
I started out feeling entirely ambivalent. My main concern with period sex is mess and discomfort from cramps. I’m not squeamish about it, nor is it a fetish. I wasn’t feeling upset or particularly self-conscious. Surprisingly, there was no mess anywhere but on us. I was processing.
That delicate emotional balance was tipped by the first vaginal fart.
When he fucks me from behind, it tends to fill me full of air, and I must have been inflated like a goddamned balloon. I giggled, which immediately created a feedback loop: fart, giggle, fart, etc. Within moments I was howling — until I couldn’t breathe any more. I was still giggling (and farting) when he came back from washing up.
My turn: I filled the bath and left the water rusty, and I still giggled now and then. In the meantime, he checked the walls for blood spatter.
Tenderness, lust, comedy, gore. It’s got everything.