I let out a shriek of agony and hoped that my grimace would somehow be misconstrued as sexual as I felt his fingers poke around inside me. Fuck, I thought. This really fucking hurts.
Perhaps it was my sexual naivety, the patriarchy, or just the fact that I really liked this guy and didn’t want to rock the boat, but rather than just be straight and tell him “Dude. You’re fucking doing it wrong,” I moved my body around his hand until I could breathe again. I guess on some level I thought something was wrong with me. I’d only been with one guy, and the man currently rearranging my insides seemed like the kind of guy who got around. Surely he knew what he was doing.
“Is that a piercing?”
“That. Is it a piercing?”
It occurred to me that he was referencing my Nuvaring, which should have been all the assurance I needed that it was not, in fact, me.
“On…on my cervix? No, it’s– no, it’s not a piercing.”
“You’re so wet.”
Glad to see that little blunder didn’t affect you, good sir. I was actually kind of wet. Which seemed weird as I wasn’t enjoying any part of this except the fact that his being with me meant that he wasn’t with anyone else. I craved attention, not orgasms at the time, as I didn’t know both were possible from a man.
“Yeah, I’m getting too excited. We should probably slow down,” I said, cuing him to remove himself from my body and relieve me from this agony. We spent the rest of the night dry humping like Judy Bloom and the good lord intended. And I eventually drifted off to sleep, while visions of adding my thumbprint to his phone danced in my head.
I woke in the morning in a daze, barely remembering where I was. I saw an arm around me, then I saw the dirty fingernails attached to it before I remember who the whole limb belonged to. Gross, I thought. Judging by the pain I still felt in my chuckalina,those things were definitely inside me.
I shot up in the bed, a la “Don’t Wake Daddy,” a board game I’m still hesitant referencing in a sexual context at the time of this writing. I quickly did a reluctant peak-a-boo in my underwear. There it was. Blood. This motherfucker had cut me. The dirt under his fingernails was my fucking DNA. I spot searched the sheets looking for evidence of the untimely demise of my reputation. Somehow, the vodka gods had smiled upon me that day. The sheets were clean. My underwear must have somehow soaked it all up. I was about to escape this nightmare, and the only consequence of the evening would be that it burned to pee for a day or two while the cuts inside me heeled.
He got up, and walked over to his mini fridge and to get a Gatorade. He turned around and gestured to me.
“Do you want one?”
And frozen, I stared at him. There, right in the crotch region of his gray sweatpants was a huge blood stain. Not just a little spot or two. It looked like he’d been castrated, and those were the pants he put on after. I searched the most fucked up part of my brain and found it in me to blame myself for this. He’s going to think I fucking perioded on him.
“I’m good,” I said, terrified he’d realize what I just realized.
Once he came back to bed, I made an excuse to bolt out of there, politely declining his ride, as I was pretty sure if he sat in his car, he’d have to get a look at his pants at some point or another. I ran out the door, heels in hand, and felt at peace as I walked past a campus tour, and then a congregation getting out of Sunday Mass.
Let the Lord and every high school student in the Mid Atlantic region judge me, as long as Matt doesn’t.
It was days before I heard from him again, and when I finally did, it was clear we were both going to pretend that the great massacre of my vagina and my self-esteem had never happened. I’d convinced myself that any guy worth sleeping with had been perioded on before. I mean, if you’re well-versed in the art of lady caves, it HAPPENS. I mean, it technically didn’t happen to me. And technically, he wasn’t that well-versed, as he thought I might have had a piercing inside my body. And TECHNICALLY, this was all his fault, because he was the one who was so bad with his hands (and also with social cues) that he didn’t realize I was literally bleeding from a sex injury, rather from my monthly reminder of the Original Sin. But regardless, he must have been here before. It was no big deal. We were going to move on from this like adults.
I got into his bed later that night, because I had low self-esteem and/or was interested in masochism, and things began to get hot and heavy. I clenched in fear of a repeat of ~last time.~ And then he grabbed his phone to set the mood. Then through his speakers, I heard it. “Sunday, Bloody Sunday.”
I love being a girl..
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