Bloody Good Sex.  By Ida Clare

Bloody Good Sex. By Ida Clare

. 3 min read

One PrimeCrush writer’s first sexual encounter post-divorce was, well, messy at best. Here’s her story.

I have always felt that I rode the line between the generation that avowed a woman should get married, have children, defer to her husband; and the generation of “make your own life”, which can include the aforementioned things, but only if you want them. Thus, I got married young and so I didn’t get a chance to experiment sexually as a young woman (or travel or have a home by myself…). I stayed married for 15 long years. Sex in the marriage was boring…but how would I have known? I really had no previous experiences.

My very first sexual encounter post divorce was with an older man who I had dated three times prior to this story. During the heavy-petting portion of the evening, in my head, I was weighing my options about how many dates should pass until “doing it”. The old generation voice warned: “Don’t be a bad/whore/get-the-milk-for-free girl or no one will EVER want you.” But then the new equal/assertive/independent/I-am-woman hear-me-roar voice countered: “If I’m horny (and after a long marriage of mostly bad sex, of course I was), I can damn well do what and who I want!” So…we move into the bedroom. Turns out, this guy was well-versed in the oral arts. THAT was fabulous because my ex-husband haaaated that. I thought, “Thank you, Universe! This was a long time coming! Oh, and I was “coming” several times.

Right in the middle of a particularly enjoyable segment, he stopped abruptly, screamed, “AHHHHHHH! OH MY GOD” (and not in the good way), jumped up, started feeling around on his own body like he’d been shot. I sat up, looked around, and the sheets were spattered with blood. I thought: “I’m not on my period. Maybe he IS shot. Is he having a heart attack? Can a man hemorrhage from a tongue cramp?”

He ran into the bathroom, grabbed one of my good towels, and starts wiping himself off, all the while less loudly raving like a maniac. I said, “It’s not me. I’m not bleeding.” He screamed again, started rechecking himself, then ran to the mirror in the bathroom, mumbling. Then, silence. He comes back out into the bedroom, looks at me, and then all at the same time, he puts on his clothes, mumbles, looks around like a madman. He finally spits out, “I gotta go. I’ll call you.”

TIME PASSES.

I was calm during the commotion. I’m the oldest in my family and so when there is a catastrophe, I get very quiet, deal with whatever it is, then fall apart later when I am alone. I sat there on my bed, naked, for what seemed like an eternity. Then, as I am wont to do, I fell apart mentally. I actually said out loud to myself: “What the fucking HELL?! Did my vagina just murder a man? Is this an omen? Am I being punished for enjoying myself? Will I ever see him again? What did I do wrong?” See how I quickly went from new generation to old generation blaming bullshit?

The guy called. Turns out, he had had a nosebleed. Hmmmm. How hard many of us are on ourselves. How often we immediately blame ourselves. I called my best friend and told him the whole story. He calmed me down and showed me how ridiculous I was being. Because of this experience and my reflection on it, I learned not to panic and beat myself up.

And I’m sharing this now in alliance with anyone who hits a few road bumps—or nosebleeds—on their way to shedding old skin, old ways, and old relationships. No matter how free we feel, it’s a process that requires patience and kindness. I’m grateful for it all—even if I never did get the stains out of my good towel.

Take me back to The Crush Letter 38

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