Sometimes, after a particularly exciting, unlikely, or just fucking awesome sexcapade, we as sexually active young people are faced with a particularly difficult decision – do we, for the sake of dignity and our mothers’ poor nerves, clear away the evidence of one such event and allow the memory of it to slip solemnly away into obscurity? Or do we cast aside any pretentious notions of ‘decency’ in favour of a pompous sort of pride and cohesive proof that ‘our sex life is well good, innit.’ Incidentally, the inner turmoil and deep-rooted soul searching which arises out of such a circumstance is the order of the day in our third blog, and I will begin by recounting a short but amusing tale of one such episode which took place in the not all together exotic environment of my room… For exemplary purposes only, of course…
During a fairly standard session in my bed, we decided to spice things up a bit and take the party over to the wall (oh yeah), which is painted in matte red emulsion and conveniently in perfect view of a full length mirror. Afterwards, lying in bed in a kind of post-orgasmic haze, Finn glances over to the wall and says, ‘That hand-print looks awesome.” The hand-print did indeed look awesome. But, situated about four-and-a-half feet up, and printed onto the paint in what was clearly sweat and grease from my hand, it was OBVIOUSLY the leftover remnants of sex. So here we are: do we wash it off? Or do we leave it? Ultimately, we decided to wash off the hand-print – but left the huge indeterminate sweaty blob next to it, which could easily have been anything, forever serving as a discreet and mysterious souvenir of that unexpectedly fantastic fuck.
Of course, times like these are funny, light hearted, and perhaps a cheeky anecdote to recount to friends and grandchildren (if and when they occur), out of which nothing even mildly uncomfortable or cringey would occur. Not every blatant vestige of out of the ordinary sex is quite so easy to conceal – or more to the point, explain. Like the 8cm scar across Finns chest. How can we expect our peers to truly identify with our somewhat drug-addled state of mind when we chose to partake in such a controversial and dangerous (obviously) activity? Moreover, how could we possibly hope to convince anyone of our sanity without divulging the true extent of the filthy, bloodstained event? Was it even legal? It certainly wasn’t all together that ‘normal’ in terms of good, conventional sex. And that muthafucka is PERMANENT – I may as well have just tattooed my name across the boy’s chest. In the inevitable event of some messy break-up months down the line, I fear that Finn will in fact greatly regret said scar and feel even more bitter and resentful toward me – for this, I feel bad. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
When Finn and I arrived at the pub that evening for what was going to be one of the last stolen evenings of summer shits and giggles, we did not foresee the illicit events of that evening unfolding. Honestly, our intentions were, as always, innocent and godly. However, Finns spontaneous purchase of some class A substance on top of what was already a highly inebriated state of mind left us, once again, in a somewhat sticky situation.
After the obligatory drunken sex in a highly inappropriate place (car-park, opposite pub) we decided that it was time to bring our public copulation to an end and retire to my house. 45 minutes of drunken stumbling and a £5 kebab later, we eventually made it to the confines of my shag-palace bedroom and proceeded to consume the remainder of our narcotics. It would seem that this last indulgence is what ultimately led us on our first foray into the unfamiliar realm of sado-masochism. Which would have been awesome, if either of us had been remotely medically trained. I have to admit, that after a couple of minutes of watching torrents of Finn’s blood pour out of his chest, I did start to panic. The initial exhilaration was short lived and soon gave way to dread and our next port of call was obviously the bathroom – where I made a feeble attempt to clean and dress the gaping wound. The next morning, however, it was apparent that my efforts were fruitless and the Savlon and plaster just weren’t cutting it in terms of preventing him from bleeding to death. To the hospital!
The fact that we found ourselves sitting in an A&E waiting room the following morning, having to elucidate to not one, but THREE separate nurses on how the huge gash came to be, is really what makes this such a funny story. We’d even managed to get a lift up to the hospital from my unwitting mother, under the pretence that I was visiting my sick grandmother who conveniently happened to be in that exact hospital, after suffering a stroke a week previously (no joke). Not to say that the whole operation didn’t take some careful planning – Finn’s realisation that he would in fact look like ‘some kind of neo-Nazi Goth freak’ in his long black coat and military issue boots came just in the nick of time and possibly saved us some further humiliation. Although probably not. I think that the ACTUAL events of what happened that morning were enough to cause sufficient embarrassment for the next couple of weeks, at least.
The ‘immediate future’ quickly revealed to us that that one moment of uninhibited kinkiness was in fact ultimately detrimental to our sex life – “Careful of my chest!” and “Oh, shit, did I hurt you?!” quickly became frequently used phrases and the kink factor significantly dropped due to fear of any additional hospitalisation. Finn’s insistence that “it was still massively sexy” makes me feel slightly less evil and sadistic, but it’s still unfortunate that now everybody thinks I'm a bit nuts.
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