Now, I’ve got a lot of issues, and chronic sinus problems is one of them. Usually, in my day-to-day life, my chronic sinus pain and blockage doesn’t bother me apart from the odd sniffle or headache. But in my sex life, well, that’s a different story.
Let me set the scene. It’s a hot summer afternoon, I’m with my boyfriend at the time (and before I continue, no, this wasn’t the reason we broke up). My seasonal allergies had gotten the best of me. The stifling November air and pollen levels were doing a real number on my nostrils, and I was struggling. No matter how much nasal spray or decongestants I took, my nose remained dry and stuffy, and my forehead was throbbing. But as usual, I soldiered on.
Fast forward. We were in bed having a snuggle, as happy couples usually do. Soon, we started getting into the dirty deed. Steamy, sweaty, kissing, oral, you know the fucking drill. Despite the summer air and steamy atmosphere, I remained dry in more areas than just my nose. But what can you do, that’s just life as a woman. My nose was a little sore, but nothing I hadn’t experienced before. We do the ol’ switcharoo, I’m on top, like the girlboss I am. I’m riding him so fucking hard, and he’s getting weaker by the second. Then suddenly, he stops. I wonder if he’s already finished, mere minutes in (men, amiright?) I see him looking at his hands and torso kinda funny. His face, puzzled; his dick, soft. I look down further and realise something bad has happened. Something much worse than my guy finishing too quickly.
It seems my sinuses could not cope with being the dominant icon that I am. My worst fears had come true. I suddenly found myself in the situation of having one of my chronic nosebleed episodes, right in the middle of fucking. There was blood everywhere, this shit was like The Hunger Games. It looked like a combination of 1,000 clotty periods. And it wasn’t stopping. “I think your nose is bleeding,” he said. No shit, Sherlock. It wasn’t just bleeding, it was pouring.
I tried to stand up, but this shit just kept spilling out. His white duvet now looked more like a cow with a rare skin disease than the Briscoes bargain it once was. I tried to get up and find a tissue. This was dumb of me; as if a man would have the logic to buy tissues. I tried to skedaddle into the bathroom. I was unable to get dressed, given my hands and their preoccupation with catching the streams of blood that ran out of my nose. I ran down the hall, praying to every single God that ever existed that his flatmates wouldn’t see me in my state. Luckily I made it to the bathroom without being spotted. Once I entered, there was no time for the tomfoolery of toilet paper. Head down, in the sink, I plunged in and let myself bleed.
Once the worst was over, I washed my face and made my way back to his room. He stood there, trying to wipe the remains of my crusty sinus juice off his body. He assured me that “It was fine,” but I knew deep down, it wasn’t. We made it another three months before the breakup, though.
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