A few days after my abortion I began to pass egg-sized, gelatinous blood clots. The cramping of the first day returned but mostly, I was startled by the strange sensation of quasi-solid matter slumping out of my vagina. This is normal, I’m told, for those of us to who don’t bleed much right after the termination. Once the pregnancy hormones dissipate, the new menstrual flow thaws like the end of winter to flush the wound clean. As in most cases, the body heals best left to its own defenses. If only there were no need to inflict harm upon it in the first place.
As is also typical, in those days following my termination, my body mourned its loss with a ravenous uptake in cocklust. How my body wanted to be pregnant again. How it clamored for the thing that would make it so.
Which made me return to menstrual sex. In my mind, anyway, as I was prohibited from letting anyone test the new clotted currents–cervical infection sounding like a miserable malady, after all.
Have you been out in public after hours of fucking? Have you found your way past your squeamishness into the primality of a blood-and-cum pastiche? You are so young. Perhaps it’s all old hat to you and it’s patronizing for me to suppose otherwise. But when I was your age, boys were scared of bleeding girls and they showered after sex.
I remember once leaving the house of a guy on a Sunday afternoon. I don’t have one of those heads of hair that looks wild and sexy after sex or sleep. Mine mats. It expands. I look depraved and homeless. And that morning, I had the skids of my dissolved eyelashes hollowing my eyesockets. I couldn’t find my bra and the rest of my clothes were crumpled from having been balled in the sofa cushions. I was in no state to do anything but get home and launch myself into the bath.
Leaving, I’d commented on our fuck-stink. Sweat and cum and pussy and blood and spit. Each other and ourselves. I could smell myself, and him on me, and it stuck in my throat. My pussy hummed at it but don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a pretty smell.
On my drive home, I passed through a tollbooth. I tugged at my hair to hide its raggedness and hid my eyes behind shades. The booth attendant said to me, “Girl, you’re so fine I can taste your pussy from here.” I raised my eyebrows over my sunglasses and laughed. Maybe I should have been offended, but I couldn’t even fake that I was. All I could think was that he probably could.
Before getting home I had to stop at the grocery store for something or other that couldn’t wait until after I made myself presentable. No fewer than four men–men who didn’t work there–approached me to ask if I needed help with anything. Within four feet of me, they knew me. We sense these things about each other. Fecundity. Echoes of gasps. Reverb from spasms. The just-fucked human is a living totem. Like that.
So fuck me, new and bloody and swollen. I am so glad to bleed again. Fuck me like this. Celebrate it with me and I’ll send you off into the night. I know you aren’t mine to keep but, I promise, a red fog of pussy brings only blessings of more pussy. Your gift from a self-blighted demeter.
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