Period sex and sleeping with the Divine Feminine

Trigger warning: although I don’t understand why, I do know that for some people the concept of period sex and menstrual blood are off-putting.  This post describes sex acts during menstruation and blood.  Why do I have a problem with people having a problem with it?  Because menstruation is symbolic of, and a physical manifestation of, one of the holiest aspects of life.  It is the rhythm of life, tied to the natural cycles and rhythms of the entire physical world.  It is a symbol of the miracle through which all mammalian life comes to inhabit the world.  It is beautiful.  And yet, some cultures consider it dirty.  There are whole sections of the world which consider it impure to touch a woman who is menstruating.  [Incidentally, these are also cultures and places and beliefs that would have trans people like me put to death for who we are.  Connection? I should say. Even if a trans woman is different from a cis woman, we share this agenda of liberation.]

The beautiful and natural process that is menstruation is used by some men and some cultures to make women feel shame about their bodies.  How a natural process of the body that is symbol of life and belongs to half the world’s population should be so proscribed is instructive and disturbing. The myth of the “unclean woman” has to do with the origin of life itself.  Twisting beauty in this way is disturbing. It is a very thin line to all kinds of toxic behaviour, violence against women, and fundamental disrespect for the gender diverse.

You will now find this post on the Elust sex blog…Featured in the March Edition.

This is a true story.

We were standing on the street corner outside of a pet shop.  Meet Melissa, my gal.  It was a warm summer day.  There was a street music festival going on down the road.

“Why are we stopping?” I asked thinking we were going to see some music.

“I’m thinking of getting a puppy,” she said.

“You are?”

“Oh,” she said toying with her lip and then looking at me, “no.  Wait.  Maybe I already have one.  I’m just wondering.”

I was wondering too.  I could feel her words in my tummy and throat.  Sometimes there are too many things in your head at once and so your mouth won’t operate. I felt parched.

“Shall we go inside and find out?”  She took my hand, I shook my head ‘yes’ and followed her in.  I was suddenly quiet, in a trance.

“Where are the leashes?” she asked the woman behind the counter.

“Right behind you, just there,” the woman said pointing, “collars are in the aisle just around the corner there.”

“Thanks.”

We looked.  Or rather, she looked, and I watched her look.  I stood a little away, almost afraid to be near.  She tilted her head and her long, wavy hair hung freely to her waist.  The angle of her head spoke to me, it said, ‘come here’.  “What do you think of this one?”

“It’s hard for me to know,” I said, my voice not quite coming to me, cracking.  She looked at me, taking my face in.  Hers softened, her eyes danced.

“I like this one,” she said, pulling out a black one, about 1” wide, that shiny weave that seatbelts are made of, only thicker.  She held it up to my face and caressed me with it.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?”  It was, but we had never spoken about it.  How could she know?  How did she know?  Nobody knew.  I didn’t even know.  I closed my eyes and nodded ‘yes’.

“What do you think” she asked turning to the saleswoman and holding it up to my face.  The woman smiled.

“There’s a matching leash for that one.  I can even etch a tag for you.”

“We don’t even know puppy’s name yet,” she said, “unless you have any bright ideas?” she asked, turning to me.  I shook my head ‘no’.

“No?” she asked scrunching her face in sympathy, and then leaned to my ear and with hot, sticky breath, whispered my name, and then added ‘puppy, my puppy’.  All peripheral vision suddenly vanished.

We went around the corner to see the collars.  They had different lengths.  She pulled out a medium length.  She held it up to my neck.  The woman behind the counter was watching.  I felt embarrassed, “don’t.  She can see,” I said.

“She doesn’t care,” K. said, “plus she’s already figured it out anyway.”  I dropped my eyes, my hands, and let her find the right length with my neck as the measure.  She found the right one on the second try.

“Go and pay for your collar and leash,” she said, handing them both to me.  My cheeks were on fire.  I placed them on the counter.

“Do you need a bag?”

“Yes please.”  They ended up in a brown paper bag and I carried them all afternoon.  Their presence in that bag was all I could think about.

“How did you know?” I asked as we walked down the street.  She laughed, stopped, kissed me, with a gentle, and soft probing as she laced her fingers into mine, and then grabbed my lip with her teeth, just enough to hold it, not enough to hurt, and pulled with a nibble, just a bit.

“I just did,” she said.

“I didn’t,” I said.

“I know,” she said, “that’s why it’s okay.  Plus, you’ve been a good boy lately.”  I didn’t know what I had done, if anything, only that we had been having a really good time.

We went to her favourite restaurant for her favourite dish, a plate of roasted salmon with toasted garlic and pine nuts, blistered and halved cherry tomatoes, and a wild rice that has haunted me ever since.

Let me know if you are curious to receive the recipe and I will write it and post it.

We went home to her place.  The leash and collar went on the mantel in her bedroom still in the bag.  We lay on her bed, cuddled, made out, fucked, slept, woke up, went for a walk.  We ended up at the movies, I can’t remember what was playing.  We went home, and feeling sleepy, fucked again, and slept.

I don’t want to say that our lives were this boring.  They weren’t.  She loved to fuck.  It wasn’t that I did or I didn’t, I loved being with her, so it didn’t matter what we did.  I had this sensation of being a marionette with her, and I quite liked it.  The idea of someone wanting to fuck me all the time, always at least once a day, but mostly 2-3 times, I had not experienced this before.

And she was uncompromising about her pleasure.  She taught me about her body and how to take care of it, how to make her feel really good, how to make her cum.  For me, it was easy to get off.  There was no teaching required.  Is it that she was a natural or just that guys are easy?  Both.

One morning I came out to the living room and saw her sitting on the couch.  I can’t forget it because she was sitting in a patch of sunlight coming from the skylight directly above her.  She had the paper bag sitting next to her.

“I want to play,” she said with a smile.  I padded towards her.  “That’s a good puppy,” she said.  As I neared, she pointed to the ground in front of her feet.  The signal was clear enough.  I stood where she indicated.  And then she held her hand flat and pushed it down, indicating I should get down, and so I did, going onto my knees.  She caressed my cheek with one hand, and then brushed my lips with her thumb, studying my face intently.  I could feel her eyes upon me as if they were putting pressure.

“Does puppy want to play?” she cooed, caressing my throat.

“Yes, please,” I whispered.

“You going to be a good puppy and take care of me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what baby?”

“Yes please”

“That’s a good puppy, such a good puppy.  You’ll do whatever mommy wants, won’t you?”

“Yes mommy.”

She took the collar and I lengthened my neck for her and felt her delicate fingers threading it and closing it just as it should be.  She lay back with the sauciest smile and one hell of an expression.  “You look totally hot.  I should make you wear it all the time.  Keep you naked at home.  Collared.  At my command.  You’d like that wouldn’t you?  Hmmm?” she asked, nudging my crotch with her foot.  I nodded ‘yes’.

“I know baby.  This is what you need.  This is who you are.  Be a good puppy and take really good care of mommy and maybe just maybe this will be your life.”  I rubbed my cheek against her knee; she ran her fingers through my hair.

She was playing with the leash, tapping it against one hand, playing with the latch, eyeing me.  And then she leaned forward with a quick gesture and attached it.  She got up and started walking.  It immediately pulled on my throat as I struggled to turn quickly enough.

“Come on boy, come on,” she encouraged, using a ‘tap-to-the-dog voice’, pulling me, as I crawled as quickly as I could after her.

The feeling of the tension on my neck went straight to my cock, her ass just in front of me became the only thing I could see, as she crawled me straight to bed, pushed up her skirt, sat on the edge, and spread her legs.  Using the leash to guide me she brought me straight to her sex.  She was my teacher, my Goddess, the woman who first taught me about how to pleasure a woman, this woman.  So I kissed her between her thighs, kissed her inner thighs, and brought my hands up and gently caressed her perineum with one hand and teased her lips with the other.

“Good boy,” she said, “oh, mommy taught you well,” she sighed, sinking back onto the pillows.  She guided me and pulled every now and again on the leash, but I was lost in her pleasure, in the taste of her, wanting to feel that crushing pressure of her shudders when she would squeeze my head between her thighs until the lights almost went out.

At some point after my jaw was paralysed, she guided me up between her legs and took me inside her.  She studied my face as I barely moved and just felt her squeeze me with her muscles, owning my cock, taking pleasure from its presence, inviting me deeper and deeper.

“Good boy,” she cooed, “good boy,” and I buried my face in her neck and kissed and licked and she hit my naked back, scratched me hard until I arched in pain and then she pulled hard on the leash and made me stare her in the eye, “fuck me,” she commanded, “fuck me now.”

As I did she screamed and pulled my hair and scratched and punched me, slapping my back, my ass, my sides, ravaging my body as I ravaged hers.  We convulsed and raged against each other like waves in chaos beating against the cliffs, bouncing back, swelling, foaming, and subsiding.  We lay in a sweaty, tangled mess, our hair all knots, and a film of bliss covering our features and settling upon us.  We dozed off.

A few hours later, I awoke to her standing over me, legs spread wide, blood coming from her vagina in thick, syrupy threads.  She had her hands on her head in a dramatic gesture and she mock-howled as she bled onto me.  “Shit,” she said, “get a towel.”  I ran to the bathroom and got one, and she lay it on the bed and directed me to lie on it.  I did, and she once again stood above me, blood running down her leg.  She squatted onto me, settling in, placing her vulva on my shaft and slowly beginning to rub.  I responded immediately, and then she wanted me inside her with an urgency she had never shown.

She rode me like a horse carousel at a fun fair, up and down, but forever stuck to the pole.  I lay back and thought of the Queen as she bucked and fucked herself to orgasm…when she began to strangle me I responded and joined the rhythm, fucking her back, riding with her, then turning her over, under me, and feeling her open her legs as far as humanity can, and take me deep, as if she wanted my cock to pierce her all the way to her throat.

The towel did an okay job, but the sheets were plenty bloody.  We gathered them together in a moment of quiet bliss, and washed them, and made the bed.  After, we drank tea in silence and she crawled inside my robe and pressed her naked body against mine.

Summer with her was a lot like this.  I have never learned more from a woman about sexuality and the body than I did from her.  She introduced me to powerful women’s fiction, shaped much of my thinking on women and womanhood, and taught me how to have sex.  She hated to use menstrual products, and she liked to have as much sex as possible during her period as it dramatically lessened her cramps and accelerated the bleed.  I lost my fear of the vagina with her, something which I suspect a great many men have.  She was one of the only women I have ever been with where it felt okay to be a man.  I say okay, not perfect, because while I was with her, I was also suicidal.  The bittersweet feeling of dysphoria was still present, it just felt more manageable—it didn’t crowd everything out.  She was the one who got me into deep psychoanalysis, and that saved my life.

In the end, she was very cruel to me.  I think I pretty much cried non-stop for a week.  “Crying your guts out” is what it really is.  But I can remember how worth it it was, to have the feeling, as our tears make us feel alive in ways that our joy never can.

People who hurt us can also leave gifts that last a lifetime. The pain goes away, but the gift lasts forever.

We had been drifting apart as I had taken a job and moved into an apartment of my own.  She had to go back for one last year of University, and maybe it was easier for her.  We still know many people in common, and know all about each other, are friendly via common friends, but I haven’t seen her since.